The Passing Bells

by Phillip Rock

  “Yes, just before I left home. I especially liked the last stanza, where he talks about Camelot and Stonehenge.” He glanced wistfully at the green hills of the South Downs. “I’d sure like to see those places.”

  “But you shall, old boy,” Roger cried. “We’ll see to that, won’t we, Charles? Oh, I say, this is absolutely marvelous. Think of old Hardy’s poems being read in Chicago!”

  Their accents and mannerisms began to grate on Martin’s nerves a little. They seemed so affected, like certain theatrical people he had known. But unlike actors, Charles and Roger were not trying to be something they were not. They were, in the slang of the city room, “genuine articles.” He knew enough about England to recognize that, and so he did not inwardly sneer at their way of speaking, their attitudes or their posturings. They did everything and said everything in a manner designed, consciously or unconsciously, to set them apart. It was something they had been born to practice, a manner carefully nurtured by their parents, steadily built upon at Eton, and then honed to a silver perfection at Cambridge. They were, by every gesture, every nuance of speech, English gentlemen. They could have been set down in rags in the middle of the Arabian desert, and that fact would have been apparent to the lowliest bedouin, just as it was apparent to the chauffeur, the porter at the docks, and the young woman who waited upon them at the Three Talbards inn in the village of Taverhurst. Driver, porter, and barmaid treated these two young men without the slightest sign of servility, but with a natural deference. This he knew was what the English called “class,” the lower class recognizing and accepting without resentment the superiority of the upper class. It was not an exportable commodity, like English woolens, although a great many rich Americans had tried to import it. He thought of his uncle Paul and aunt Jessica Rilke in Chicago, their huge palace of a house—referred to as the North Side horror by many of Chicago’s younger architects—staffed with footmen in knee breeches, butlers, and grooms. A façade of upper-class splendor, no more than that. The servants needed the money they were paid, but they had no ingrained respect for their master and mistress. None at all. They felt degraded by their costumes and saw the difference between themselves and the Rilkes not in terms of “class,” but in terms of money. Paul Rilke owned breweries, a brokerage house, real estate in the Loop, iron foundries in Gary, Indiana, Toledo, and Cleveland, and held half ownership in a baseball team of the American League. That made him rich, even powerful, but did not insure by right of heritage or custom that a porter would tip his cap to him and say sir.

  “Here you are, sirs,” the barmaid said as she approached their table with a loaded tray. “All piping hot.”

  “And very good it looks, too,” Roger said, rubbing his hands. “I tell you, Rilke, it’s steak and kidney—in pudding or pie—that is the true secret of British fortitude.”

  “Has my man been taken care of?” Charles asked.

  “Oh, yes, sir,” the barmaid said. “He’s out back, sir.”

  She placed the steaming beef and kidney pie on the table along with mugs of dark brown ale, curtsied, and departed.

  “I understand you work on a newspaper, Rilke,” Roger said after a few minutes of silent eating.

  “That’s right—the Chicago Express. I joined the paper when I left college last June.”

  “Where’d you go?” Charles asked. “Yale, I suppose.”

  “No. University of Chicago.”

  “Thank heaven for that. We had our fill of Yale men when cousin Karl was over here.”

  Martin laughed. “Yeah, I know what you mean. We have a saying in the States—you can always tell a Yale man, but you can’t tell him much.”

  “Oh, I say,” Roger chuckled, “that’s rather good. I must remember that.”

  “Anyway,” Martin said, “I joined the paper hoping to become a reporter—on the police beat. You see, I’d like to become a novelist, and I thought a year or two of seeing the seamier side of life would be a big help. That’s how Theodore Dreiser started . . . and Frank Norris and . . . oh, a lot of good writers. But they stuck me in a little office of my own and have me writing book reviews and theater reviews. I’m getting sick of that and may quit when I get back unless they give me a more challenging job.”

  “Jolly good for you,” Charles said. “There’s nothing worse than being stuck in something you don’t like.”

  “Well, I liked it okay at first, but I’m not going to learn very much about life reviewing the novels of Gene Stratton-Porter or Harold Bell Wright.”

  He wondered if he should mention that he had the first sixty pages of a novel in progress with him—a saga of Chicago, men struggling to break the power of the street railway barons. The manuscript was in his attaché case, but he decided against it. He was apprehensive about the direction the book was taking. It was—although he hated to admit it even to himself—too imitative of the “class struggle” novels of others. And besides, looking at the two faultlessly dressed men, he doubted whether they would have the slightest empathy for the problems of poor Chicago streetcar motormen.

  “What are your plans, Martin?” Charles asked.

  “Well, let’s see. . . . Ten days here in England, then I go to Paris . . . Berlin . . . Zurich . . . Milan . . . Rome. . . . Then home on the Red Star liner Majestic, from Naples. Six weeks in all. Not exactly the grand tour, but the limit I could afford.”

  “We may go to Greece in July,” Roger said. “Pity you couldn’t hop over for a week or two and join us. But you must at least make a point of seeing Perugia and the Abruzzi. That’s the true Italy, Rilke, the true Italy.”

  They arrived at Abingdon Pryory in time for tea, which was being served on the terrace. It was a hectic moment for both Martin and Hanna, he trying to remember the names of the people he was introduced to, and she trying to greet him in a proper “auntly” manner while not neglecting her guests. Two of the guests were leaving for London—a lady somebody or other and her daughter, a Winifred something—and their departure added to the confusion.

  “We shall have a long talk later, Martin,” Hanna whispered, giving his arm a little squeeze. “I’m sure you’d like to freshen up before dinner. I’ll have one of the servants show you to your room. And it is your room, Martin, to stay in as long as you wish.”

  He blurted his thanks to her and then excused himself to the dozen or so people whom his aunt had invited for tea. “My fellow members in the Abingdon Garden Club,” Hanna had explained to her nephew before introducing him to them. They had seemed pleasant enough people, but they had studied him with unabashed curiosity, as though he were some rare breed of plant that was entirely foreign to them. He was grateful when a footman arrived and ushered him into the house.

  His trunk and suitcase were in his room, looking shabby against the pristine furnishings, but he only had eyes for the bed and flopped wearily onto it. He wondered what time they served dinner and whether he could take a nap for an hour or two. He had just closed his eyes when someone coughed to draw his attention. A middle-aged man wearing a black linen jacket and gray striped trousers stood just inside the room, one hand on the handle of the door.

  “Yes?” Martin said, raising himself on his elbows.

  “Beg pardon, sir,” the man said. “I’m Eagles, your valet. If I may have the trunk keys, sir, I shall unpack and give your clothing a press-up.”

  He wanted to tell the man not to bother, but his aunt had obviously ordered the valet to come and she might feel offended if he told him to go away. He got off the bed and searched his pockets for the small flat keys.

  “Here you are,” he said, handing them over.

  “Thank you, sir. Shan’t take but a moment. Travel is terrible hard on clothing, sir.”

  “Yes,” he said lamely. “I guess it is.”

  “Oh, terrible hard, especially a sea voyage, sir. The salt air sets the creases.”

  It was embarrassing to Martin to watch the man go through his luggage, like standing by and watching a total stranger sort t
hrough his dirty laundry, piece by piece. And that was what most of his suitcases seemed to contain: soiled shirts, underwear, pajamas, and socks. The valet did not actually cluck his tongue, but his lips remained pursed as he sorted out the dirty clothes and removed wrinkled suits and jackets from the steamer trunk. It was obvious even to Martin that everything needed a good “press-up,” but the valet singled out one article of clothing for immediate attention as he held up a particularly wrinkled tuxedo.

  “I shall give this a sponge and press immediately, sir. Dinner is always black tie—at least.”

  The “at least” had an ominous ring. He didn’t own tails. The tuxedo was his only article of formal wear, and it was nearly two years old, bought for a fraternity dinner in his senior year and not worn since. It would be tight, but maybe a sponge and press would stretch it a little.

  “Thank you . . . Eagles?”

  “Eagles, yes, sir. I shall get right on to this, sir, and have the rest of your clothing back in the morning.”

  After the valet had gone, Martin sat on the edge of the bed and debated whether to flop back and go to sleep or take a hot shower. A shower sounded good, but it was obvious that the room didn’t contain a bathroom. He was puzzling over that dilemma when there came a gentle knock on the door.

  “Come in,” he called out.

  The door opened and a slender dark-haired girl in a maid’s uniform came into the room, bearing a large bouquet of flowers in a glass vase. She seemed to shrink into the room like a scared doe.

  “Hi,” Martin said cheerfully. “Who sent the flowers?”

  The girl mumbled something inaudible and set the vase down on a table next to the windows. She barely glanced at Martin before turning to go.

  Martin stood up and blocked her exit to the door. “Wait a minute . . . maybe you can help me.”

  “Help you, sir?” the girl whispered, almost shrinking away from him.

  “Well . . . I’d like to take a shower. Where’s the bathroom?”

  “The bath, sir . . . or the WC?”

  He wasn’t sure for a moment what she meant by WC. Then he recalled all the tales he had heard about primitive British plumbing facilities. An English mansion might have thirty bedrooms but only two baths and a couple of water closets, almost as an afterthought. There would be, he felt certain without taking the trouble to look because he’d be damned if he’d use it, a chamber pot under the bed.

  “Well,” he said, “both, I guess.”

  “Yes, sir,” the girl said, looking past him toward the door. “The WC is the last door at the end of the corridor, sir, and the bath is the third door to your left—no, to your right as you leave the room, sir.”

  She was a daisy of a girl, Martin was thinking as he looked at her. Seventeen or eighteen. Skin like the proverbial peaches and cream and eyes that were almost violet, with the thickest and longest lashes he had ever seen.

  “My name’s Martin,” he said impulsively. “Martin Rilke. What’s yours?”

  “Ivy, sir.”

  “Ivy what?”

  “Thaxton, sir.”

  “Thaxton.” He repeated the name slowly, savoring it. “Thaxton. That’s really a good English name, isn’t it?”

  She was looking squarely at him for the first time, and a smile appeared to be lingering just below the surface of her face.

  “Yes, sir . . . I suppose.”

  “I guess that’s because it rhymes with Saxon.”

  “It does . . . yes.” The smile came, faint, curious. “You’re from America, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right. Chicago.”

  She nodded. “Chicago, the state of Illinois . . . Situated on Lake Michigan . . . Railroads . . . stockyards . . .”

  “Say, you’ve really done your homework, haven’t you?”

  “My what?”

  “You know . . . study. You seem to know a lot about Chicago.”

  “I was very good at geography, sir . . . at school. It . . . it was my favorite subject. . . . That and arithmetic.”

  “Arithmetic? You’re the first good-looking girl I’ve ever met who liked arithmetic.”

  A bright crimson glow appeared suddenly on her cheeks. Lowering her eyes, she started past him toward the door.

  “If you need anything, sir, just ring the bell. . . . The pull’s on the wall, sir.”

  “Hey, wait a second.” But she was gone, and he could hear her footsteps going rapidly off down the hall.

  The bathroom was large, its walls and floor covered with tiny white tiles. There was nothing in the room but a mammoth cast-iron porcelain-enameled tub and an oak cabinet containing fresh soap and extra towels. There was no shower. The hot water came in fits and starts, rattling the pipes and belching occasional puffs of steam, but eventually the water rose in the tub and Martin sank gratefully into its warmth. Odd, he thought as he soaped himself and lathered his hair. The room was totally out of proportion to its use. Ten bathtubs could have been placed in the room along with half a dozen stall showers. On the other hand, the WC had been no larger than a closet, a dark, evil little place to get out of as quickly as nature would permit. The bathroom had four wide windows along one wall with a view of trees and distant hills. The WC had only one tiny window near the ceiling, which had emitted the palest shaft of light—like the window in a dungeon far above the prisoner’s reach. Odd. Well, the English were an odd race. No question about that. Everyone on the paper had warned him about what to expect—although only Harrington Comstock Briggs, the managing editor, had ever been to England, and that had been during the Boer War. “Primitive.” That had been the most common word bandied about. “A cultured but primitive race.” Trying to pin people down as to their interpretation of the word “primitive” had led to little or no elucidation. To Briggs, primitive had meant warm beer and boiled food. To others it had meant king worship, the class system, and the bullheaded preference for cricket, when it was obvious to anyone with even a grain of sense that baseball was a better game. So far, the only area of criticism he could find was in their plumbing.

  The tuxedo was back, hanging from a peg on the closet door when he got back to his room. Its appearance had been bettered, but not by much. Martin eyed it dubiously and prayed that he could get into it without popping any buttons. He dressed gingerly, but, Glory be, the suit fitted quite well. He was struggling with a black tie when there came a tap on the door. It was one of the liveried footmen informing him that whiskey would be served in the library at six-thirty.

  Lord Stanmore set down his glass of whiskey and soda and walked toward the door as Martin entered the room.

  “My dear fellow,” he said, advancing with hand outstretched in greeting. “I’m delighted to meet you. Pity we’ve never met before this, but your aunt talks of you often.”

  Martin could only assume that the tall ruddy-faced man with the iron-gray hair advancing on him was his uncle. He had never seen a photograph of him. How did he greet him? Uncle Tony sounded too familiar, your lordship too formal.

  “How do you do, sir?” he said, shaking the man’s hand. The grip was strong, friendly.

  “Come,” he said, placing an arm about Martin’s shoulders. “You know my son and his friend, Roger. . . . Let me introduce you to the others.” He steered his nephew toward a small group of men standing at the far end of the room with glasses in their hands. Charles and Roger were among them. Their dinner jackets, Martin noted with a touch of envy, were faultless—as was the jacket of every other man in the room.

  “Gentlemen, my nephew from America, Martin Rilke. Martin, may I introduce Mr. John Blakewell, Master of the Doncaster Hunt . . . Major Tim Lockwood . . . retired, I’m afraid . . . a great loss to king and country . . . Sir Percy Smythe . . . finest barrister and the best equestrian in the country. . . . And Captain Fenton Wood-Lacy.”

  Martin shook hands and greetings were exchanged. Then Charles Greville put a drink in his hand, and he was on his own, the earl rejoining an interrupted discussion about horses w
ith Blakewell, Major Lockwood, and the barrister.

  “Well, Martin,” Charles said, “did Eagles look after you all right?”

  “Yes . . . thank you.”

  “By far the best valet I’ve ever had. Just take his word on all sartorial matters and you won’t go wrong.”

  “I’ll remember that,” he said, thinking of his pile of laundry.

  Roger sipped a ginger beer and pointed at the towering shelves of books that lined two walls of the room.

  “As a budding novelist, I’m sure you find this rather interesting.” He bent closer. “Though I doubt that a tenth of them have been read. Charles is the only reader in the family, and he keeps his books quite separate. You won’t find much in this room written after eighteen eighty.”

  Charles laughed. Some sort of private joke, Martin supposed.

  “So you’re from America,” Fenton said.

  “That’s right. Chicago.”

  “Ah, Chicago. And how do you like England so far?”

  “Very much. Beautiful country.”

  “And by far the best time of year to see it. Planning on playing the tourist?”

  “Yes . . . I suppose so.”

  “Then you must see the lake district. . . . Stratford, of course . . . Bath . . . the Chilterns.”

  “I’m sure he knows where to go, Fenton,” Roger said.

  “Just thought I’d be helpful. If you care to see the changing of the guard, I’ll get you a first-rate view.”

  “Are you a captain in the army?”

  “Yes. Coldstream Guards.”

  “That must be exciting.”

  Fenton took a long pull on his Scotch before answering.

  “Well, if you want to know the truth, it’s deadly dull most of the time. The only excitement is when we’re off duty. London is not without its perils.”

  “Women and cards,” Roger said.

  “Yes,” Fenton said. “Quite so. They’ve cut more than one promising fellow down in his prime.”