“We really should take a look at the Rouen Apocalypse,” I murmured. “If you can summon the energy to stir from this comfortable couch I suggest we move upstairs.”
“Isn’t the manuscript here in the library? Oh, I see—it’s so valuable you keep it in a safe.”
“No, my dear, just under my pillow. This way.”
I steered her into the hall. She was by no means drunk, but she was a long way from being sober. As we climbed the stairs she said gravely, “There are two things you should know. First I think marriage is an abominable institution, and second I absolutely believe in the intellectual validity of free love.”
“I always knew I approved of higher education for women. Who was your idol when you were up at Cambridge? Marie Stopes?”
“Well, of course I wouldn’t expect a Victorian like you to understand. If you disapprove of women using cosmetics you’re bound to disapprove of them using contraceptives!”
“My dear, I have many ambitions but the destruction of the human race isn’t one of them, and according to Malthus carefree procreation can only lead to a disaster of apocalyptic dimensions.” Opening the door of my room, I ushered her inside. “And talking of Apocalypses—”
“Oh, there it is!” exclaimed Miss Slade, and she headed straight for the manuscript, which was lying on the nightstand.
We sat down on the bed together and looked at ten-headed serpents, leering gargoyles and the tortured faces of wicked sinners facing the eternal fires of hell. It took her less than three minutes to become restless, and seconds later I was removing the manuscript from her hands. “The text should really be reviewed in daylight,” I murmured. “The script is faint in parts and you don’t want to strain your eyes.”
“I’m not worried about my eyes,” said Miss Slade, “just my—Oh, Great Scott, what a blinking nuisance! Do you have a lavatory near here? I should have gone at the Savoy.”
“I think you’ll find the plumbing here satisfactory. Through that door over there.”
When she was gone I switched on the bedside lamp, turned out the overhead light, shed my clothes, shrugged on a robe and gave my front strand of hair a quick brush. I had just put down my hairbrush when she returned to the room, and, glancing at my watch, I saw that my familiar routine had been accomplished in record time. Apparently Miss Slade was no longer merely maintaining my interest but whipping it into a frenzy. With a detached but sincere admiration I awarded her another A for originality, and then I closed the door on my professional assessment of her and prepared to wipe all our previous conversations from my mind. Miss Slade did not know it, but there was no communicating door between my professional and my private life, and I never allowed my sexual inclinations to distort my business judgment.
To my surprise and pleasure I saw she had washed off all the paint and was looking very fresh and young. “ ‘Be yourself!’ ” she quoted bravely as I stared at her, and smiled as I drew her approvingly into my arms.
Her smooth unlined skin was erotic in its perfection. I began to undress her.
I was no more than halfway through this leisurely but intensely stimulating pastime when she lost patience (why are the young always so impulsive?), pushed the facings of my robe apart and slid her hands greedily over my body. I deplored her lack of restraint but not for long; her sensuousness drowned all criticism, and within seconds we were lying on the bed. As I paused to look down at her I saw that although her breasts were in shadow the light from the lamp reflected obliquely on the curve of her hips and her full white thighs.
“I presume you practice Marie Stopes’s doctrines as well as applaud them,” I said, watching her, “because if you don’t I have some French letters—”
“Oh God, not another literary discussion!” she groaned, and laughing at her unexpected sophistication I extinguished the light and moved against her in the dark.
My mind relaxed immediately. It was as if the power in some complex electrical system had been dimmed by a hidden master switch, and with my intellectual faculties isolated in this pleasurable state of suspension I was conscious of nothing except my physical ease. My muscles were hard and smooth, my limbs perfectly coordinated, and each gesture I made was fluent yet disciplined. In short, I was in absolute control of myself, of her and of the imminent consummation of our evening together—not a remarkable state of affairs, I admit, but one which, in view of the mess I made of everything seconds later, is at least worthy of a brief mention.
Anyway there I was, supremely overconfident in my effortless competence, and there was she, supremely eager in what appeared to be the light of past experience, and since it seemed by that time that no further pleasure could be obtained by delaying the inevitable, I gathered together my resources, as the Roman war historians might have said, for the ultimate assault.
The next moment I had the rudest shock of my entire sexual experience. In fact, it was such a shock that at first I could not understand what was happening. My brain had long since gone into hibernation, my wits were dulled with the exquisiteness of physical pleasure, and even my instinct for self-preservation was so befuddled that when I first encountered difficulty I simply paused before trying again.
At first I thought it was my fault. Then I knew it was hers. Finally in appalled disbelief I hesitated—and was lost. As my confusion spiraled into horror I lost control over my physical reflexes, floundered around like an ill-starred bull, tried to withdraw and could not, tried to go on and, God help me, succeeded, tried to freeze into a marble statue and, in failing, achieved the ultimate folly of ejaculation. By the time I managed to disentangle myself I was drenched in sweat, my heart was banging like a sledgehammer and I was mentally calling myself every kind of fool under the sun.
It was not one of the better moments of my well-ordered private life. I felt cheated, incredulous and intolerably confused.
At last when I had stopped gasping ignominiously I remembered the girl. She was motionless and so silent that I wondered if she had fainted. Feeling that I was plunging deeper every second into the perversest of nightmares, I yielded to panic and turned on the light. But she was conscious. She screwed up her eyes against the glare, but when she opened them again I saw she was close to tears. I tried to think of something useful to say. “I’m sorry” seemed not only feeble but inappropriate; after all, I had only done what she had obviously wanted me to do. “You little fool” would have sounded unchivalrous. “My God, what a mess!” would have been honest but again was hardly the most courteous of comments for a gentleman to make to a lady he has unintentionally deflowered. I was just thinking irrelevantly what a splendid Victorian word “deflowered” was when she said in a very small voice, “Why are you angry? Was I no good? What did I do wrong? Please tell me so I never make the same mistake again.”
“My dear child …” It was hard to know where to begin, but I managed to scrape together some semblance of good manners. “You’re a most charming and attractive girl,” I said truthfully. “I found you delightful. But you did wrong in not telling me you were so inexperienced.”
“If I’d told you that, I wouldn’t be here,” she said with an insight I found disturbing. “My father always said most men think virgins are a bit of a bore.”
“Your father,” I said, feeling quite unreasonably annoyed, “had no right to burden you with his questionable sexual opinions. Men shouldn’t discuss such things with their daughters.”
“What do you know about it?” Her resiliency was such that her tears were gone and she was now just as annoyed as I was. “Have you ever had a daughter?”
The silence which followed seemed to last for a long time but was probably no longer than ten seconds. One second to remember Vicky with her fair curls and violet eyes, another to remember her birth and infancy in that squalid apartment … The memories flicked on with the jerky reality of a film, my first wife’s death, Vicky growing up with my mother, Vicky strolling with me down Fifth Avenue, skating in Central Park, the belle of her coming-o
ut ball, the broken engagement, the recuperation in Europe, the return to New York … “I’ll give another ball for you, Vicky, to welcome you back!” Glittering chandeliers, Strauss waltzes, the survivors of Mrs. Astor’s Four Hundred, the cream of Old New York, and finally Vicky turning to me with starry eyes, Vicky saying radiantly, “Oh, Papa, Mr. Da Costa’s so handsome. …”
The movie film finished, leaving the screen dark. I was in another era on another continent with another woman. “Have you ever had a daughter?” said Dinah Slade.
“Yes,” I said. “I had a daughter once. But she died.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Forgive me—I didn’t mean to remind you of unhappy memories—”
“It was a long time ago now. Six years. She died in 1916.” I was out of bed, struggling into my robe, touching the manuscript on the nightstand and the curtain by the window in an attempt to reestablish contact with the present. I was in London with an odd little girl who quoted both Catullus and her eccentric father’s world-weary clichés in a lethal mixture of pseudosophisticated erudition. Against all the odds she had fooled me neatly and reduced me to the sexual performance of an adolescent. She also wanted to borrow ten thousand pounds. I now had to make up my mind whether she was a total disaster or else the most promising child I had ever been tempted to sponsor, and my mind, fastening thankfully on the problem, crawled back into the present.
“Now, my dear,” I said to her briskly as I knotted the cord of my robe and turned to face her, “charming and delightful as you were—and are—I would be failing in my duty to you as your friend if I didn’t point out to you how exceedingly foolishly you’ve behaved tonight. Without wishing to go into crude details, I can assure you that there are less uncomfortable ways to lose your virginity than the one you’ve just chosen to endure, and besides, although I might possibly not have brought you up here with such alacrity if I’d known you were a virgin, that would have made no difference to our business relationship. Amazing though this may seem to you, I don’t award loans on the strength of my clients’ sexual prowess, so if you thought you could simply sleep your way into ten thousand pounds you couldn’t have been more mistaken. Am I making myself quite clear?”
She nodded mutely. She was looking white and sick.
“Now let me give you some advice which that garrulous old father of yours evidently forgot to mention. Don’t play Russian roulette with the risk of pregnancy. Abortions can be most unpleasant. If a man offers to use contraceptives don’t toss the offer aside with a flippant remark. It’s splendid to be witty but not when your wit could result in considerable trouble and embarrassment. By all means practice free love, but do it, I beg of you, with style and brains instead of vulgarity and ignorance. Again—am I making myself quite clear?”
She hung her head in shame, and I saw her lip tremble before she pressed her mouth into a firm line.
“The last thing your father should have told you,” I said dryly, “is to beware of middle-aged married millionaires with few scruples and less reputation. You’re a nice little girl, Dinah, and I like you very much, but I’m not entirely a monster and I don’t want to hurt you. Have you any idea what you’re doing, involving yourself with me like this? Be realistic! Free love is a great sport, but it can be the roughest game in town. Practice with youngsters in your own league before you take on a partner who could treat you as casually as a gourmet consuming half a dozen oysters between courses and tossing the shells over his shoulder into the garbage can.”
She did not smile. At last she managed to say in a low voice which shook with anger and fright, “You’re brushing me off. You want to get rid of me.”
“Don’t you want what’s good for you?”’
No answer.
“I don’t think you know what you want,” I said abruptly. I had succeeded in manipulating the conversation in such a way that I was now steering her toward the supreme test, but I knew she suspected nothing. She was off guard, and when I sprang the test on her there would be no chance for her to seek refuge in poses. If she stepped into the pit I was busy excavating at her feet, I would reluctantly be obliged to wash my hands of her, but if she avoided it—I would once more be greatly entertained.
“What is it you want, Dinah?” I was saying with hostility, and then in a sudden volte-face I sat down on the bed beside her, slipped my arm soothingly around her shoulders and said in my most honeyed voice, “You can tell me—I’ll understand! It’s not just the money, is it? You want someone who’ll look after you, someone who’ll replace your father, someone who’ll … well, all that talk of free love was just a pose, wasn’t it? You want to get married. You want some nice kind understanding man to take care of you for ever and ever. You want—”
My arm was pushed rudely away. An urchin’s face with tangled hair and huge blazing dark eyes was suddenly inches from mine.
“I want Mallingham!” bawled the child, her plain little features crumpling as she burst into sobs. “I want my home! I want the only thing that never changes, the only thing that’s always there, and I’ll do anything to get it, anything at all—”
She stopped. I released her immediately and stood up. Terror sprang to her eyes.
“Well, my dear,” I said when it became obvious she was incapable of speech, “allow me to congratulate you.”
She stared at me blankly.
“I like ambition,” I said. “It’s the one currency which never depreciates in value.”
“You mean … No, you can’t mean …”
“I mean you’ve passed your final test with flying colors, Miss Slade. You can have your ten thousand pounds. I accept you as my protégée. Welcome to my world.”
Three
I
“BE AT MY OFFICE in Milk Street at ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” I said to her after I had escorted her back to Chelsea, and it seemed strange to hear the response of “Yes, Paul,” instead of the familiar “Yes, sir.”
I did wonder if she would be on time, but of course she was. The clock struck ten, O’Reilly ushered her into my room and I told her to sit down in the client’s chair.
“I’ve arranged for you to have a desk and a typewriter here today,” I told her after we had exchanged the usual civilities. “You will write me a detailed report of your plans to launch a cosmetics business. I want to know what kind of cosmetics you intend to sell, how you intend to manufacture them and what kind of marketing techniques you think would be the most successful. I want cost estimates, profit projections and a detailed schedule of the initial capital outlay. You will then write me a short description of Mallingham Hall, listing its acreage, history, the general condition of the house and any unusual features which you think would either enhance or detract from its real-estate value. I shall expect both reports on my desk by six o’clock tonight.”
Her eyes were round as saucers, but she spoke up as confidently as if she produced such reports every day. “Yes, Paul.”
“I shall of course want to inspect the property, and I suggest we motor down on Saturday morning and lunch at Norwich, where I shall look at the cathedral. I’ll call for you at six-thirty sharp. On Friday at eleven you will see a certain Dr. Westfield of Harley Street, who will save you from the dangers of playing the brand of Russian roulette we discussed last night. Kindly keep the appointment and take his advice. Do you have any money?”
“Yes. Three and fourpence three farthings.”
I rang the bell. O’Reilly entered.
“O’Reilly, Miss Slade is to have five pounds immediately. Debit her account.”
O’Reilly took out his wallet, extracted five one-pound notes, handed them to Dinah and made a notation in a small black book. Dinah went pink and crammed the money awkwardly into her purse.
“Your personal account is not with the bank but with me,” I said as O’Reilly left the room. “I shall always tell you if I give you money as a gift, but if I say nothing you may assume it’s part of a loan to be repaid at a rate of three percent. I would a
dvise you for your own sake to keep careful accounts and not run up unnecessary bills.”
“Yes, Paul.”
“It’s very important that we establish our business relationship right from the start and that it exists independently of our personal relationship—whatever that relationship may be. I certainly hope we can improve on last night’s fiasco, but if this proves impossible you should know that I won’t withdraw my financial backing. I keep my business and my pleasure in watertight compartments, and although they may occasionally stand side by side they never mix. As far as business goes I shall treat you exactly as I treat all my other protégés— and how do you suppose I treat my protégés, Miss Slade?”
“Brutally?”
“Sensibly. I don’t give second chances. I don’t tolerate failure. And I don’t give free rides. If you use your brains and work till you drop we can do business. If not you’re on your own. Do you have any further questions?”
“No, Paul.”
I rang the bell. “O’Reilly, take Miss Slade to her desk and see she has all the stationery she requires. Good day, Miss Slade.”
“Good day, Mr. Van Zale,” she said subdued, and then just as I was thinking I had put the fear of God into her she winked at me before O’Reilly showed her from the room.
II
The reports were on my desk at six. I read them on the way home to Curzon Street and without comment handed them to O’Reilly to file. The report on her proposed business reflected her ignorance of the world of commerce, but I was more convinced than ever that her ideas were promising. That day I had looked still further into the burgeoning chaos of the cosmetics industry, and it seemed obvious that any smart operator, large or small, stood a chance of extracting gold from such a largely unworked mine. The time was right for a mass market in cosmetics, as right as it was for a mass market in automobiles, radios and phonographs. War paint for women, canned noise and gasoline-powered mechanical horses! “What a century!” I said in disgust to O’Reilly as we went home that night. “ ‘O temporal O mores!’ ” But O’Reilly, whose memories of the nineteenth century were necessarily dim, merely looked at me politely and refrained from comment. I could well imagine him thinking how tiresome the older generation could be.
The Rich Are Different Page 4