Birthday Party

by C. H. B. Kitchin

  I said, “I suppose you expect me to reply, ‘In the Kremlin.’”

  She answered, “I expect you to enjoy this very delicious oyster soup. Thomas Hill has sent down a barrel of oysters, and we thought they wouldn’t all keep.”

  She rang as she talked to me, and Eames brought in my soup-plate. While he was putting it down in my place at the head of the table, she introduced Dora’s brother, Stephen Payne. I had met him before, years ago. I think I had just left my first school, and in those days liked strangers who gave me half a crown. Stephen Payne had given me nothing. I remembered him as a sandy-haired little man with the look of a sentimental grocer. He hadn’t changed much, except that the sandy hair was thinner. He made no attempt to remind me of our first meeting, but sat down as soon as he had shaken hands with me, and began to eat. I felt that he was sorry I had arrived. “This is a meal to be got over quickly,” I thought.

  I tackled Dora at once about her cruise. It had been a great success and she was very ready to talk about it. She had met such nice people, and the sea air had done her so much good. The ship she went on was going to cross the Equator at Christmas. Quite a number of her fellow-passengers had booked for the trip. She had been tempted to do so too.

  This statement dried her up. It was too closely connected with the unknown future—the future which, on Tuesday, is to lie in my hands. “Well,” I thought, “you’d better book, if you can afford it. You won’t be here.”

  Aunt Isabel, meanwhile, was talking about rabbits to Stephen Payne. It seems that they are getting into the garden, and Payne shot one through the morning-room window, ten minutes after he arrived. He asked me if I shot.

  I replied, “No, I have never learnt to shoot—unlike my father.”

  Those last three words showed how much I was on edge. I could almost feel Dora’s shiver, and Isabel stiffening against me. It was a sign, in the eyes of both of them, that Russia hadn’t done me any good.

  Payne said, “I learnt to shoot during the war. But with a different kind of weapon.” He didn’t share in the tension I had created. No doubt he had forgotten about my father’s death. Perhaps he had never heard about it.

  Before serving coffee, Eames handed round the port. We all refused it, even Payne, who, I thought, was supposed to be something of a dipsomaniac. Perhaps he was on his best behaviour. We were all on our best behaviour.

  When Eames had gone out, Aunt Isabel said, “About three, I’m going for a walk. I shall come back by Noakes’ cottage, because I promised to drop in and see old Mrs. Noakes. Would anyone like to come with me?”

  Dora said she had eaten too much and was sure she’d be sleepy. Payne said he would like to.

  “We won’t bother Ronnie,” Isabel said. “I’m sure he’ll be glad of two hours by himself—acclimatising himself to home again.”

  I answered, “Yes, I shall.” It was the first thrust that they made at me.

  3

  It was a right instinct of mine not to bring any of my friends here for my birthday. However much we agreed politically, other nuances were bound to disturb us. Their energies would have been absorbed by the routine of the place—that routine to which I have been adapted from birth. They couldn’t have helped me. I should have been more nervous than I am, seeing their discomfiture over trivialities, and more upset than I am, hearing them pay lip-service to the conventions. Or else there would have been a ghastly row, and I can’t face that till I have my final row with Thomas Hill, who is coming here, it seems, for luncheon on my birthday. “If need be, he’ll stay the night,” said Isabel. I took it that this was her way of saying, “If you invite him, he’ll stay the night,” because on and after Tuesday invitations to stay at Carlice should come from me. In the past they have come theoretically from Dora, though Isabel’s promptings have never been disregarded. Poor Dora! In the early days, when I was not aware of things, there must have been a lot of, “Don’t you think, Dora, it would be a good thing to ask so-and-so?” And Dora would reply, “Of course, Isabel. I was thinking of that only last night.” I played the same game later, though with more justification.

  No, I’m glad I have no friends of mine here during these three days. They would only hamper me in the coming contest. Thomas Hill is coming to luncheon on Tuesday, and he shall stay just so long as it takes him to do his business. The bank manager is coming over after luncheon from Risely, bringing documents which he has been keeping in safe custody. I wonder if I shall find among the papers some sinister note from my father—some awful voice from the tomb disclosing a family scandal and telling me why he killed himself. I used to be afraid, five or six years ago, that my father killed himself because he had an hereditary disease, and had left a letter, somewhere, cautioning me to be on my guard against it. Well, I can look upon that sort of thing with more equanimity now. It was different when I thought that the attainment of my majority would open a gate for me to a life of cultivated egotism.

  I had thought, that as soon as luncheon was over, I could slip up to the library and read, or even have a nap. Dora went to the drawing-room, and Stephen Payne followed her there with a furtive air. Isabel went to the morning-room—that has always been her room, just as the library has been mine, and the drawing-room Dora’s—and left the door open. I loitered in the dining-room for a minute, pretending to look for the cigars, though they were always left in charge of Eames. When I thought the coast should have been clear, I crossed the hall to go upstairs. But Isabel was by her open door and called me.

  “Ronnie, do spare me ten minutes.”

  I said, “Certainly,” and sat down and lit a cigarette.

  She got going at once.

  “Ronnie, I do want to have rather a serious talk with you. I know it’s a silly time to choose, when you’ve just come back from a tiring journey, but I want you to have as long a time as possible to make up your mind about what I’m going to say before—well, before Tuesday and Thomas Hill’s visit.”

  She pushed an ash-tray towards me, giving me time to speak if I wanted to, but I didn’t.

  “I only know what your plans are from Dora,” she went on. “She tells me that as soon as you come into Carlice you are going to hand it over to the Communist party as a kind of propaganda centre or school. Apparently you’ve met some girl near Oxford who attracts you, and you may be marrying her and living here as caretaker. A farmer’s daughter, Dora told me. How far is all this true?”

  “The second part is hardly true at all,” I answered. “I did meet a farmer’s daughter near Oxford, and she did attract me very much. I don’t know if I attracted her, though I dare say she would have liked to make a good marriage like—you know whom I mean. But she wouldn’t be able to help me in my work and I’m not going to be false to my principles for the sake of a love-affair. This may sound priggish, but I am priggish.”

  “My dear Ronnie,” she said, “we should all far prefer you to marry a farmer’s daughter rather than some intellectual tart from London who writes for the papers.”

  “I dare say you would. I happen to think that an intellectual tart from London—mind you, I don’t know one yet—would be more likely to help the cause I want to help.”

  She looked at me without any show of affection.

  “Well, we can leave that. You haven’t yet met the woman you’re going to marry. Now what about this handing over of Carlice to the ‘party’?”

  She pronounced the word “party” with a contemptuous inflexion.

  “That is all perfectly correct. I shall make the place over as soon as I get it. On Wednesday, if it can be done so soon.”

  “You really are set upon this? You’ve thought it all out thoroughly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course,” she said, in a more reflective tone, “it upsets me and it will upset all our friends and all those who’ve been connected with us. You don’t suppo
se that Noakes and Stephens and Jackson and Eames will take kindly to what you’re doing? However, I won’t waste your time by putting their case. They’re only individuals and don’t count for you. And I’m certainly not going to waste your time by asking you to give up your idea for my sake. Instead, I’m going to make you a suggestion, and I do ask you to take it very seriously. It seems very sensible to me, and I hope it’ll seem sensible to you. It is this—that you should sell Carlice to me, lock, stock and barrel. I’ll give you eighteen thousand pounds. That’s as much as I can manage, if I’m to have anything left over to run the place with.”

  I thought to myself, “An offer of eighteen means that she’ll go to twenty.”

  “My dear Aunt Isabel, that’s more than the place is worth.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes, far more. I have been to one or two estate agents. They said that though a millionaire who fell in love with the place might give twenty-five, it would be foolish to reckon on more than twelve, or even ten. In a forced sale, we might only get five or six, or even find we couldn’t get an offer at all. So you see, you’re being unfair to yourself.”

  “Then you have thought that you might like to sell?”

  “Yes. I thought the money might be more useful to the party than the house, but——”

  “Well, I offered eighteen. I may be unbusinesslike, but you can have eighteen. Needless to say, I hope you won’t pass the whole lot on.”

  “But I’ve decided not to sell.”

  Her face became so white, I thought she was going to faint.

  “Not at any price?” she asked. “Suppose I go through my investments and find I could manage a bit more. After all, this isn’t the only house of its kind. With my money you could have your pick of the market and make a profit on the deal.”

  I agreed with her that Carlice wasn’t the only country house for sale. I agreed even that it wasn’t the most convenient house we could get, either in its design or situation.

  “Then,” she said, “why not take the money and buy them something more convenient?”

  “Because I’ve decided they shall have this house.”

  “Even if they don’t want it?”

  “They do want it.”

  “Yes, but have you told them what you could get for it in money? You can’t have done. You said yourself that you couldn’t hope for more than ten or twelve thousand at an ordinary sale. Oh, Ronnie, why must they have this house of all houses?”

  “Because it’s my house, or will be on Tuesday.”

  “You mean you want a cheap advertisement. A headline in the papers. That’s what it is, simply a silly personal vanity. You, who profess to think that personal feelings are contemptible. I always knew that you must be inconsistent.”

  “You’re quite wrong. I don’t think you’d understand my reasons if I told you them.”

  “Oh, I’ve no doubt you’ve bamboozled yourself with some frightfully subtle scientific theory. I don’t suppose you’ve simply said to yourself, ‘I shall get a lot of prestige by doing this dramatic thing.’ It goes a bit further down than that with you. That’s Dora’s level, not ours. But underneath, it’s just personal vanity—the same feeling exactly as Dora had when the Captain of her cruising liner asked her for a dance.”

  “I was afraid you’d see it in this light,” I replied. “But in order to convince you that my feeling is not quite the same as Dora’s—or yours—would be, I may tell you that, when the deal goes through, it will be announced publicly that I have sold this house to the party—not given it to them.”

  “Yes, but the party will know the truth.”

  “Only one or two officials. They won’t care, and in any case they haven’t much influence.”

  She put her hand behind her neck, and seemed to rest for a minute. And while she did so, I felt a minute’s weakness. Was it, after all, mere vanity on my part? Or a silly desire to shock people without doing any good? Or even a mean revenge on my aunt, whose authority had weighed down my childhood more than she could understand? If she had said nothing, or even shed a tear or two, I might have given way. But she didn’t. She sat bolt upright and burst into a long tirade.

  “I suppose it’s no use asking you, Ronnie, to be a little more lucid in your own mind. I’ve no doubt you think you’ve reached a stage of perfect and final lucidity, and it’s almost impertinent of me to remind you that you’re not yet twenty-one. But you aren’t twenty-one yet, and things that seem so simple and obvious at that age seem less simple and obvious when you’re thirty-three or forty-four, or even older. Surely you ought to realise that you may change. You will change. I can promise you that. It’s only very dull people who remain the same all their lives, and I don’t think you are dull. You’re rather clever, and that means you’ll change a lot. Do leave some little loop-hole for yourself. Don’t throw everything away in an undergraduate’s caprice. I’m sorry. I’d forgotten that you’d taken your degree and are not an undergraduate any longer, but I don’t suppose that marks any great spiritual rebirth. Give yourself a chance. That’s all I’m asking you. Keep Carlice going, as it is, for two or three years. Or let me buy it from you. I’ll pay you as much as ever I can afford. I’ll let you see my investment book. Drive as hard a bargain with me as you can, and give my money to the Communist party. Let me have Carlice. After all, if it’s mine, it’s in the family, and when I die there’s nobody for me to leave it to but you.”

  She sat back and looked at me. I felt I couldn’t go on talking to her any longer and said:

  “That’s exactly the reason, Auntie Isabel, why my mind is made up, and why I want the whole thing settled now. I don’t want to make the best of both worlds. I don’t want any secret expectations—if the present social order should last so long, which I doubt. I don’t want to cater for myself, if I live, with any hope of a comfortable old age——”

  “I suppose you know,” she said quietly, “that even if you do make this gift to the Communists, you’re doomed in advance. They’ve no use, really, for people like you. They may flatter you now, and think that ‘Carlice Abbey becomes Communist Training Centre’ will make a good headline in the gutter-press, but they don’t care twopence about you. Apart from your money, you’re no use to them. Even your theories don’t count. They’ll shoot you in the first purge after the revolution.”

  I said, “I know that.”

  “Then you’re a fool, a fool, a damned fool, Ronnie!”

  This, as the lawyers would say, precluded the possibility of all further negotiations between us.

  “I’m very sorry,” I said, as urbanely as I could, “that my decision hurts you so much, Aunt Isabel. Or rather, I don’t want to be hypocritical even to you. I’m not very sorry. You’ve had everything life can give you—or almost everything—and you’re still not satisfied. You ask for more. You want to interfere with the lives of other people—with my life. You’d sacrifice the population of China, if it would give you this house. I know you and your kind. Well, let me tell you that it gives me peculiar satisfaction to think that you’re not going to live here, lording it over the tenants of the estate, and playing the Lady Bountiful when you’ve nothing else to do. This may be a personal vanity of mine, but, if it is, I’m going to yield to it. It will give me a very profound pleasure, when I sign the Deed of Conveyance of Carlice Abbey to the Communist party, to know that never, by any possibility, can the property come into the hands of Isabel Carlice.”

  I stood up, and she stood up and said, “Ronnie, I think you are a little over-excited. You had better go up to your room.”

  I went through the door without looking at her or speaking to her, and feeling very shaky about the knees.

  My knees are still shaky.

  Chapter XI: DORA CARLICE

  I INTENDED to lie down after all that oyster soup, but Stephen followed me i
nto the drawing-room. What a time to choose for a talk! Sunday afternoon after rather a heavy meal. Besides, he must have known there was nothing to talk about. I more or less said so to him, when I caught him alone for a few minutes on Saturday night. I said, “Look here, Stephen, I know perfectly well you’ve come here to try to persuade me to pull strings with Donald Rusper. Let me tell you this, I haven’t any strings to pull. I’ve written him two or three times urging him not to be hard on you, and he replied that I must trust him to use his own judgment, as Daddy intended. So that’s that. I think it’s rather mean of you to have come here without giving me a chance to say we couldn’t do with you. As it is, you’re Miss Carlice’s guest, not mine. She seems to have taken charge of you. Let her go on doing it, till Tuesday, when Ronnie is going to turn out the lot of us, with barely time to put our bits and pieces together.”

  That should have been plain enough, but he followed me into the drawing-room, even though I’d said at lunch that I was going to have a nap. I can quite understand that he didn’t like to go into the morning-room where Isabel was, or up to Ronnie’s library, but there was always the garden for him to walk about in. Heaven knows that’s big enough. It isn’t as if it were winter and one had to be indoors near a fire. It’s early September, even if it isn’t a very nice day.

  He followed me into the drawing-room. I went straight to the sofa and he went to the easy chair by the fireplace and lit a cigarette.

  The first thing he said was, “I don’t like this room as much as the other rooms in the house. Why did you choose it?”

  I said, “I don’t agree with you. I like it better than the other rooms. It isn’t so heavy, specially since I got new curtains and had the furniture done up.”

  He flicked his ash carelessly over the clean hearth, and asked me suddenly, “Where are you going on Tuesday?”