“Not only London,” said Hugh, “but no more night work except, my dear cousin, what conscience dictates. Didn’t you know that I had given up my newspaper work and am editing the new monthly about international affairs?”
“No, I didn’t know,” said Caroline. “I mostly don’t know about things. Will they pay you well?”
“Very well. I shall now be able to afford to give you champagne. Or do you fancy an oyster?”
It was at this moment that Caroline had given Hugh one of the beseeching inquiring looks, which Francis had seen from the other side of the table. Her lovely generous mouth smiled the pleasure that she felt, but her look held some secret thought.
“I would adore oysters,” she said. “When?”
“We must fix up an evening and get Anna and Francis to come,” said Hugh enthusiastically, and then he continued his talk with Mr. Danvers about the new review. Hugh was doing what he called “picking Danvers’ brains,” a process that took the form of a monologue, which though amusing and brilliant in itself. never gave Mr. Danvers a chance to get a word in edgeways. But Mr. Danvers was quite content to be amused, though he thought Hugh would be better employed in amusing Caroline.
After dinner, Francis at last found an opportunity of talking to Caroline. Hugh had swept the rest of the party into his conversational net and was finding them a better audience for his continental experiences than his cousin had been. Wilfred was anxious to be confirmed in his feeling that Soviet Russia was on the whole Antichrist and an underbred Mongol one at that, while George counted on Hugh to support him in his view of Hitler as a second Attila and Russia as a rather better version of the Millennium. Mrs. Danvers fluttered anxiously at the sound of voices in unbrotherly debate, Anna enjoyed the riot, while Mr. Danvers, amused by it all and perfectly conscious that no one would be interested in his point of view, admired the skill with which Hugh pacified and satisfied both the boys.
Francis sat by Caroline on a sofa in the back drawing room and could think of nothing better to say than “How are you, Caroline?”
“Very well, thank you, Francis, and so pleased to see you again. And how very nice that Hugh is to be in London again. He said we could all have oysters, you both, and Anna, and I.”
“And very nice too. Caroline, are you really well now? You don’t look quite yourself.”
“Well, you see I am not quite myself,” said Caroline, giving him one of her level glances which disturbed him. “One isn’t, you know.”
Francis found no answer to this.
“But I have every intention of being someone, even if I’m not myself,” Caroline continued, spreading her hands out between herself and the fire. “Mother – Mrs. Danvers – is full of plans for this winter and I shall try to do things to please her. They have been such darlings to me and it’s the least I can do to try to please them.”
“You have such lovely hands,” said Francis, who did not appear to have heard what she was saying.
“Yes,” said Caroline complacently. “I get a good deal of comfort from them sometimes. When I see people being very comfortable and fat and prosperous and having the pitying feeling for one which is so embarrassing, I say to myself ‘Never mind, Caroline, your hands, though doubtless no index to your true inner self, bear every mark of sensitiveness and breeding.’ As a matter of fact,” she added, “I was showing them off to see whether I could get a compliment from my kind cousin.”
“Well, you have,” said Francis, “so now we can go back to talking about your winter plans. What exactly do they include?”
“I don’t really know. Anna and I are to enjoy ourselves and go about a good deal, whatever that means. And we are to do some good works which I detest; teach the orphan boy to read and teach the orphan girl to sew probably. Mother manages a good deal, you know. Oh, Francis, I do so little want to do things, to do anything at all. I would so much rather just sit here with you on a sofa and do nothing, and have Hugh to come and amuse us. I did so want to stay at Beechwood. Still, if Hugh isn’t doing night work any longer it will be much more fun. I do hope he will remember the oysters. Oh, and Julia will be in town in December.”
“Who is Julia? Why does that sound familiar?”
“Because you are thinking of Sylvia probably. I thought you knew Julia Beaton; Hugh does. Colonel Beaton owns Whitelands now. He is perfectly delightful and writes books.”
“Oh, Beaton, of course I know his books. Is Mrs. Beaton a great friend of yours?”
“Mrs. Beaton? Oh, you mean Julia. She is his daughter. His wife died years ago. But he is extraordinarily young for his age. Anna and I are extremely fond of him.”
Francis could not but dislike Colonel Beaton on hearing these words.
There was a great noise of laughing from the other room and George came strolling across to them looking sulky.
“I can tell you, for a man who takes the political state of Europe seriously, as I do,” he said, keeping the fire off his sister-in-law and her cousin, “it’s pretty ghastly to hear the way people talk. Anyone who sees behind the scenes a bit can see what’s going to happen before long. And whose fault will it be?”
“Not mine, George, though by your scowling you seem to say so,” said Caroline.
“It is the fault of those men,” said George, leaning the weight of one foot heavily on the old brass fender so that it began to bend and crack, “who framed the Treaty of Versailles. No one thought of us younger men. It is an old man’s muddle. Russia is the only country where youth has an equal claim. Here we are ciphers.”
Francis and Caroline made soothing noises.
“Look at me,” continued George. “Product of a rotten public school system, brought up in comfort, put into my father’s business, a safe future before me, no chance of developing my own personality. Pretty foul, isn’t it?”
“Well, I shouldn’t call it too bad,” said Francis.
“If you don’t like being yourself, what would you like to be?” asked Caroline.
“A balletomane,” said George with proud courage.
“There are such a lot of new states since the map of Europe got altered,” sighed Caroline.
George looked with deadly scorn at his sister-in-law.
“An amateur of the ballet,” he explained. “The whole future of civilization is bound up in the Russian ballet; music, drama, rhythm, miming, self-expression through discipline. That is why Russia must eventually lead the world.”
“The word ballet surprises in himself,” murmured Francis, and Caroline looked gratefully at him.
“But you would need some money to live on, wouldn’t you?” she said doubtfully. “I mean, the ballet is frightfully expensive, and really not much fun unless you go to the good seats.”
“Good seats are simply a product of capitalism,” said George angrily.
“And thank God for it,” said Francis, who seeing that there was no chance of continuing his conversation with Caroline, felt that at least he need not stay and listen to George’s views on the world. “Let’s all go to the ballet one night. Would you like it, Caroline? I’ll make Hugh fix a night and we can combine it with oysters. Will that suit you, George?”
“Oh, thanks awfully,” said George, suddenly becoming a nice, natural young man.
“If I take you to good seats you mustn’t mind,” said Francis. “I’m a bit of a capitalist. It’s a point of view, you know.”
George, whose outburst against good seats was chiefly a mild form of sour grapes, as he had to economize severely on his salary to afford the stalls, from which, alone the balletomane can do justice to his profession, considered this statement. If capitalism was a point of view and not merely a soul degrading material state, there was obviously something to be said for it.
There was a tremendous comparing of engagement books among the younger members of the party and a night in the following week was fixed for dinner and the Russian ballet. A great deal of unselfishness was shown by the men of the party. Hugh, who had a journ
alist’s dislike to being tied down to a date, so far condescended as to say that he would of course come unless some utterly unforeseen event prevented him. George gave up a very dull evening party at which he had hoped to meet a Communist, and Wilfred ran a pencil through an entry in his diary, which had read, “West Kensington Blackshirt Rally, 7:45?”, while Francis was able to enjoy the spectacle of Caroline thanking Hugh for his half-promise to come. Caroline and Anna were frankly delighted and began a babbling conversation about frocks which absorbed them entirely.
Francis and Hugh decided to walk part of the way home as the night was fine and starry.
“What a different woman Caroline looks,” said Hugh. “I do hope she will have a good time this winter. It is a pity those boys have to be such a bore. I had an uneasy feeling that either of them might quarrel with me for agreeing with the other, but that both would jump on me if I tried to argue seriously with either. And neither of them knew what they were talking about. I’m sorry for Caroline.”
“I think most of it slips past her,” said his cousin. “When George said he wanted to be a balletomane she thought it was a Balkan state.”
“Bless her,” cried Hugh. “I do like that woman. I hope she will find exactly the right man to marry.”
“Do you suppose she will marry again?”
“Why not? Now she has got over that swine’s behavior she ought to do better. I can’t imagine a more delightful wife. She is so charming, not frightfully intelligent perhaps, but quite a darling. I adore the way she looks at you as if there were someone else just behind your eyes that she was trying to see. Here, Francis, I’ve had enough walking.”
He hailed a taxi, but his cousin preferred to walk home.
“All right,” said Hugh. “I was going to have treated you to this, so you’ve missed a free ride.” And off he drove.
Walk as fast as he might, Francis could not outstrip the thoughts that were racing through his head. Hugh’s assumption that Caroline would marry again had startled him. The impression that she had left upon him when he had taken her to Beechwood was so strong that he had never since thought of her except as a victim, dedicated, apart. Her languor, her expressed preference for sitting still and doing nothing that evening had not altered his point of view. But Hugh evidently saw her simply as a young woman who, being free from the consequences of an unhappy marriage would be ready to try her luck again. Perhaps, thought Francis, if one didn’t feel so desperately romantic about her one would also see her in that light. If she were to marry again, what guarantee could there possibly be that she would do any better? If she did marry again, it must be someone who could be trusted to look after her, someone who had known her for a long time and understood how to be kind to her. And think as he would, he could discover no man in his large acquaintance who would satisfy him as a husband for Caroline. Then a horrid thought intruded itself that there might be some man unknown to him who could kindle Caroline’s heart to new warmth, and with that the name of Colonel Beaton whom she had known at Beechwood came to his mind – Colonel Beaton whom she had known at Beechwood and was very fond of. It was just like women, he reflected bitterly, to be very fond of a colonel. Probably a case of propinquity. He mentally endowed the colonel with every unpleasant attribute of the colonels of fiction from senility and garrulity to heavy mustaches and a vile temper. The mere thought of anyone with heavy mustaches being in a temper with Caroline so angered him that he had to imagine himself protecting her from this phantom of his imagination, and the thought of protecting her naturally leading to the vision of himself with an arm around a frightened Caroline, telling her that Colonel Beaton would never come near her again, he suddenly stopped dead.
“Of course,” he said to the pillar box which stood looking at him with a gaping expression, “I love Caroline myself.”
As the pillar box had nothing to say, he continued his walk, thinking the matter over in what he considered to be a cool legal way, but what was in fact a man who had never been badly in love before discovering what anyone with any experience could have told him weeks and months ago.
Hugh, reading proofs of a contributor’s article for his review, looked up as his cousin came into his room.
“Hand me down the big atlas, will you?” said Hugh.
Francis took down a large book from its shelf and put it before his cousin.
“I didn’t say the bound volume of Leech, you ass. I said the atlas.”
“Sorry,” said Francis, making the substitution. “I say, do you think I could ask Caroline to marry me?”
“Why not?” said Hugh, looking up from his proofs for a moment.
“You don’t think she might think it rather soon?”
“Soon? Why? Considering her decree was made absolute about six months ago, I should say you’ve been a bit slow about it.”
“But I didn’t know till tonight.”
“Didn’t you? I did.”
“Knew that you loved her?” asked Francis anxiously.
“Lord, no. That you did. My dear cousin, it has been extremely visible to my trained journalistic eye for a very long time, long before that pestilent fellow left her. Seriously, Francis, I rather hoped that this would happen. I am frightfully fond of Caroline and it sounds a perfect arrangement. Go ahead.”
“You don’t think she cares for that fellow Beaton, do you?”
“Damn,” said Hugh, with his finger on a point in the Balkans, “they’ve altered the spelling again – I knew they would. It used to be Gratianopolis, and then we had to say Gratzenburg, and then Graziano, and now if it isn’t Gsrztz. It sounds like a place in Caroline’s new state of Balletomania. What did you say about Mrs. Beeton?”
“I didn’t say Beeton, I said Beaton. Colonel Beaton.”
“What about Colonel Beaton?”
“You might take your head out of the atlas and listen to me for a minute, Hugh. Tell me, do you think Caroline cares for that fellow Beaton?”
“I don’t know. Who is he? The one that writes?”
“Yes. He lives at Whitelands now.”
“By Jove, so he does. And has a very pretty daughter too. I met them both in Berlin last year. He is a delightful fellow, the very nicest army type, a specialist on his own subject and very well informed all round. Young-looking too to have a grown-up daughter.”
Francis went out of the room, slamming the door. Hugh picked up his fountain pen and continued his task of substituting Gsrztz for Graziano throughout the article.
Chapter III
Cross Purposes
The party for the ballet was to be a joint affair. Hugh said the dinner was his because he had promised Caroline an oyster. Francis said he would get the tickets because it was he who had suggested the ballet.
When the party assembled at a restaurant, George was seen to be carrying white gloves.
“What on earth have you got those things for?” said Wilfred to his brother.
“One does, for the ballet,” said George.
“Well, one looks no end of a fool,” said Wilfred.
Francis pressed cocktails on them and storm was averted. “And how do you find London again?” Hugh asked Caroline as they ate their oysters.
“Very nice, but so terribly tiring. It is so much fuller than it was a year ago. What with Welsh Miners, and little dogs on leads, and traffic lights, one doesn’t seem to be able to get anywhere. Today I was trying to shop near Sloane Square and I couldn’t get along at all because of young men in black shirts giving away pamphlets.”
George laughed offensively and provocatively.
“That’s about all they do give away,” he said.
“Has that remark any meaning?” asked Wilfred.
“None at all,” said the balletomane.
“But some of them looked very charming in their black blouses,” continued Caroline. “In fact I went into one of their offices to ask if I could have the pattern, and they were most sympathetic.”
“They are,” said Wilfred.
“No need to wonder if you’ve ever been within a yard of one,” said George.
Hugh, used to dealing with delicate political situations, managed to switch the conversation off to less dangerous subjects and dinner proceeded normally till coffee came, when George got up.
“Will you excuse me if I go on ahead, Hugh?” he said. “You know Simonovna appears tonight, and I have promised to meet some fellows, great admirers of hers, before the show begins. I may go around to her dressing room afterwards,” he added carelessly.
“Good old non-Aryan name,” said Wilfred.
George glared at his brother.
“Simonovna said I could bring any friend I liked with me,” he said coldly, “but of course if you feel like that we will drop the matter.”
Wilfred, on whom the lure of any theatrical dressing room exercised the potent attraction which it has for the young, at once repented his unkind words and offered to accompany his brother.
“I expect she’s as Christian as any of us,” he said.
“As a matter of fact,” said George, “she is an Old Catholic.”
“There’s no need to talk about them like that,” said Wilfred, nervously looking around. “Or do you mean she is old herself?”
“That,” said George, “just shows how appallingly insular we are. You ought to be more internationally minded. If you said that to any continental, he would simply roar with laughter.”
Wilfred was on the point of saying what he thought of foreigners who roared with laughter, but he was afraid of not being taken behind the scenes, so he went off with his brother, reconciled, but still perplexed.
“I feel about a hundred and twenty-two,” said Hugh, as the young men went out.
“It means nothing,” said Anna wisely. “All the young men I know are violently political, but they are always interested in other people’s politics, not ours, so I can’t think it is frightfully important.”
O, These Men, These Men! Page 4