Cheerfulness Breaks In

by Angela Thirkell

  On the morning of the party the two head refugees, M. and Mme Brownscu, appeared in person, carrying the embroideries in a basket. Their real titles, which might be the equivalent of Count and Countess or Mr. and Mrs., but no one liked to ask, were Prodshk and Prodshka, but the local Committee for Mixo-Lydia, recognising that such names must fill any self-respecting foreigner with shame, had given them brevet rank as Monsieur and Madame, so that a great many people thought they were Poles; though they would have been hard put to it to explain the mode of reasoning that led them to this conclusion. There were even unbelievers who said that Brownscu was not a Mixo-Lydian name, nor indeed a name at all, but Miss Phelps, who happened to have recently added that particular committee to her collection, said everyone knew there was somebody called Jonescu in Romania or somewhere, so why not Brownscu in Mixo-Lydia; by which remark she was considered to have scored pretty heavily.

  How the Mixo-Lydians lived, no one, not even their Committee, knew. While they had all fled from their country at an hour’s notice leaving the dinner cooking in the oven and the beds unmade, they all lived in considerable if unhygienic comfort and even luxury, and some of them went up to town every day by the 8.10 returning to dinner. No English servant would stay, partly because of not liking foreigners and partly because they didn’t hold with mucking up the food like that, so three or four inferior Mixo-Lydians were imported somehow from France, where a good many of them had got stuck. And, as Mrs. Phelps bitterly remarked, if she had wanted a foreign servant it would have taken her six months to get a permit and then she wouldn’t have got it.

  M. and Mme Brownscu, being if possible even more disagreeable, selfish and ungrateful than any of their compatriots, had assumed a kind of royal dignity at what the village called Mixerlydian House, and undertook all embassies between it and the outer world. Mme Brownscu was a small wiry woman with a mop of frizzled dark hair and a leopardskin coat, and by the hideous shape of her legs it was generally thought that she had been a dancer. M. Brownscu, yellow faced and melancholy, wore a skin-tight béret which he never removed, and was permanently huddled in a sheepskin coat.

  Mrs. Birkett received them in the dining-room where the exhibition was to be.

  ‘It is not very big, your room,’ said Mme Brownscu by way of greeting. ‘The Pagnaskaya in Lydianopolis as you call it, though its true name is Lvdpòv, is very much larger. That is where we have our Expositions d’Arts Néo-paysans, what you would call new peasants arts. Have you no bigger room?’

  ‘The drawing-room is bigger,’ said Mrs. Birkett, ‘but that is where I am having my friends. I think your embroideries will look very nice here.’

  ‘They will ollways look nice,’ said Mme Brownscu, ‘but the ambiance is not paysanne at all. God wills it so. On this table I shall put them, yes? I shall arrange them for you.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid we are going to have lunch on this table first,’ said Mrs. Birkett. ‘But if you will leave them here, I will myself put them out after lunch as attractively as possible.’

  Even as she spoke Mrs. Birkett found herself insensibly slipping into her visitor’s style of English and wondered why it was so difficult to talk naturally to foreigners who had an idiomatic command of English.

  ‘I shall myself come back and arrange them and change your furniture a little which is not right,’ said Mme Brownscu. ‘You would not understand. At six o’clock your party, yes? Then I shall come at five o’clock and arrange everything and put the prices very plainly. They will be rich, your friends, yes?’

  Mrs. Birkett said she was afraid not.

  ‘Then we shall chaffer,’ said Mme Brownscu. ‘There is a market in Lvdpòv every Tuesday and there I chaffer with the peasants and hit them down. Nothing will I buy till I have well examined it.’

  Mrs. Birkett didn’t think her friends would be much good at chaffering, but held her peace.

  ‘And Gradko shall bring his poems and read to you,’ Mme Brownscu continued. ‘Nòv pvarno orlskjok chjlèm zy chokra?’ she added to her husband.

  M. Brownscu huddled even more into his sheepskin coat and said, ‘Czy pròvka, pròvka, pròvka.’

  ‘He says, “No, never, never, never,”’ said Mme Brownscu, and to Mrs. Birkett’s great relief did not press the matter any further. In fact she was just going when, much to Mrs. Birkett’s annoyance, Mrs. Morland appeared at the door.

  ‘Oh, I thought you were here,’ said Mrs. Morland to her friend.

  There was nothing for it but to introduce Mrs. Morland. Mrs. Birkett very meanly revenged herself by telling the Brownscus that Mrs. Morland was a celebrated writer.

  ‘Ah-ha!’ said Mme Brownscu. ‘Then my husband must tell you his poem. It is a great poem, epopic, about our great national hero, Gradko, for which my husband is baptised.’

  ‘Is he a Catholic then?’ said Mrs. Morland, who had been writing all the morning and as usual was only just coining out of her bardic frenzy and more than usually vague, and thought the Brownscus might be something to do with the Warburys.

  ‘Czy, pròvka, pròvka, pròvka,’ said M. Brownscu energetically.

  ‘He expresses, “No, never, never, never”,’ said his wife. ‘The word Catholic, to us it is like a red rug to a bull. We are Orthodox,’ and she crossed herself violently in what Mrs. Morland afterwards described as a very upside-down and un-Christian kind of way. ‘But I shall tell you,’ she continued. ‘Grakdo is a son of a peasant girl which has been violée, you would say raped, by a nobleman, so his mother is pleased and lays three grains of millet on his cradle.’

  ‘Why?’ said Mrs. Morland.

  ‘It is a custom,’ said Mme Brownscu. ‘So Gradko grows up and becomes a famous warrior. One day he hears a shriek. He approaches. He sees a lovely maiden being séduite, seducted you say, by a Turk. Mixo-Lydia hates Turks, therefore he kills him. The maiden has run away in terror. He pursues her till night. He hears a shriek and redoubles his pace. The maiden is being forcée, taken in English, by a Bulgar. All Bulgars are enemies of Mixo-Lydia, therefore he kills him. The maiden has again run away in terror. At dawn he hears a shriek. It is the maiden who is being éventrée, eventuated you would say, by a Russian. Russia and Mixo-Lydia are enemies, so he kills the Russian. Thus the prophecy is fulfilled and he is crowned King.’

  ‘And what happened to the maiden?’ said Mrs. Morland, wishing she could think of as many incidents, though not quite of that kind, for her new book.

  ‘Par suite de ses rélations avec Gradko elle devient mère et accouche de quatre fils,’ said Mme Brownscu, getting tired of English. ‘Le premier s’appelle Achmet, parcequ’il est Turc, le second Boris parcequ’il est Bulgare, le troisième, qui est Russe, Ivan, et le quatrième qui est le plus beau de tous et fait assassiner son père, sa mère et ses trois frères aînés s’appelle Gradko, comme son père. Every child in Mixo-Lydia knows that story.’

  Before her hearers could think of the obvious retort that they were not Mixo-Lydian children, Mme Brownscu had taken her husband away, promising again to return at five o’clock with her embroideries.

  The next few hours were spent, as usually happens with a sherry party, in people who had accepted ringing up to say they were so sorry they couldn’t come because the petrol had given out, or Betty or Tommy was suddenly home on leave and wanted to go to the Barchester Odeon, and people who had refused ringing up to say might they come after all as Captain King who was staying with them had gallons of petrol from the War Office if Mrs. Birkett didn’t mind them bringing him too. With all of these Simnet and Mrs. Birkett dealt. The last to ring up was Mrs. Crawley who asked if she might bring Captain Merton who was staying with them, to which Mrs. Birkett said please do, though the name at the moment meant nothing to her.

  At five o’clock the Brownscus arrived with the embroideries, but Mrs. Birkett basely pretended she was lying down and left Simnet to deal with them and give them some tea. That perfect butler, who had been in France from 1915 to 1917, stood no nonsense from Mme Brownscu, and by
taking up a position in front of any piece of furniture that she wanted to move and saying ‘No bon, madam,’ made her confine her activities to laying out her wares on the dining-room table, after which he gave her a very good tea of which she and her husband greedily partook.

  By a quarter past six the drawing-room was already seething with people, all delighted to have a treat and talk to each other about the future rationing of butter. Mrs. Birkett was informed in a quarter of an hour by four different friends who all happened to know they were speaking the truth that (a) the Government had immense reserves of butter at Leamington and rationing would only be for form’s sake, (b) there were only three days’ supplies of butter in the country, (c) that there was plenty of butter but it all had to go to Egypt, and (d) that margarine had all the vitamins of butter and you couldn’t tell the difference. None of these statements did Mrs. Birkett particularly believe, and the last she knew to be a downright lie.

  ‘People are so prejudiced,’ said Mrs. Warbury, who was the last speaker. ‘Now that all margarine has vitamins P. and Q., there is no difference at all.’

  ‘Only the filthy taste,’ said Miss Phelps who had just come from an A.R.P. practice in a very belligerent frame of mind.

  ‘I always give it to my Austrian maid, and she says nothing at all,’ said Mrs. Warbury.

  ‘Well, if I were Mitzi I’d say a mouthful,’ said Miss Phelps aloud to herself.

  ‘But what I think so dreadful,’ said Mrs. Warbury, persuading herself that she had not heard Miss Phelps, ‘is that the price of butter is so high. Oscar and Fritz have to eat it, because they are delicate, so I eat a little myself, or they would be wretched. But even our little bill for butter is appalling and how the real poor live I cannot think. The Government ought to take over all the butter and let the poor have it. When I think of all the homes in England that can’t afford butter now I am almost a Communist. All these poor wretched evacuee children should be having pounds of butter.’

  ‘But Mrs. Warbury,’ said Kate Carter, whose housewifely mind could not keep away from a conversation in which butter took a part, ‘the cottage people in Southbridge really prefer margarine and so do the evacuees. It is just the same at Northbridge where my parents live. People are so kind about saying they would be better nourished if they ate nettles and dandelions and butter, but what they really want is meat and margarine.’

  Mrs. Birkett said the servants were the difficulty with margarine in the last war, because they thought it was nothing but their employers being mean.

  ‘In the last war,’ said Mr. Warbury who had been listening attentively, ‘we bought butter and margarine and exchanged the wrappers. Then my wife said to the servants, “You can have the butter and Mr. Warbury and I shall eat margarine.” So they were pleased to have the butter as they thought, and stayed on with us till they were interned.’

  ‘Why were they interned?’ asked Miss Phelps.

  ‘They were enemy aliens,’ said Mr. Warbury simply. ‘So then Rachel and I moved into a service flat where we were very comfortable till we had to come down here with my business. Comfort is my motto.’

  No one quite knew what to say and Mrs. Birkett was glad of the excuse to greet some newcomers. At the same moment there was a slight commotion near the door and she saw her daughter Geraldine, who had managed to get the afternoon off, leading a young man by the hand, just as her sister Rose had artlessly been wont to lead her many adoring swains. The young man was of middle height, with an elegant supple figure, a handsome if Oriental countenance, dark hyacinthine hair and gazelle-like eyes. Every man in the room wondered who that little bounder was. Most of the women were interested against their better selves, and the Vicar’s wife, who had just been reading one of the perennial re-hashes of Byron’s life (The Truth about Byron by Lilian Tuckwell, author of the Truth about Shelley, Keats, The Brownings, and many other popular works) said to her next door neighbour who happened to be Mrs. Phelps, ‘Mad, bad and dangerous to know.’

  ‘Who?’ said Mrs. Phelps, following the direction of the Vicar’s wife’s eyes. ‘Fritz Warbury? He’s a rank outsider, but that’s all. No danger there. I’d let Margot go anywhere with him if she wanted to, but she doesn’t. He ought to be in the Army. I told the Admiral he ought to be interned.’

  The Vicar’s wife, with admirable good sense, said that he couldn’t very well be both and she knew for a fact, because Mrs. Warbury had told her, that the boy was twenty-four.

  Mrs. Phelps said Oh, was that all, in a way that expressed her poor opinion of people that were still too old to be called up, but comforted herself with the reflection that young Warbury would soon be drawn into the jaws of the Army.

  Meanwhile Geraldine had dragged her prey up to her mother saying, ‘Mummy, here’s Fritz. He has simply dashed in for a moment and has to go back to the studio almost at once so I’ll get him a drink.’

  Young Mr. Warbury said he could do with one, but on being offered a glass of sherry said God, wasn’t there any gin.

  ‘Hi, Kate,’ said Geraldine to Mrs. Everard Carter, ‘this is Fritz. Hang on to him while I get him a drink.’

  Kate, who had no clue as to who Fritz might be, but was always kind, thought from his name and appearance that he must be a refugee, probably one of the Mixo-Lydians who were showing their distressed work in the dining-room, so she asked him if he did embroidery.

  ‘Of course I do,’ said young Mr. Warbury, ‘when I’m not working. How can a man do anything else? I always have my embroidery in the studio with me and work away at it.’

  Kate said she supposed he had some with him to-day and she looked forward to seeing it so much, upon which young Mr. Warbury obligingly opened a soft leather portfolio that he was carrying under his arm and took out a piece of petit point. Kate’s admiration was unfeigned and they were deep in talk about stitches and shading when Geraldine came back.

  ‘I say,’ said Geraldine, ‘Daddy won’t let me have the gin. Something about war-time. I’m frightfully sorry, Fritz.’

  ‘Gin’s a filthy drink anyway,’ said young Mr. Warbury. ‘What about some sherry?’

  Geraldine obediently went to get some and Kate thought how nice it was that Geraldine, usually so offhand to everyone, should take such trouble for a refugee and was pleased to see this change of spirit. When the sherry came young Mr. Warbury drank it and said to Kate that he must be going.

  ‘But you’ve only just come, Fritz,’ said Geraldine.

  ‘Well, come and see the studio one day,’ said her young friend. ‘Ring up my secretary,’ and without any further formality he wormed his way towards the door.

  ‘Do you suppose his embroidery is very expensive?’ asked Kate, which led to an explanation that young Mr. Warbury was not a refugee but on very important work in the film world.

  ‘You couldn’t possibly take him for a refugee,’ said Geraldine indignantly. ‘You only have to look at him.’

  As this was precisely what Kate had done, she was not convinced, but she felt rather anxious about Geraldine whose manly heart was evidently touched by young Mr. Warbury. Kate could not see him as a son-in-law to the Birketts, but neither had she seen him show much interest in Geraldine and she wished that Geraldine had chosen better.

  And now Miss Hampton and Miss Bent hove down upon Kate. Miss Hampton, looking incredibly smart in a black coat and skirt, a black tricorne and a white shirt with onyx links, was carrying the elephant-faced dog in her arms. She explained to Kate that he didn’t like being on the floor at parties, owing to being sensitive about his height.

  ‘Poor old Smigly-Rydz,’ said Kate, patting his head.

  ‘That’s just the trouble,’ said Miss Hampton, taking a glass of sherry from a tray that came by. ‘Must have a sherry. Bent and I had one before we started, but we haven’t been to the Red Lion yet. Go there on the way back. Where’s Mrs. Morland?’

  Kate pointed her out, doing her best with the doctor’s wife.

  ‘Get her, Bent,’ said Miss Hampton. ‘Sh
e’ll know. Rydz, you’ll have to go down, you’re too heavy.’

  She put him on the floor where he sat, apparently quite free from any form of inferiority complex about his height, gently slapping the floor with his stumpy tail.

  Miss Bent now returned with Mrs. Morland and at the same moment Mrs. and Miss Phelps, who had the greatest admiration for authors and belonged to practically every Book Club or Society, regardless of race or creed, joined the circle to hear the two writers talk.

  The literary symposium was begun by both ladies giving an elaborate account the one of her four sons, the other of her four nephews, all of whom, we are glad to say, were at the moment well, though Mrs. Morland had reservations in favour of her eldest boy, for, as she truly said, if one is in central America and expects to be out of touch with civilisation for six months, really anything might happen, except that natives had wonderful ways of knowing things before they could possibly know, but of course that was no use unless they could get into touch with someone and it would be so difficult to know which dialect it was.

  Kate said she was sure Rose Fairweather would do something about it if she knew, but no one shared her optimism as to Rose’s power of getting news about an exploring party a thousand miles from her neighbourhood, and those who knew her best felt that even if people were exploring in her garden she wouldn’t take any interest in them unless they invited her to a night club or a cinema.

  ‘But that’s not the point,’ said Miss Hampton. ‘Point is, what am I to do about Rydz?’

  Mrs. Morland asked if he were ill.

  ‘Ill?’ said Miss Hampton. ‘Never better. Bent gave him a couple of worm powders last week and he’s as fit as a fiddle. News isn’t at all good. Looks as if we’d have to change his name.’

  ‘Won’t he answer to it?’ said Miss Phelps. ‘Perhaps he’s getting deaf.’

  ‘Not a bit deaf,’ said Miss Hampton. ‘But if Finland is invaded, and it looks like it, what can we call him? Must call him something. Gallant little Finland.’