Wheels within Wheels

by Alec Waugh

Which would mean, as Mrs. Newton explained petulantly to her husband, that to her as a hostess Daphne would be no help whatsoever.

  “She’ll spend her whole time with that wretched youth. Oh, I know he’s a very brilliant person and in forty years our grandchildren will be very proud if we figure in his autobiography, but at the moment he’s quite useless as a week-end guest. I do wish Daphne would devote herself to some one else.”

  Which was precisely what Mr. Newton himself was wishing, though for very different reasons. His wife was anxious for a guest who would fit into her week-end parties. He was concerned about a son-in-law who would fit into his daughter’s life. For it was in that light, he was driven to admit, that he might have to consider Rivers.

  “I’d give a lot for him not to be coming here,” he thought.

  • • • • •

  He thought so with a greater conviction an hour later. An English country house looks at its cosiest on an autumn evening. The curtains have just been drawn, the fire is blazing brightly; the warmth cheers you after the chill wind of your walk, your ride, your round of golf. After grey skies, lit with lavender and lilac at the sunset rim; after leafless trees, grey-green bark, grey-black branches; dark, unflowered hedges, your eyes are cheered by brightness; by the glow of firelight and lamplight on the gilt of picture frames; on the sheen of a varnished portrait; on the pattern of damask curtains; on the tooling of calf-bound volumes. You are tired and the cushioned comfort of a deep arm-chair is soft about you. You are hungry after an afternoon of exercise, and the tiny purple flame is flickering beneath the silver kettle. On the table are set out the triangled sandwiches, the dark-crusted fruit cake. By the fire an aluminium cover keeps the muffins warm. Where in the world is there a peace so tranquil, so familiar? On to that peace Rivers’s entrance blew like a chill wind.

  He entered rather like a police inspector investigating the scene of a crime; with a smart, keen stride and a swift, inclusive glance about the room before he greeted “the relatives of the deceased.” He did not give the impression so much of having come to see his friends as to form an estimate for subsequent employment of the manners and customs of the English gentry. Which, in a way, Frank Newton told himself, he had. He was judging, appraising, criticizing; testing each new experience; trying to fit it into the shape of a general scheme. He regarded human beings, and human habits, as specimens. Which did not make him an easier companion.

  Newton did not allow this feeling of distaste to affect his welcome.

  “You must be tired,” he said. “My wife will be back in a moment or two. Help yourself to what you want. There are muffins by the fire.”

  Few meals are pleasanter than tea after a train journey on a winter’s day. But Rivers, although he ate heartily, did not look at ease. There was something wrong about him somewhere: about the way he sat: the way he moved: about his clothes. They were not country clothes; he was not a country person. His clothes were the townsman’s idea of what country clothes were like. They were too new; they were stiff. He would have looked better in a starched collar and dark cloth double-breasted suit than in well-fitting tweeds. There was nothing loud about their check. It was the kind of cloth a countryman would have chosen. But except in the evening, and more often than not then too, you never saw a country-man in clothes that did not look at least eighteen months old. The moment the others arrived you realized the difference.

  One of the men was in grey flannel trousers that were uncreased and faded. His Norfolk jacket was patched with leather at the elbows; his Fair Isle jumper was frayed at the neck. His socks were of the grey-blue wool that was issued to the troops during the war. The brown of his brogue shoes had deepened to a black. His shirt was flannel, with a loose unpinned collar. The tie was of the same material but so often had the shirt been to the laundry that the tie no longer matched it. Yet as he stood before the fire, his hand driven deep into his trousers pocket, his cheeks flushed and his hair a little ruffled, describing how he had carried the bunker at the second hole, you never thought of him as anything but completely in the picture. He did not seem out of place for all that his old shoes were standing on a Persian rug of some antiquity and on the mantelpiece behind him were pieces of green jade for which any museum would have been grateful. He was right as Daphne was right: with mudded boots, and jodpores blackened at the ankle by her stirrup irons. She was neatly dressed in a mustard grey tweed coat, a cream silk shirt, a brown tie with large white spots. Yet her neatness was as much in place as the young man’s untidiness: as much in place as Rivers’s new tweeds were out of place. Was he aware of his difference? He was self-conscious, as Newton knew; ready to suspect affronts: as sensitive in his own feelings as he was insensitive to others.

  Newton watched him as he lolled back in his armchair; his body, but clearly not his mind, at ease. His fingers were playing nervously with the piping of the chair cover. He was taking no part in the conversation: which he scarcely could have done, since it was concerned with people and things of which he could not have known anything: of golf and hunting: and of those who in that immediate set had their lives bounded by such interests.

  “I must get him into the conversation somehow,” Newton thought. “I can’t have a guest left out in the cold like that.”

  At the same time, he did not see how he could bring Rivers into the talk without abruptly changing the conversation, which would be irritating to his other guests who were enjoying it. He would have to lead the talk gradually and imperceptibly to a subject into which Rivers could join. He was just wondering how he could do that, when Rivers settled the matter for him by getting up from his chair, crossing to the sofa in whose corner Daphne was, taking a long pouffe footstool and settling himself at her feet.

  For a moment or two he sat listening to the conversation. For a sentence or two Daphne had dropped out of it. The thread having passed to two of the other men she was for the moment a listener. Rivers availed himself of that moment to make a remark to her in a voice too low-toned to disturb the general talk. To answer it she had to turn her back slightly upon the other men so that before she had exchanged two remarks with Rivers she was cut off from the earlier conversation and drawn into a duologue with him.

  Newton watched her closely. While she had been talking to the young men she had been happy, indolent, at ease; joining without effort in the talk. There was no look of happiness in her now; not at any rate, of contented happiness. There was a look of strain but at the same time of eagerness. She seemed more alive, more taut. He had the feeling that Rivers had taken her from the world to which she was accustomed, in which she could move effortlessly, into one where she was uncertain of herself; in which she breathed with difficulty an air that was too tense for her but to whose electricity she responded; which tested and quickened and gave her an added sense of life.

  That little incident was typical of the whole week-end. Rivers was constantly leading her away into duologues. He was always creating opportunities for privacy. When the conversation was general, he took no part: sitting silent: preferring to be a nonentity where he could neither respect nor dominate. At meals he was more at home. Then he had a partner chosen for him. There was no alternative to a duologue. He could choose his own subject, direct the talk as he inclined. He talked amusingly and interestingly. Newton noticed that the girls on either side of him were anxious to end their conversation on the other side of him so that they could resume their talk with him. When he was allowed the lead he was all right. Newton could picture the time when he would be an asset at any house party. In twenty years’ time the conversation would be led up to him. People would invite his opinion on the subjects on which he was qualified to speak. He would not have to break into conversations as an alternative to remaining silent. In twenty years’ time he could imagine society paragraphists describing no party as being complete without him. But at the moment he was certainly a considerable nuisance.

  On the first morning his inability to play golf nearly provided a di
saster. One of the young men wanted to put a new mare through her paces: was thinking of buying her, he said. He wanted one of the others to come out and hack with him. The remainder were decided upon golf. There was a new course ten miles away. They were anxious to play over it. They arranged a foursome.

  “You don’t play golf, do you, Rivers? Well then, Daphne and I’ll take on the other two.”

  They were agreed on that.

  “Then what’ll you be doing, father?” Daphne asked.

  “I’ve promised to motor your mother over to Grange to choose a new lawn-mower.”

  “I see.” She looked thoughtful. “Then I suppose you could take Seton with you?”

  “Of course; if you think it wouldn’t bore him.”

  “You needn’t bother about entertaining me. I can look after myself perfectly well.”

  It was said in an acid, superior tone of voice. “I’m not a child,” it seemed to say. “I don’t need a horse to exercise or a small white ball to hit into a hole. I’m not a schoolboy that has to have a time table arranged for him. I’m self-sufficient.”

  Yet in spite of the acidity of his tone, he was quite clearly offended at being left out of the party’s plans.

  Daphne paused irresolute.

  “Father darling, have you really got to go to Grange?”

  “I made the arrangement four days back.”

  She looked worried and irritable.

  “I’d imagined that you young people could look after yourselves.”

  “Yes, of course we can. It isn’t that.” She hesitated. “Look here. Why couldn’t you others have a three ball match?”

  “We could, of course.”

  But there was no enthusiasm in the “yes.”

  “It’s a Saturday, you know. The course is certain to be crowded.”

  “We’re new to the course. We’re bound to be losing balls.”

  “We’re bound to hold things up, and have to be letting people through.”

  “Besides, we’re not nearly level. John’s so much the strongest, and I so much the weakest.”

  “Yes; I see,” said Daphne wretchedly, “I see.”

  At that point Rivers interrupted.

  “If it’s on my account that you’re trying to arrange this threesome, I beg you not to bother. As a matter of fact I’ve brought some papers down with me that I shall be very glad of an opportunity of studying.”

  He spoke fretfully; a little nervously. He resented, quite clearly, being singled out: being made an exception of; as though he were a weakling for whom allowances must be made.

  “Well, in that case …” said one of the young men.

  “Please, please don’t upset your plans in any way.”

  The word “your” was underlined; but so slightly that it was impossible to tell whether it was intentional. Daphne looked at him searchingly for a moment; then tossed her head back, shutting her eyes for a moment as though she were shaking away something that was not exactly unwelcome, but tiresome.

  “Very well,” she said. Then with a quick stride towards her father flung one arm round his neck and lifting herself upon her toes kissed him upon the cheek quickly, but with feeling.

  “Look after yourself,” she said. To Rivers she said nothing; but in the doorway she half hesitated as though she were going to say something but had thought better of it.

  The kiss and that stammer in her stride surprised Frank Newton. As a rule Daphne was undemonstrative in her affection towards him. She was extremely punctilious in her behaviour to their guests. Quite clearly she and young Rivers were tearing at each other’s nerves. If only he would leave her alone. If only she would be finished with the fellow. If she would take up with one of these other young men in whose world she belonged so clearly; with whom she was so clearly happy.

  Through the window he watched them as they packed themselves into the two seater; three in the front, one with the golf clubs in the back. They looked so young, so healthy, so confident in the power of their youth and health. The young man at the back muffled up in a vast tan coat, belted, high-collared; the girls so practical in their short tweed skirts and jumpers. So different from the high-waisted, corseted, long-skirted creatures who had played mixed golf in his youth with such a weariness of the flesh and spirit.

  He would feel very happy if he could think of Daphne’s life spent with such people in such pursuits. A year earlier before she had met Seton Rivers he had once jokingly asked if she were not falling in love with the young man now huddled beside the clubs; “because if you aren’t, you are going to make him extremely unhappy. He’s falling quite a lot in love with you.”

  She had laughed at that: an incredulous, high-spirited laugh.

  “Father dear, don’t be so absurd. Fred and I falling in love with one another! We know each other much too well.”

  His eyes had twinkled.

  “All the same I seem to recognize the symptoms.”

  “In that case he’s out of luck.”

  “Why should he be?”

  “I shan’t fall in love with that kind of person.”

  “It’s a very good type.”

  “I know it is: to make a friend of; and for some people to make a husband of. But I … oh, I don’t know, father. There’s nothing one doesn’t know about a boy like that. There are so many like him. One knows how he’ll feel and act. He could not surprise one. I want to be kept guessing. Marriage is about the only chance of adventure a woman ever gets. I’m going to take good care my marriage is adventurous.”

  He had smiled to himself when she had said that. That is how girls always talked. They wanted someone different and they always ended in marrying some one whom they thought different but was in point of fact precisely like all the other men. That was what he had expected to happen in Daphne’s case. He had not bargained for the sulking, lowering young man who was standing by the centre table, casually turning the pages of The Tatler.

  “I wonder who takes in this kind of paper,” he asked.

  “I do for one, it seems.”

  “Because it has photographs of your friends in it?”

  “Chiefly.”

  “I suppose that is why other people take it. When you look at it you really wouldn’t think that there were enough people whose friends or themselves were photographed in it to support such a paper.”

  “There are, apparently.”

  “It’s extraordinary. I can’t imagine that anybody else would pay a shilling a week for it. And the extraordinary thing is,” he went on, “that though the people who are photographed here consider themselves the most important people in the country, to a person like myself who is in touch, or is trying to be in touch, with whatever is important in this country, not one name in thirty conveys anything at all: isn’t even a name.”

  “You surprise me.”

  “Do I? I expect it would surprise a good many of these people,” and he tapped with contemptuous impatience a series of photographs representing titled personages at a point-to-point, “to realize how little they matter outside their immediate circle. Do you imagine they ever think of that?”

  “I don’t imagine that they think half as much about themselves as other people do. They have pleasant personal lives; they are self-fulfilled. They don’t think of themselves as political portents; one way or another.”

  “Oh, so you think that, do you?”

  Rivers looked closely at him, but with an abstract, reflective expression on his face: as though he were pondering the truth of what the elder man had said.

  “Perhaps you are right. Well, I must go and get my papers.”

  His papers were, Newton decided, an excuse for not being entertained. For when he returned from Grange, having decided not to buy the lawn-mower, he found Rivers reading before the fire.

  “You’ve finished your work, then?”

  “I’m a quick worker.”

  “I was interested in what you said in an article the other day about mental work being more phys
ically exhausting than manual.”

  “You read that?”

  “I thought it a most stimulating piece of work.”

  “Oh! I am glad.”

  The young man smiled awkwardly, but pleasantly; and began to talk with an engaging eagerness on the speed at which the brain wore out as compared with the body.

  “People think the brain lasts longer than the body merely because older people exercise it effectively. But it only means really that they’ve started later. The actual period of maturity isn’t a day longer. It’s simply that mental adolescence is a longer process than physical adolescence. I should say that the body was at its prime for fifteen years and that’s as long as a brain can be said to be actively creative. Only it’s rather difficult to say when a brain has ceased to be creative. Old men acquire technique. Their presence, their appearance, the respect one has for the old, make it possible for old men to preserve the appearance of power when actually they’ve lost it. They look strong. One venerates them and in a way pities them. One is loath to test their power. That’s why one leaves them in power long after they’ve ceased to be effective. That’s the trouble about all politics. The old men.”

  He spoke with a fresh, engaging candour. His voice lost its acid, his manner its prickliness when he was interested, when he felt himself on his own ground in congenial company. It was easy enough to get him into a good humour, if one took the trouble. The difficult people were always the easiest to handle, reflected Newton. It was the urbane, hearty people who seemed on the surface easy and really weren’t that you could never get at. To his surprise Newton found himself thoroughly enjoying his talk with Rivers. Time passed so quickly that he was surprised when the crunch of wheels on gravel and the clatter in the hall told him that the golfers had returned. They entered, noisy and exuberant; their cheeks flushed, their noses red. They had argued with one another the whole way back, and now wanted to argue in front of some one else. Daphne and Fred had won at the last hole. A niblick shot out of a bunker had been laid miraculously dead.

  “It was a fluke, a complete fluke,” their opponents were maintaining. “You wouldn’t do it once in a thousand times.”