Chapter Nineteen
HOLY David had been looking decidedly better since Docteur Lecœur took him in hand, even slightly cleaner. His interest in secular or non-Zen affairs seemed to be reviving; he came with me to the Louvre one day and saw one or two plays with Dawn. I had become devoted to her, which shows that speech is not an essential factor in human understanding. (Northey said who ever thought it was? Think of creatures and how well we get on with them in silence.) I was very hopeful that if the improvement in David continued at this rate he would go back to his university and resume his career.
Then he told me, casually, one day, that he and Dawn were about to resume their journey to the East. I was sorry, indeed, that it should be East rather than West but to tell the truth I felt such a surge of relief that at first I hardly cared which direction they were taking. David’s presence in the house was not convenient. The servants and the whole of Alfred’s staff disliked him. English statesmen and important officials who came and went in a fairly steady stream cannot have relished the sight of his gowned form and naked feet at breakfast. He was on his father’s nerves. Whenever Mockbar was short of a story he fell back on Envoy’s Son for some spiteful little paragraph. How heavenly to think that the Zen family was on the move at last! Concealing joy, I said, ‘You’ll tell me when you would like Jérôme to take you to the station?’
‘Not the station, the road. Send us to Provins; after that we will fend for ourselves.’
‘With Dawn in her present condition? Oh no, David, that’s not possible.’
‘Pregnant women have astonishing powers of survival. That has been proved in every great exodus of history. All the same, I think I will leave little ’Chang here.’
The surge of relief subsided, the joy was extinguished. I might have guessed there would be a snag somewhere. ‘No, you can’t,’ I said, putting up what I really knew would be a perfectly ineffectual resistance. ‘Who’s going to look after him?’
‘Mrs Trott and Katie simply love him.’
‘We all simply love him; that’s not the point. Neither Mrs Trott nor anybody else here has time to nurse little ’Chang. He’s your responsibility; you adopted him; nobody asked you to! Why did you, anyway?’
‘We wanted a brother for our baby so that they can be brought up together. It was very bad for my young psychology to be three years older than Basil; Dawn and I don’t intend to repeat that mistake of yours.’
‘But if he’s here and your baby is in the East?’
‘As soon as our baby is born it must join little ’Chang. I shall send it to you at once so that they can unfold their consciousness together.’
‘So I’ve got to bring up your family?’
‘It will be a boon to you. Middle-aged women with nothing to do are one of the worst problems that face the modern psychologist.’
‘But I’ve got far, far more to do than I can manage already.’
‘Cocktail parties – trying on clothes – nothing to get your teeth into. You must try not to be so selfish. Think of poor Dawn, you really can’t ask her to carry half the cradle like she used to. ’Chang has put on pounds and pounds and she doesn’t feel very well.’
‘Leave her here. I’d love to keep her. Then she can have her baby under proper conditions, poor duck.’
‘I didn’t marry Dawn in order to leave her. I need her company all the time.’
She now appeared with the World citizen, making furious Chinese noises, in her arms. I thought she looked very frail.
‘Dawnie, David has just told me he is on the move again. Why don’t you stay comfortably here with little ’Chang and all of us, at any rate until after the baby?’
I had forgotten about the dumbness; her huge eyes projected their gaze on her husband’s face and he spoke for her. ‘You see she has no desire whatever to stay comfortably here. Dawn has never had such a bourgeois reaction in her life.’
I went to my bedroom and rang up Davey. I begged him to come and save the situation. He was uncooperative and unsympathetic; said that it was impossible for him to move for the present. ‘My drawing-room curtains have gone wrong – much too short and skimpy. They must all be made again and I must be here to see to it. That’s the sort of thing your Aunt Emily used to do – everything in the house was perfect when she was alive. I do hate being a widower; it really was too bad of her to die.’
‘Davey, you haven’t understood how serious it is about David.’
‘My dear Fanny, I think you are being rather ungrateful to me. You asked me to get rid of him; he is going, is he not?’
‘I know – but – ’
‘If he is going East and not West that is entirely your own fault for not insisting on Dr Jore. I told you that a psychiatrist was needed in conjunction with a physician. Docteur Lecœur strengthened his will-power by working on his glands and correcting his inertia. Dr Jore would have altered the trend of his thought. By rejecting Jore you abandoned him to the Zen Master – the Temple Bells are calling and the flying-fishes play. Another time perhaps you will allow me to know best.’
‘I wouldn’t mind so much if it weren’t for Dawnie. I think he’ll kill her, poor little thing.’
‘Oh no he won’t. Women are practically indestructible, you know.’
‘Then think of Alfred and me beginning nurseries all over again. Chinese ones at that.’
‘Very tiring for you,’ said Davey. ‘I must go now or I shall miss the Archers.’ He rang off.
David and Dawn left that afternoon. The Rolls-Royce took them to Bar-le-Duc and only returned the next day. David had borrowed money from every single person in the Embassy; all, pitying the plight of Dawn and probably confident of being paid back by me (as of course they were), had produced as much as they had available. It amounted to quite a tidy sum. Mrs Trott found a solid peasant girl from Brittany to look after ’Chang.
‘Hot news!’ Northey said to Alfred. ‘Faithful Amy has had orders from Lord Grumpy to give you treatment number one.’
‘Oh, indeed?’ Falsetto. ‘And how does this differ from that which I have been receiving?’
‘Differ? So far you have only had number three, watered down at that by precious Amy on account of loving us all so much.’
‘He loves me?’
‘Oh yes – he’s always saying I like that man. He reveres you. It’s very distressing for him to be obliged to write all these horrid and not quite true things about us here when he would give his eyes to be part of the family.’
‘Part of the family? In what capacity, may I ask?’
‘Perhaps you could adopt him?’
‘Thank you. We’ve got ’Chang and the badger, I don’t think we want any more pets.’
‘Poor soul.’
FAILURE
It is no secret that Sir Alfred Wincham has proved a failure in Paris and that Whitehall now wishes to replace him with a more dynamic personality. Sir Alfred’s well-known aptitude for university intrigue has not carried him very far along the twisting paths of French foreign policy. More professional talent, it is felt, is needed at a time when Anglo-French relations have never been worse.
FRIENDSHIP
In view of M. Bouche-Bontemps’ old friendship with Lady Wincham’s mother (first revealed in this column) French political circles feel that the Embassy has an unfortunate preference for his party, the L.U.N.A.I.R. Members of opposition parties arc never received there any more. Sir Alfred is out of touch with French public opinion.
RANGOON
Well-informed circles are speculating on Sir Alfred’s future, and rumour has it that he may shortly be posted to Rangoon.
Northey and Philip raced each other to my bedroom the morning these delightful paragraphs appeared. She dumped ’Chang on my bed. I always had him for a bit after breakfast and found him delightful company; a contented, healthy baby, easily amused and anxious to please. I thought, when I was with him, that his generation may be on the way to rejecting the anti-charm which is the fashion now, may even d
evelop a sense of humour and seek to attract rather than repel. If my grandchild turned out to be half as nice as the World citizen I would not be at all sorry to have the two of them for keeps.
‘At last Mockbar has overreached himself,’ Philip said. ‘I think it’s actionable; Alfred must speak to his lawyer and we might even get rid of him, who knows?’
‘Then the poor little soul will starve,’ said Northey.
‘No matter.’
‘Fanny, you brute. What about his babies?’
‘They’ll survive,’ I said. ‘Are Anglo-French relations really so bad, Philip?’
‘That part I’m afraid is true. Not Alfred’s fault (quite the contrary) but boiling up for a first-class crisis. We are determined to get those bloody islands and to help the Americans re-arm the Germans.’
‘Seems mad, doesn’t it?’
‘Not if we really need them as allies.’
Northey said, ‘I wish I knew why people want the Germans on their side. I have yet to hear of them winning a war.’
‘They’d be all right with French generals.’
‘I wish the whole thing could be settled. The Bourse is strongly disconcerted by all these elements.’
‘You can’t wish it more than I do,’ said Philip.
‘I must dree my weird. Shall I leave ’Chang? I’ve got a lot of work.’
‘Yes, leave him. Your work has been very satisfactory of late; you’re a good girl and I’m pleased with you.’
‘It’s the well-known cure for a broken heart,’ she said with a tragic look at Philip.
‘Go on,’ he said, ‘I like it.’
I asked her, ‘Darling, what are you up to tonight?’
‘Docteur Lecœur.’
‘Lecœur soupire la nuit It jour, qui peut me dire si c’est l’amour?’ said Philip.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘And I suppose,’ he went on, ‘that every time you pass the Palais Bourbon, the statues of Sully and l’Hôpital get up and bow to you?’
‘Yes, they do. It’s the English who don’t appreciate me. Good-bye all.’
We looked at each other when she had gone, laughing. ‘Northey!’
He said, ‘The diplomatic hostesses here are furious with Mees because she has got Tony de Lambesc in tow – yes, Fanny – that small, fair chap one sees everywhere. They regard him and me as the only sortable bachelors in this town – we have to do all their dinner parties. There are hundreds of unattached Frenchmen who would like to be asked, but you know what those women are, too timid to try anybody new. They might have to deal with unexpected dialogue and that would never do. The conversation must run on familiar lines, according to some well-worn old formula. Suppose somebody mentions Prince Pierre – of course the correct move is, he simply worships his daughter-in-law! Now a stranger might say do you mean the explorer? or worse still, Prince Pierre in War and Peace? and the whole party would feel a wrong turn had been taken – they might even have to begin using their brains. That would never do. They like a gentle game of pat-ball and have no desire for clever young polytechnicians hitting boundaries. Lambesc and I know the right answers in our sleep. But now he’s always either taking Mees out or hoping to. He waits till the last moment, praying she’ll be chucked; it’s no use asking him a week ahead. The only hope is to ring him up at half past eight and get him to come round, disgruntled, there and then. It has upset social life dreadfully. Time Mees got married, that’s what it is.’
‘Yes, but to whom?’
‘Who is there? Bouche-Bontemps is a bit old – that Chef de Cabinet (always forget his name) is too ugly – Cruas is said to be poor – ’
‘Would that matter?’
‘With Mees? She would ruin a poor man in no time.’
‘Does Cruas exist? I’ve still never seen him, have you?’
‘Somebody has taught her French; she rattles away at a hundred miles an hour. Then Lecœur is too busy – Charles-Édouard too much married (worse luck) – the Ambassador to the Channel Islands has a fort des balles he adores – Amyas now, what about him? An eligible widower – ’
‘I’m against,’ I said, ‘though I may be prejudiced.’
‘Then there’s Lambesc, but he has his scutcheon to gild.’
I said boldly, ‘Why don’t you marry her?’
‘Well, you know, I might. In spite of the carry-on, I can’t imagine life without Mees, now I’m used to her. I suppose she is the last of the charmers. The horsetail girls don’t seem to be interested in any of the things I like, least of all sex. They join up with the Teds and the Beats and wander about Europe with them, sharing beds if it happens to suit; three in a bed if it’s cheaper like that (shades of Sir Charles Dilke) and probably nothing happens! Sex is quite accidental. Is there a baby on the way or isn’t there? They hardly seem to notice. Now Nor-they is a wicked little thing but at least she is out to please and my word how she succeeds!’
‘She’s not wicked at all. I even think she is virtuous.’
‘Anyway, she’s a human being. Very likely I shall end by proposing to her.’
‘Only, Philip, don’t leave it too long or she’ll fall in love with somebody else, you know!’
Chapter Twenty
SIR HARALD HARDRADA now came to give his lecture. It was very brilliant and a great success, Sir Harald being one of the few living Englishmen who, even the French allow, has a perfect mastery of their language. As they detest hearing it massacred and really do not like listening to any other, foreign lecturers are more often flattered than praised at the end of their performance (not that they know the difference). We all went to the Sorbonne where the lecture took place and then Mildred Jungfleisch gave a dinner party. The company was: Sir Harald, M. Bouche-Bontemps, the Valhuberts, the Hector Dexters, an American couple called Jorgmann, Philip and Northey, Alfred, and me. The Dexters had been given a clean bill by the State Department, to the enormous relief of their compatriots in Paris. Having had enough, it seemed, of political activities, Mr Dexter was now acting as liaison between leading French and American art dealers.
Mrs Jungfleisch lived in a cheery modernish (1920) house near the Bois de Boulogne. Its drawing-room, painted shiny white and without ornament of any sort, had an unnaturally high ceiling and stairs leading to a gallery; the effect was that of a swimming-bath. One felt that somebody might dive in at any moment, the Prime Minister of England, perhaps, or some smiling young candidate for the American throne. Almost the only piece of furniture was an enormous pouf in the middle of the room on which people had to sit with their backs to each other. As Americans do, she left a good hour between the arrival of the guests and the announcement of dinner, during which time Bourbon (a kind of whisky) could be imbibed.
Bouche-Bontemps had come to the lecture. He and Sir Harald were old friends. They now sat on the pouf, craning round to talk to each other.
‘Excellent, my dear Harald! Nothing could have been more fiendishly clever than your account of Fashoda – you haven’t got the K.C.V.O. for nothing! I very much liked the meeting between Kitchener and Marchand on the Argonne front – some time you must read the page from Kipling where he describes the naif joy of the French poilus as they witnessed it. They thought the hatchet had been buried for ever and that if we won the war, les Anglais would become real friends and leave us our few remaining possessions. Never mind – ’
‘Like all the French,’ Sir Harald said urbanely, to the company at large, who were twisting their necks to be in on this conversation. ‘M. le Président has the work of our great Imperial protagonist by heart.’
‘We defend ourselves as best we can,’ said Bouche-Bontemps, ‘poor Marchand, I knew him well.’
‘Were you already living at Fashoda with the Bolter when he arrived?’
‘No. Precocious as I may have been, at six months old I was still living with my parents.’
‘You can’t imagine how fascinated we all were to learn that the famous Frenchman in her We was none other than yourself. I had al
ways pictured an old douanier with a beard and a wooden leg.’
‘Not at all. A jolly young ethnographer. Dorothée – tellement gentille – ’
‘I’d no idea you had this African past, Jules. Whatever were you doing there?’
‘In those days I was passionately fond of ethnography. I managed to get on to the Djibouti-Dakar mission.’
‘Oh! You rogue! Everything is becoming as clear as day-light. So it was you who took away the Harar frescoes?’
‘Took away? We exchanged them.’
‘Yes. Kindly tell Mrs Jungfleisch here and her guests what it was you exchanged them for?’
‘A good exchange is no robbery, I believe? Harar acquired some delightful wall-paintings in the early manner of your humble servant and the gifted mother of your ambassadress. Oh! How we were happy and busy, painting these enormous frescoes – perhaps the happiest days of my life. Everybody was so pleased – the Fuzzie-Wuzzies greatly preferred our bright and lively work to the musty old things which were there before.’
‘We don’t say Fuzzie-Wuzzies,’ said Sir Harald.
‘Indeed?’
‘No. Like your foreign policy, all this is old-fashioned.’
‘Hélas! I am old-fashioned, and old as well. C’est la vie, n’estce pas, Mees?’
‘When are you going to fall again?’ said Northey. ‘(Golly, my neck is aching!) We never see you, it’s a bore.’
‘With the assistance of the present company it should be any day. What are you preparing for us, Harald?’
Sir Harald became rather pink and looked guilty.
Hector Dexter, who had pricked up his ears at the word frescoes, said, ‘And where are the Harar paintings now, M. le Président?’
‘Safe in the cellars of the Louvre, thanks to me, where no human eye will ever behold them.’
‘I have a client in the States who is interested in African art of unimpeachable provenance. Are there no more ancient frescoes at Harar or in its environs?’
‘No,’ said Sir Harald, ‘the frogs swiped the lot.’
‘We don’t say frogs any more,’ said Bouche-Bontemps, ‘it’s old-fashioned, like taking away other people’s islands.’
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