“You needn’t go on,” said Dodo. “If he did drink as a very young man, I’m sure he gave it up when he married Aunt Adelaide.”
“I’m sure Adelaide could make any one give up anything. But I must say it amuses me when I see my brother-in-law being treated as a minor saint.”
Dodo sighed. If she now saw why her aunt had been so uncommunicative, the knowledge was almost useless: merely silenced herself also. “I shall just say they were married in 1886,” she reflected, “and that the Theatre started in 1905; and in between I suppose Uncle Gilbert simply reformed and went on giving drawing-lessons. But how uninteresting it sounds!”
She gathered up the tea-cups, washed them and put them away—Treff never did a thing for himself if he could help it—and went rather dejectedly up to her own room for a sleep.
3
It is said by the wise that one should be careful in one’s youthful desires, because in age they may be granted. So it had come about with Adelaide. During the most vehement, most intensely lived period of her life, between the ages of twenty-one and twenty-six, prestige was what she had set her will on. At first she had called it fame; then, a proper position; then, respectability; dropped for a while to the mere negation of disaster; beat her way back to respectability; and there, as her life found its new focus in Gilbert, would have been content to remain. But the momentum had to expend itself, and gradually, inevitably, Adelaide’s position was built up into what she herself considered a slightly ridiculous eminence. During the blitz the Puppet Theatre had acquired more than aesthetic news-value: the mere paradox of its survival caught a public imagination peculiarly susceptible to the charm of anything at once delicate and hardy. (The journalist who described it as “a cyclamen flowering amid ruins” gave Adelaide and Dodo more pleasure than he knew.) Adelaide herself, with her white hair and straight back, above all with her great age, could not escape popularity: she was so exactly right, so perfectly picturesque; her comments on every subject (till she learned not to give them) were so pungent and uninhibited: she was, in short, such a character. Thus Adelaide became a personage by force of circumstances—not exactly against her will, but indifferently. The success of the Puppet Theatre pleased her, because it pleased Gilbert; also she did not like to lose money; but all talk of cultural value, or half-centuries of brave endeavour, struck her as so much poppycock. When admirers praised her artistic achievement Adelaide still, at the bottom of her heart, felt she was being made a fool of.
“In any case, it isn’t my achievement at all,” she told Gilbert, almost angrily. “It’s yours—and I dare say partly Mr. Bly’s, or even Old Bert’s. I had nothing to do with it!”
“My dear, you were our inspiration,” said he.
Adelaide smiled.
“I know I fed you all on beefsteak pudding …”
“You were the centre of our lives,” said Gilbert seriously. “You held us together and gave us a respect for ourselves, and made us able to do something with our talents. My dearest, what a scurvy set we were!”
But this Adelaide would never allow. In retrospect the figures of Mr. Bly and the Old ’Un appeared not disreputable but picturesque, their eccentricities merely engaging, their way of life merely unconventional. To Adelaide’s mind they compared favourably with almost every one she had met since. In fact she no longer wished to meet people at all—avoided all new faces whenever possible, and particularly avoided reporters.
That she did not altogether avoid Mr. Jamieson was a pure accident. Dodo, giving the interview by proxy, had struggled for half an hour to satisfy him with photographs of sets, the puppets themselves, old handwritten programmes, autographs of Diaghilev and Yvette Guilbert; Mr. Jamieson peered at them all through very thick pebble-lenses and observed they were no doubt highly interesting to toe specialist. “You’ve the matter there for a grand monograph,” he added practically. “Get some clever body to handle it, Miss Baker, and publish a wee illustrated book.” But what he had come to get was information about the Lamberts; Dodo’s couple of dates fell very flat, and he persisted in his desire to see Mrs. Lambert herself. “Mr. Jamieson, my aunt is eighty,” said Dodo severely. “And from all I hear tell, wonderfully vigorous for her age,” said Mr. Jamieson. “And she would certainly refuse to answer questions about her private life.” “Very well,” said Mr. Jamieson, “I’ll change my tack. I’ll just take her views on the theatre in war-time, or some such artistic trivia.” It was a competition in Scottish and Saxon stubbornness; and resolved in the end, as has been said, only by accident. Adelaide thought the obnoxious visitor had left, wanted Dodo, and came downstairs.
Dodo saw no alternative but to introduce Mr. Jamieson, with the remark that he was just going. Adelaide merely bowed. But Mr. Jamieson stood his ground.
“Mrs. Lambert,” he said, very deferentially, “I’m not here to trouble you with impertinent questions. But your great knowledge of the theatre—”
“Fiddlesticks,” said Adelaide.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Havers,” translated Adelaide. “Mr. Jamieson, good day. Dodo, bring the bookings to my room.”
With that she turned and slowly re-ascended the stair. Dodo, in spite of the severe look with which this last injunction was accompanied, felt pleased. Adelaide might not have given an interview; but she had certainly presented a nutshell sketch of her formidable character. Mr. Jamieson was evidently impressed.
“That’s a very remarkable old lady,” said he.
“Very,” agreed Dodo.
“Am I right in thinking that she’s but a poor opinion of the modern drama?”
“Yes,” said Dodo. “But it’s only fair to say she’s no ground for it, because she never goes to the theatre. She’s only been to one theatre since the war started.”
“Shakespeare, no doubt,” suggested Mr. Jamieson.
“No; the Windmill,” said Dodo. “She went because they never closed—like us. Mind you put that in!”
Above them a door shut with a very dismissive sound.
“I would like very much,” said Mr. Jamieson gravely, “to have seen your Auntie at yon nudes. Good day, Miss Baker, and thank you.”
They parted on good terms, and when Dodo saw the article she was pleased with it. Behind the pebble-lenses Mr. Jamieson had evidently an artist’s eye: his description of Adelaide, careful, sober, and accurate, had something of the quality of a Holbein drawing. It did not appear, however, in his paper, but in one of the monthlies; and this pleased Dodo too, as being more permanent. Something at least, some fragment of a remarkable character, had a chance of being saved from oblivion; and the two dates were correct.
Adelaide refused to read this article, but Iris O’Keefe saw it, and paid a special visit to the Mews in consequence. In these days Miss O’Keefe was very busy—indefatigable at charity matinées, a resolute entertainer of the troops, presenter of diamond stars to Red Cross sales. Candid friends said plainly that dear Iris was working up for a damehood. And why not? For years now she had never played below the rank of Grand Duchess; it gave her quite a shock to be addressed, in private life, as “Miss.” But if such were indeed her ambition, she had the magnanimity to desire the same honour for her old friend.
“That article,” said Miss O’Keefe to Dodo, “was just the thing. If you only keep it up—”
“But I can’t,” said Dodo. “It was only by chance Aunt Adelaide saw him at all. You know what she is.”
Miss O’Keefe flung up her glittering hands. She always wore a great many diamonds, both on and off stage; she said they were the quickest way to impress fools.
“Do I not, my dear! It’s positively heart-breaking! Your aunt could have such a position as many would give their ears for—but she simply won’t take the trouble. She ought to be a Dame, it’s due to her. Just add it up, dear,” adjured Miss O’Keefe—“fifty years’ service to the theatre, ditto perfect married life, hand in glove with the museums, and an appearance beyond praise. My dear, when I read the Honour
s Lists, I often wonder who’s responsible for the casting.”
She spoke in the happy confidence that her own appearance was positively regal; and Dodo willingly paid the required compliment.
“We’d make a handsome pair,” agreed Miss O’Keefe—who had transferred something of her frankness with the aunt to the niece. “And what a feather for the old Mews! My word, what a transformation scene!”
“I always forget,” said Dodo, “that you used to live here too.”
“So I should hope, for it’s not a thing to shout about—at least not for me. Your aunt of course could make a feature of it—but she won’t. She won’t lift a finger. And the reason is she’s entirely wrapped up in Mr. Lambert, and always has been.”
Ever since her conversation with Mr. Jamieson, Dodo had had a vague notion of putting together … not a monograph, but some brief account of her aunt’s life … not to be published, of course, or not for many years … but another garnering against oblivion.
Now, remembering Treff’s uncomfortable revelations, she asked tentatively, “Do you remember them, when you lived here?”
“Indeed I do,” said Miss O’Keefe promptly. “It wasn’t at all the sort of place it is to-day, and the Lamberts were the only nice people—except of course for my mamma and myself—who resided here. They were our only friends. And they were so attached to each other—really romantically, you know—it made a great impression. Never a harsh word! (My own papa died when I was too young to remember him.) And Mrs. Lambert’s appearance was so aristocratic, when I played my first title—only an Honourable, to be sure, in The Scent-Shop Girl—I simply modelled myself upon her.”
“That was when Uncle Gilbert gave drawing-lessons,” prompted Dodo.
“Did he? I remember he was very distinguished too—as indeed he still is. In fact, I’ve sometimes wondered,” added Miss O’Keefe casually, “whether he ever changed his name.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Dodo. “Why on earth should he?”
“If he came of some really good family, members of our nobility in fact, who cut him off on account of his artistic proclivities, it would be only natural.”
Dodo laughed. She always enjoyed Miss O’Keefe’s excursions into romance, there was a naïveté about them that contrasted so oddly with the rest of that lady’s character. As a rule Iris never used her imagination at all; when she did, it at once invented the plot of a musical comedy. But how easily, thought Dodo, the events of even the recent past could become distorted! How easy to go astray—on anything but dates!
One thing however could not be distorted: the tale of mutual devotion which still continued. Though Gilbert was now so old that a little food, a little sun, met all his physical requirements, his mind followed Adelaide through her busy day, he always knew where she was, what she was doing. On the rare occasions when she left the Mews he retreated into a semi-coma till she came back, dying as it were a little death in her absence. And Adelaide, so much more active, needed the perpetual refreshment of five-minute visits to his room, or mere glances through an open door: on fine days when Gilbert could sit well-wrapped-up on the balcony, and Adelaide had her desk under the window in the foyer, they carried on long conversations so desultory and allusive that strangers who overheard imagined them to be talking to themselves; as indeed they were.
Dodo Baker watched and listened with protective tenderness. But sometimes—“How old every one is!” thought Dodo. She was thinking of the people she habitually lived with: Adelaide, Gilbert, Treff; Gerhardi and the two assistants.… Britannia Mews had become a pocket of age: often, when Gerhardi and his ancients were out sunning themselves (while Gilbert snoozed on the balcony above) one got the impression of an alms-house. Dodo did not wish to analyze her discontent, but the fact was that twenty years earlier she had stepped out of her own generation into the preceding one, with the result that, apart from acquaintances at the Post, she now knew no one of her own age.
From this point of view she would have done better to go to Somerset, where Alice, in the bosom of the Bakers, was missing her daughter less than she would have believed possible. The Bakers were a prolific clan; though Freddy’s own generation had thinned out, nephews and nieces flourished, all married, all with children and even grandchildren of their own; and it was among this youngest division of the family that Alice (her situation thus the very reverse of her daughter’s) now dwelt. The young husbands indeed were mostly absent, scattered over Burma and Italy and Africa and the Low Countries; but the young wives drew together, bringing in their broods to the big old house near Taunton, where once they used to spend such dull Christmases, and which they were now so glad to fall back on; and those who couldn’t pack in billeted themselves round about, and they all saw each other every day. It was exactly the sort of life Alice enjoyed, and she became quite rejuvenated. She was no longer active, and spent most of the day knitting, in a large chair set either by the hearth or out on the lawn, according to the weather; but from that vantage-point she effectively directed the economy of the household, the education of the children, and everybody’s private affairs. Sometimes the young wives caballed against her, which added a spice to life, but over the children she reigned supreme—a permanent, a stationary, Grandma, swarmed over as the young Hambros once swarmed over the Redan, and occupying a very similar place in their affections. The great event of the week was when on Saturday afternoon she was packed into the pony-cart and taken for a drive, for then the whole tribe accompanied her, relays of two riding in the cart, the others at the pony’s head, or hanging on behind when they went downhill. It became quite a local sight. The number of children varied between five (in term-time) and nine (in the holidays). But even nine children were not too many for Alice, and she looked forward with delight to the new baby expected in July.
Of this female and juvenile flock Freddy Baker was the patriarch. At the Sunday gatherings (immediately organized by Alice) he often sat down the only man among seven women—his wife, his sister-in-law Ellen, his own sister Amy, and four young mothers. Fortunately, he had the Major. This new friend was very old, almost as old as Freddy himself, and retired, and lived in a very neat villa surrounded by a very neat garden, and thither Freddy used to betake himself when the women got too much for him, to sit over a small fire and criticize the Home Guard and discuss the nine o’clock news. And as the Major was a comfort to Freddy, so was Freddy a comfort to the Major—a fresh audience for his stories of pig-sticking, a man who could remember the Boer War. They became close friends, even to sharing their whisky, and did the Times crossword together every afternoon.
It was a happy time for Alice, in Somerset; not quite so happy for Dodo, in Britannia Mews. The Theatre still absorbed her, but not completely; and that spring, in the lull between the last of the blitzes and the first of the flying-bombs, she began to spend more time than usual in Kensington Gardens.
CHAPTER II
1
On a particularly mild day some weeks later Dodo, by going without tea, reached the Gardens soon after four o’clock. The April grass was strewn with courting couples, and animated by courting pigeons: they minced round in pairs like clockwork toys, ruffled cock behind sleek hen. Dodo directed her steps with discretion until near the Round Pond she found a single chair with no one making love within ten yards. (She had not the least objection to the lovers, but perhaps attributed to them too much of her own sensibility.) There she sat down and took off her hat and shook out the thick waves of her still very pretty hair; it was a gesture as instinctive and natural, on that remarkably springlike day, as the ruffling of the cock-pigeon’s feathers. Indeed, blonde, platinum-blonde, brunette and mid-brown heads dotted the landscape, some dressed in pompadours, some tied up with ribbons. “How prettily girls do their hair now!” thought Dodo, with genuine pleasure. A book and a paper lay unheeded in her lap, they weren’t nearly so entertaining as the spectacle before her. Not all the girls had escorts—or not yet. Some walked in couples, alert of eye: a gang o
f fourteen-year-olds squealed and sky-larked, two Wrens, briskly conversing, circled the Pond like ocean passengers taking exercise. They were very trim; a group of reclining soldiery whistled appreciation each time they passed, but the Wrens took no notice. They walked round the Pond four times (Dodo thought this probably constituted a mile) and walked off.
A few minutes after they disappeared a corporal strolled past Dodo for the second time. She had vaguely noticed him before, thinking he looked older than most of the troops, and less at home in uniform; there was something incorrigibly civilian about him. This time he caught her eye, probably by accident, before strolling on to the edge of the Pond, where he turned and stood with his back to the water, probably admiring the view. Dodo opened her book and began to read. She read two pages, and became aware that the corporal had moved back on to the grass and was standing a short distance away. In turning over she glanced up, and again he caught her eye. His intention was how unmistakable. But this is absurd! thought Dodo, half-incredulous, half-amused—here I’m forty-seven! The corporal looked about ten years younger—but she couldn’t tell whether the neatly clipped moustache, light against a tanned skin, were blonde or grey. As though in answer to her thought he removed his cap; he was fair, but going slightly bald. He sat down on the grass and began to fill a pipe; Dodo at once became conscious of the matches in her hand-bag. She looked down again and read the same paragraph twice over, and sure enough the classic phrase struck politely on her ear.
“I wonder if you could let me have a light?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Dodo.
While she fumbled in her bag he moved a yard nearer; from the way he resettled himself Dodo perceived that they had yet another thought in common—that the grass was damp. To right and left younger warriors sprawled full-length in puppish confidence: the corporal kept his area of contact as small as possible.
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