by Martin Boyd
“It’s in the genre of his generation,” said Cynthia.
“That’s exactly the same kind of joke,” I said.
“Il ne faut pas enseigner les poissons à nager,” said Cousin Sophie. Her pronunciation was too good for me to be able to understand her, and I looked nonplussed.
“That means, don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs,” said Anthea, who was firmly convinced that any kind of refinement was middle class, perhaps her one point of intellectual contact with Freddie Thorpe. Cousin Sophie gave a smile of almost tearful apology to the Cambridge couple, who were very earnest and sat bewildered throughout the meal, as their conversation was limited to primitive sex and camping equipment.
“Anyhow, who gave you permission to intervene?” Cynthia asked me haughtily.
“You are inclined to forget, Cynthia, that you are not Dr Johnson,” said Cousin Edward, with the cruelty which some parents show to children who deviate from the pattern they had in mind for them.
Mr Hemstock, at the mention of Dr Johnson, gave that involuntary, imperceptible start which an Egyptologist will give at hearing the word “Luxor”, or an Anglo-Catholic at the word “ferrola” or a snob or a cricket enthusiast at the word “Lord’s”.
At the end of dinner the port decanter came round to me, but I was talking to Anthea on my left and did not notice it. Mr Hemstock boomed: “The oporto is to you, young man.”
When I had translated this into modern English I showed that I was offended at being roared at, so he may have been surprised at the alacrity with which I helped him on with his coat as we were preparing to leave for the ball. He did not look pleased, and would have been less so if he had known that my attention was largely due to a wish to hear his hot water-bottle splash. I was rewarded by a faint gurgle, but was not sure that this was not, as Arthur had denied, the natural rumblings of indigestion.
The Enemy were possessed by a ruthless determination that no one else’s convenience should interfere with their own. It was unknown for one of them to say: “Please don’t bother to call for me. It will be so much easier for you if we meet at the theatre.” A more familiar sound was: “I couldn’t possibly do that. It would be tiresome.”
The transport to Government House consisted of a hired car which would just take five passengers—the twins at last had struck at going to parties in a wagonette—and the grubby two-seater of the primitive sex students. There was no room for me, and although Cousin Sophie had said she would take me, she now merely told me that I could ring up for a hansom if I liked. The Cambridge man, seeing my dismay, told me that I might stand on the step of his car. I accepted thankfully but he did not moderate his speed to my precarious situation. Also at that time I had the idea that it was smarter to go to dances without an overcoat, giving the impression that one always just walked out of the house into a rich warm limousine. As he whizzed round corners I hung on grimly, rubbing my white waistcoat and shirt-front against the canvas hood, impregnated with the fine brown dust of some Australian desert, so that when I entered the ballroom they looked as if I had just fished them out of the dirty linen basket.
“What on earth have you done to your shirt?” demanded Anthea. “You’d better go home and change it.” Owing to my appearance the twins only gave me one dance each.
This made me very disconsolate and I wished that I had not gone to their beastly dinner party. I thought of Mildy with tenderness and sympathy, and considered ringing her up, and saying I would come for her. Then I could change my shirt and she would pay for the taxi. But I decided that by the time I returned to the ball it would be too late to fill my programme.
I saw Aunt Baba arrive and stand inside the door, waiting for George to come from the cloakroom. As she was not technically the Enemy I thought she would be nice to me and I went over to her. She did not answer my greeting, but gave a vicious glance at my shirt-front.
“What on earth have you been doing?” she said. “For goodness sake don’t stand by me.”
I left her and stood by myself against the wall. By now I was almost in tears, and wondering what I should do, when I became aware that a woman of about forty, with golden curls massed on her head, was watching me with an expression of the most benevolent kindness. Our eyes met and she smiled, and I felt a sudden human warmth suffuse my body, and diffident, ingenuous, with my heart opening like a flower in the sun, I moved towards her.
“Cheer up, ducks,” she said.
This caressing word fell on my wounds like healing ointment. Such easy humanity, such absence of priggishness and wit, such indifference to my dirty shirt, made me feel that I had entered a nobler world where rich and natural rhythms were not disturbed by the tricky agility of the mind. There was about her a suggestion of high summer, of the orchards and vineyards to which Lady Pringle had referred, in the richness of her curls and her ruby velvet dress, in the many gold bracelets on her plump arms, and the necklace of gold vine leaves, very beautiful, but recalling rather those labels which are sometimes seen on the necks of decanters, lying on the soft powdered folds of her bosom. She was, of course, Mrs Montaubyn.
With that foolish confidence which I was apt to show to anyone with a kind face I asked her: “Do you think my shirt-front looks awful? It got smudged driving here. My cousins say I should go home.”
“Don’t you worry about your shirt-front, dear,” she said. “It’s your face that matters and that’s as sweet as two pippins.”
“Oh!” I said, a little startled. “Well, it’s jolly nice of you to say so.”
“Jolly nice, eh? Are you one of the swells?”
“Which swells?”
“All the swells that hang round the governor and Lord Tomnoddy. Haw! Haw!”
“I don’t hang round anyone,” I said. “I don’t get a chance.”
At this she inflated with silent laughter, ending in a wheeze.
“What you want to hang round is a pretty girl. And I’ll bet you do with that complexion. You’re English aren’t you? That’s where they get it—the Scotch mist and all that. I bet you have your fun and quite right too. We’re only young once, I say. Don’t you worry about your shirt. You have a good time and tell your cousins to go and you-know-what themselves.”
“Oh, thank you,” I said much cheered. “I will if I can.”
I saw Diana, followed by Wolfie and Josie come into the room. “There is my aunt,” I explained. “I must go and say hullo to her.”
“Ta-ta, ducks. See you later,” said Mrs Montaubyn. She followed me with her benevolent gaze, and I led it straight to her quarry. I saw Wolfie staring at her with horror, and thought he must be annoyed with me for speaking to someone of that kind, though it would be most unlike him. He turned at once and talked to the Pringles, who had arrived just behind them.
“Hullo, Aunt Diana,” I said, “what a lovely dress you have.” It was of black net and had little gold flowers sewn all over it. I asked the inevitable question about my shirt-front, but being used to Wolfie’s, her standard was not high and she did not think it mattered.
“There’s a most extraordinary woman over there,” I said, “but she’s awfully nice really.”
“She looks kind,” said Diana. “She has beautiful hair.”
We drifted towards the queue that had been formed for the guests to be presented to their Excellencies and to the prince. We passed within two yards of Mrs Montaubyn, who ogled us expectantly as we approached. Wolfie, breathless, terrified and pompous, explained some musical theory to Lady Pringle, and tried to look as if he did not see her. I smiled at her but she was no longer concerned with me. As we walked past without any other recognition, the bright expectancy faded from her eyes, and she looked hurt, and rather puffy. She joined the queue a little behind us. Wolfie was so obviously ill-at-ease that Diana asked him what was the matter. He said that his collar-stud hurt him.
We had not moved far away from the prince when Mrs Montaubyn was presented and I heard her name. She was so intent on giving him a glance in which loyalty to th
e throne and amorous invitation were simultaneously expressed, that she stumbled as she made her curtsey, for which she had not been prepared. John Wyckham, with that readiness for any emergency which is essential to an A.D.C., put out a hand and steadied her.
“That lady is called Montaubyn,” I said to Diana, who was amused.
“She suggests a name of some substance,” she said.
Wolfie opened his mouth twice like a gasping fish, and then urged us to come away, as we were causing a block. For the time being we lost sight of Mrs Montaubyn.
A little later the guests crowded round a cleared space to watch the quadrille which was danced by their Excellencies and the governors of other states and their wives, who were in Melbourne for the races and for the prince’s visit. As the wife of the Governor of New South Wales had sciatica, Miss Rockingham took her place. I was jammed in the crowd between Diana and the twins. A man behind us exclaimed sotto voce: “Great Scott! Who’s that woman like Salomé?” The comparison was with Miss Maud Allan who had recently been in Melbourne, and the reference was to Miss Rockingham, whose sorrowful, sagging eyes showed no consciousness of the people watching her, nor of the grace of her own movements. In the grand chain she wove her way through the opposing line of governors, and as she took each hand she gave a slight inclination of her noble equine head, which brought it into the perfect lines of her body.
“I see Miss Rockingham’s having a preliminary canter,” said Anthea, fortunately before Russell Lockwood had edged his way over to join Diana. He admired her dress, saying that she looked like Persephone in mourning. Cynthia pricked up her ears at the hint of culture.
“When was Persephone in mourning?” she asked.
“In the underworld, of course. As she had no real flowers she had to make them out of gold from Pluto’s mines.”
“What a nice thing you’ve made up about my dress,” said Diana. “We’ve been watching Miss Rockingham dance. She’s wonderfully graceful.”
“Yes, she is,” said Russell, and he watched her for a minute or two with more than casual admiration. Anthea had the sense to say nothing more about horses.
The quadrille ended and the crowd drifted apart. Mrs Montaubyn appeared again. She looked appraisingly at the twins and said:
“Having your fun, ducks? That’s right.” She then moved away.
“Who on earth’s that?” demanded Cynthia.
“She’s called Mrs Montaubyn.”
“Do you know her?”
“Not exactly,” I said, unwilling to disclaim anyone who had been so kind.
“Then why did she call you a duck?”
“I suppose she thinks I look like one,” I said.
“Your nose isn’t the right shape,” said Anthea.
The general dancing began and I was occupied with my youthful partners, but I noticed that in the intervals Mrs Montaubyn appeared to be circling round any group I happened to join, like some gorgeous bird of prey preparing to swoop. Or I may have been to her like the pilot fish that leads the shark, if this is true natural history. She had seen me greet Wolfie, and thought that through me she might force him to acknowledge her. He was no longer in sight, but was sitting in the men’s cloakroom, mopping his head and sighing.
As I had only just begun to go to dances, I did not know a great many girls, and I had some gaps in my programme. During one of these, I was standing at the buffet eating ices, when Uncle George joined me.
“Hullo,” he said, “Baba said your shirt looks as if you’d been using it to clean a motor car.”
“Does it?” I asked.
He gave it a judicious glance. “No, only a bicycle,” he said.
At this moment I became aware of a presence on my other side, and of a whiff of brandy, strong enough to assert itself above all the smells of food and drink and women’s scent in the supper room. I turned and found Mrs Montaubyn beside me, and I realized that the necklace of golden vine leaves was not inappropriate, though she had not chosen it herself, but had inherited it from her mother-in-law, who had often worn it to most temperate dinner-parties given by the Archbishop of Sydney.
“Where’s your girl, ducks?” she asked.
“I haven’t got this dance,” I said.
She nudged me and whispered huskily: “Introduce me to the gentleman.”
“Oh, Uncle George,” I said, “may I introduce you to Mrs Montaubyn? My uncle, Mr Langton.”
“How d’you do,” said George, without looking at her, and he walked away.
“Stuck-up old love-child, isn’t he?” said Mrs Montaubyn. She tried to appear indifferent, but in her eyes was once more the hurt expression of a child who is puzzled to find itself the victim of social injustice. In her simplicity she had imagined that when once she had arrived at the ball, all would be gaiety and good-fellowship. Feeling myself under a cloud because of my shirt-front, and all the time haunted by a picture of Mildy, perhaps sitting up for me, while in her room the new ball-dress was spread uselessly on her bed, and being ashamed of Uncle George’s behaviour, and also hating anyone not to be happy, I felt much sympathy for her.
“My uncle is not really like that,” I said, “but his wife’s very jealous.”
She looked at me suspiciously.
“Really,” I assured her. “I bet he’d much rather talk to you than to Aunt Baba. I know I jolly well would.”
She pinched my cheek, and I looked round in dismay, but the music had begun again and the supper room was nearly empty.
“You’re a real pal,” she said. “I’d dance with you only I’m not a cradle-snatcher. My toes aren’t half itching, all the same.”
Mr Hemstock, taking advantage of the dancing, had come in to have a quiet guzzle.
“Look,” I said. “There’s a man I’d like to introduce to you.”
“Which, dear?” she asked, turning. “What the giglamps! I’d rather die a virgin.” I was both too polite and too unsophisticated to ask if this were still possible. “I must say I would like a dance,” she continued. “Come on, ducks, I’ll dance with you. Who cares what these stuck-up sods think?”
Although I cared a great deal what the stuck-up sods, particularly Cousin Sophie and the twins, thought, I did not see how I could properly refuse. I was full of sympathy for her loneliness and I thought that by dancing with her I might make a kind of act of reparation to Mildy. Also I thought that no gentleman could possibly refuse a request of this kind from a lady. I did not realize then, or until many years afterwards, that to be a gentleman one must put strict limits to one’s chivalry, that is if one wishes to remain in the class where gentlemen are supposed most usually to be found.
And so, feeling that I was in one of those dreams where we are naked or grotesquely clad in a public street, I followed Mrs Montaubyn back to the ballroom, and with courteous diffidence allowed her to fold me to her bosom. We may be reasonably sure that this act of pure compassion was seen with delight by the holy angels, but my relatives did not share their view. Mrs Montaubyn had already attracted notice by her prowling round the ballroom, and her roving expectant eye. Baba said furiously to George: “Look at Guy dancing with that woman. He must have gone mad. Can’t you keep your relations out of the gutter?” Even the more tolerant thought I was a little off my head, and the twins found further support for their assumption that I had a leaning towards older women. Like many plump people Mrs Montaubyn was light on her feet, and she responded to the slightest touch, like a racing dinghy to the tiller, so that we danced very well together, which made my behaviour appear more outrageous. Mrs Montaubyn was aware that it was a little odd of me to dance with her, and when the music stopped, from a good-natured wish to save me further embarrassment, she merely said: “Thanks, ducks. That was good-oh,” and she turned on her heel to begin once more her lonely prowl.
Anthea passed me with Freddie Thorpe, and deliberately ignored me. My next dance was with Cynthia, and I was almost afraid to claim it. To my surprise she was quite pleasant. She had just begun to re
alize that the social exclusiveness in which she had been brought up, was not intellectual, and she took an enlightened view of my performance, though questioning me about it rather as if it were a case-history.
The twins frequently surprised me in this way. Just as I had decided that Anthea was the kinder and more naturally friendly of the two, she would administer a devastating snub, while Cynthia, as now, would be understanding. The reason was that Anthea was guided entirely by her feelings and personal convenience at the moment, while Cynthia’s actions were always directed by her mind, which at this time was in process of change. Anthea thought: “He has a dirty shirt and he likes dancing with old women. How squalid!” Cynthia’s first reaction was the same. Then she thought: “Am I possibly prejudiced? Is there any reason why he should not dance with old women if he likes?” And she began that train of questioning, of re-assessment so beloved of the intelligentsia, which having become an obsession, has led to the distintegration of our whole tradition of art and religion and moral values.
At the far end of the ballroom was the state drawing-room, opening into a corridor near the main entrance to the house. The ballroom had its own entrance by which people arrived for large parties. In the intervals between dances a few people found their way into this drawing-room, but for much of the time it was empty. At about eleven o’clock Russell and Diana went in there. They had met twice since he had had supper with her at Brighton, and at both meetings they had continued more or less the conversation of that evening. Whenever they met they at once burst into this animated exchange of ideas which they only broke off with the greatest reluctance. The slight stiffness and uncertainty of their first meetings had quite worn away.
“You talk,” said Diana, “not as if we were somewhere, but as if we had to go somewhere. After all most people have to live in the countries where they’re born, and they quite like it.”
“Poor things,” said Russell.
“Not at all.”
“Well, let me think. I know that there’s an answer to that. I’ve got it. Only our bodies were born in Australia. Our minds were born in Europe. Our bodies are always trying to return to our minds.”