Cluny Brown

by Margery Sharp

  “But, good God!” exclaimed John at last. “There must be people, places, simply asking for you. Cambridge, for instance, any of the universities. I mean, you’re famous. You’d be an—an ornament to them. I don’t understand.”

  “Well, I’ve had enough of it,” said Mr. Belinski.

  They were more surprised than ever. Their young eyes widened with astonishment as Adam Belinski addressed himself to his zabaglione. Enough of it? Enough of being a trouble-maker? Enough of being the centre of rows, secret enquiries, international complications? Such an attitude was explicable to them on only one ground, that of physical ill health. He couldn’t have recovered from his beating-up.…

  “You want a good rest,” said Betty encouragingly.

  “I want to do some work,” corrected Mr. Belinski. “I am an artist, not a political figure. That is the trouble in Poland: there are not enough distinguished Poles to go round; every one must do double duty. Look at Paderewski—the greatest musician in the world, we had to make him President as well. If you win a motor race, you are made Secretary to the Board of Trade. I have a success with my writings, so I must become a lecturer. Thank heaven they did not give me the Police Force. So I get into a fight, and soon I can do no work at all.” He flung out his hand; for the first time they noticed that the wrist was crooked, as though it had been broken and badly set. “I do not wish to be anything but what I am, and that is my determination. Also, it appears that I bring trouble. Even if I would lecture again, I would not go to one of your universities, and perhaps bring trouble there.”

  “In fact,” said Betty, with great interest, “you’re hot.”

  But Belinski’s knowledge of English evidently did not extend to American colloquialisms. He looked blank.

  “She means,” translated Andrew, “she quite understands—we all understand—why you have to lie low. But it’s pretty damnable.”

  He looked across at John Frewen, and at that moment, in the minds of both, the great plan was born. It hardly needed communicating; in a few words, under Betty’s chatter, everything of importance was practically decided. “Horsham?” murmured John—referring to his home. “Better my place in Devon. Right off the map,” murmured Andrew. JOHN: What about your people? ANDREW: All right, I think. Ask him now? JOHN: No, later. To-morrow. Show we’ve slept on it.…

  But when it came to the point they were both afraid that once they parted Belinski might disappear again before they could save him; so while John took Betty home Andrew walked with Mr. Belinski to Paddington, on the plea—for his company was at first refused—of having to meet a train. With complete gravity the Pole in turn insisted on accompanying Andrew into the station, but the latter, who had thitherto been unable to get their conversation off an abstract plane, was long past feeling foolish. The opportunity was nearly gone, and he was determined not to miss it.

  “Mr. Belinski,” said Andrew.

  “Yes? Cannot you find the train?”

  Andrew discovered that he had been staring up at the indicator, and flushed.

  “Mr. Belinski, would you care to come and stay with my people in Devonshire?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “At my home in the country. Very quiet, and all that. You could certainly work there, because there’s nothing else to do.”

  Belinski regarded him with amusement.

  “Is it another party? This time for the week-end?”

  “Oh, no,” said Andrew, “I thought you might stay a few years.”

  Just then they were jostled by a porter (actually Cluny’s Uncle Trumper) who also wished to look at the indicator. Andrew stepped one way, Belinski the other; and during the moment of separation the latter’s mind must have worked with great speed, for when he joined Andrew again he looked no longer astonished, but simply pleased.

  “My dear young friend,” he said warmly, “I cannot say how much I appreciate such generosity. It is magnificent!”

  “Oh, rot,” said Andrew. “When will you come?”

  “But of course, I cannot accept,” said Mr. Belinski hastily.

  Andrew immediately asked why not. Mr. Belinski hesitated. He had what he considered a perfectly adequate reason, but he did not think it would appear adequate to his new young friend. He therefore selected another.

  “I am not a suitable guest.”

  “Nonsense,” said Andrew cheerfully. “I’ve taken home much rummer chaps than you.” The adjective slipped out before he could retrieve it, but Belinski did not seem offended. He stood looking at Andrew warily, but with something like affection.

  “Please do not press me, because I feel so discourteous to refuse. For example, your parents do not know me. What you suggest is most generous, but also quite impossible.”

  “I don’t see why,” argued Andrew stubbornly. “You’d find it fearfully boring—”

  “It is not to be thought of,” said Mr. Belinski.

  Without another word he turned and walked rapidly out of the station. But Andrew hared after him, and followed him home, and once they knew the address he and John Frewen were able to dog Mr. Belinski’s path, and argue with him in relays; and Andrew (as has been seen) went down to Devonshire to get his parents’ approval, and came back with a written invitation from Lady Carmel; and at the end of another two weeks Mr. Belinski (other factors influencing him as well) suddenly gave way, and bent once more to his erratic fate.

  III

  “We’ll go down in my car,” said John Frewen. “Can Betty come too?”

  Andrew looked thoroughly horrified.

  “I’ll say she can’t. Last time she upset the whole house. I’m not taking home any more disturbing influences,” said Andrew righteously.

  Chapter 7

  I

  One person at least welcomed this fortnight’s interval: Mrs. Maile felt she really couldn’t do with visitors until she got her staff into some sort of shape. It was no easy matter. Friars Carmel, like many another once lavish household, was still strong on the administrative side, but weak on the executive. The rôles of butler, housekeeper, cook, were all filled; but Cluny and Hilda, like a stage army, had to march round and round—now housemaids, now parlour-maids, now kitchen-maids, laundry-maids, linen-maids or tweenies. This made them very hard to discipline, for though Mrs. Maile could easily keep in her head what each of six girls ought to be doing at any given hour, two girls doing six jobs confused her sadly. When she found Hilda upstairs at noon, or Cluny peeling potatoes at tea-time, she had to go away and think things out before going back to rebuke them; by which time Cluny was probably in the pantry and Hilda in the wash-house. What particularly upset Mrs. Maile was that Cluny at least evidently took this as the normal state of affairs in a well-conducted household. She was very good-natured. But Mrs. Maile would almost have preferred a complaining expert who knew what was what.

  The two girls themselves got on very well. Cluny at once took the lead, bossed Hilda a good deal, and in return told her all about London and taught her many useful and amusing phrases. (The first time Hilda replied “Oh yeah?” to Mr. Syrett was a happy moment.) Their common bedroom was large, and they divided its conveniences meticulously, the only advantage retained by Hilda being an art-silk bedspread bought out of her own money. As a counter to this Cluny had her three photographs in their gold frame, which she stood in the centre of the mantelpiece. Hilda had no photographs as yet, because Gary was too young to take.

  Gary was her infant son, and a source of great pride to her; she wagered that when his Dad came back and saw’n him’d wed she for sure—though whether her’d wed he was another story: him’d have to mend his wild ways, said Hilda sternly, afore her went to church with’n. Hilda’s seduction by a seafarer, in fact, gave her the only consequence she was capable of, and she naturally leant on it. Cluny listened with great interest, and nearly invented an infant of her own; but Mr. Porritt’s eye, even in a photograph, restrained her. Hilda thus kept an incontestible point of superiority, which usefully checked Clu
ny’s instinct to domineer.

  But all this was more trouble for Mrs. Maile. Before Cluny arrived the housekeeper had instructed Hilda to suppress, on pain of instant dismissal, all mention of young Gary; and she imagined herself obeyed. Then arose the question of Cluny’s afternoon off—two till seven on Wednesdays. (Other maids had had till nine-thirty, but this was a special arrangement, made through Miss Postgate and Aunt Addie Trumper, on account of Cluny’s youth and inexperience.) From two till seven, what was the girl to do? Her natural occupation, a visit to Hilda’s home in the village, was barred by the presence there of Hilda’s illegitimate offspring. Cluny missed her first Wednesday because she arrived on a Tuesday, but even in nine days Mrs. Maile had not discovered an answer. The problem really bothered her. In fact, only one thing bothered Mrs. Maile more, and that was Cluny’s solution of it.

  In answer to a tentative enquiry, Cluny said she was going to the Colonel’s.

  “The Colonel’s?” repeated Mrs. Maile blankly.

  “Colonel Duff-Graham’s. To see Roderick,” explained Cluny.

  Mrs. Maile’s eyebrows rose. Had Cluny said to see Mabel, or Annie, she would still have been surprised—for how on earth had the girl made contact with them?—but approving; both Mabel and Annie were steady enough to be suitable friends. But Roderick sounded suspiciously like a chauffeur.

  “Roderick my dear?”

  “He’s a Golden Labrador,” said Cluny. “He was in the train. The Colonel said I could come and take him out.”

  “Well!” said Mrs. Maile. Whether this made things better or worse she really did not know. She had never heard of such a thing; it was an evidence of social enterprise quite beyond her. And what was the Colonel thinking of? She had made it quite clear over the telephone who Cluny was, and the stationmaster repeated every word back.…

  “I love him!” added Cluny enthusiastically.

  Mrs. Maile asked no more. She felt it quite possible that if she asked who, Cluny might reply not “Roderick,” but “The Colonel” and the idea was altogether too unnerving to pursue.

  In her distress of mind the housekeeper mentioned this incident to Mr. Syrett, who immediately disposed of it on the hypothesis that Cluny had been telling lies. But Mrs. Maile remained uneasy. She remembered some of Mr. Andrew’s sayings—reported by Syrett himself—about cracks in civilization, the breaking-up of society, world revolution, the decay of the West; and for the first time, their meaning struck home.

  II

  So the uneasy fortnight passed; Andrew, John, and Mr. Belinski arrived. The first person to see them was Sir Henry, who happened to be looking out of the window as the car drew up; he watched the three young men get out, and at once nipped down to his wife’s drawing-room to warn her that the Professor hadn’t come. “Feller’s too young,” proclaimed Sir Henry. “Andrew’s thought better of it and brought some other chap.” He was firmly reiterating this statement as Andrew brought Belinski in.

  “Mother—” said Andrew clearly—casting his other parent a glance of filial rebuke—“this is Mr. Belinski.”

  Lady Carmel intercepted the look, threw Sir Henry a frown on her own account, and swam benevolently to meet them.

  “How nice!” she exclaimed. “My son has told me so much about you, Professor; we are so glad you could come. My husband, Professor—and now, Professor, let me give you some tea.”

  Belinski sat. Thus far he had not uttered a word, so emphatic a welcome having stopped his mouth; he could hardly shout them down. But now his chair was placed close by Lady Carmel’s, and her mild eyes encouraged him.

  “I cannot express,” he said gravely, “how grateful I am for your kindness. It is something that does not often happen. If your son has indeed spoken of me, you will understand all I do not say.”

  “How well you speak English,” observed Lady Carmel.

  “It is the universal tongue.”

  “Ha!” exclaimed Sir Henry, much pleased. “That’s what I say. As a young man my dear parents sent me on a tour round the world. I left speaking English and I came back speaking English, and I never spoke a word of anything else the whole time. Didn’t need to.”

  “And did you enjoy your travels, sir?”

  “No,” said Sir Henry.

  “Harry, dear!” Lady Carmel signalled to Andrew to give his father several scones. “The Professor will think you quite stupid. You know you enjoyed them.”

  “I didn’t,” said Sir Henry stoutly. “I went to Rome and I saw the Pope, I went to St. Petersburg, and saw the Czar, and when I got home I took a good look at the first London bobby and I thanked my stars. If a man’s got a home, he should stick to it.”

  For a moment this extraordinarily unfortunate remark seemed to Andrew to lie visible, like a broken bowl, in the middle of the floor. Then his mother tidied it up.

  “Now I,” she said blandly, “am a natural cosmopolitan. If one never gets out of one’s own country one becomes quite pot-bound. Personally I should like to spend nine months of the year abroad.”

  This thumping lie drew upon her the eyes of all three: Andrew’s sending a message of love, Belinski’s bright with comprehension, Sir Henry’s simply aghast.

  “Allie—!” he protested. “Do you really—”

  “Have some cake, dear,” said Lady Carmel meaningly. “Andrew, where is John? Professor, are you fond of gardens? I shall show you mine till you think me a great bore. Ah, here is John: get your tea, dear, you must be famished. And now, Professor, tell me: who is Einstein?”

  Under this firm handling the rest of the meal passed off very well, and as soon as it was over Lady Carmel made good her threat and took Belinski off to the garden.

  III

  Mrs. Maile, presiding over a rather superior spread in the housekeeper’s room, waited impatiently for Mr. Syrett to come back and report.

  “Well, Mr. Syrett?”

  The butler put off his front-hall manner and sat down.

  “Pretty punctual, for once,” he announced. “I had just carried in the tray, and her ladyship’s kettle was on the boil. Mr. Andrew looks well, though somewhat more distracted than usual, and Mr. John of course lingered in the garage messing about with his car.”

  “And the Professor?”

  The butler considered. He was about to pronounce the judgement of below-stairs—no light responsibility.

  “Young,” he said at last. “Younger than one would expect, or indeed, consider suitable. But quite gentlemanly.”

  Mrs. Maile nodded, to show she understood this fine distinction.

  “I shall try him on the Richebourg ’26,” continued Mr. Syrett.

  “It’s always champagne on Mr. Andrew’s first night back.”

  “Mr. Andrew has been coming and going at such a rate that I have decided to count him back for good. When will Brown be ready to help wait?”

  Mrs. Maile reflected.

  “If you like to risk it, she might try to-night. Though with two guests, it does seem chancy.”

  “At least she can reach to set a plate,” said Mr. Syrett, “without biting Sir Henry’s ear, as is Hilda’s practice. In fact, she has as good a reach as I’ve ever seen. Try her.”

  Which seemed to show that Cluny, as a Tall Parlour-maid, was at last finding her place.

  IV

  Walking between the box edges of the pixey-garden, Lady Carmel continued to handle the situation presented by Mr. Belinski with marked success. She told him simply and carefully all the things she thought he should, but probably did not, know, and refused to hear a word in return. After two or three attempts Mr. Belinski (henceforward the Professor) gave up, even admitting a certain good sense in Lady Carmel’s attitude; having successfully palmed off on herself a perfectly satisfactory Professor, what did she want with the scarred and uneasy figure of truth? It made no difference in her reception of him whether Mr. Belinski had been the victim of appendicitis or of mob violence; but it made a great difference to Lady Carmel, who was mildly interested in the first
, but could not bear to contemplate the second.

  “Have you a dinner-jacket?” asked Lady Carmel.

  The Professor shook his head.

  “I am so sorry. I have only this suit and one other. And four shirts.” (He found he didn’t mind telling her this in the least.)

  “Then Andrew, who has two, shall lend you one; you’re much the same build. That is because,” explained Lady Carmel, “my husband always dresses for dinner, but if he saw you didn’t, he wouldn’t, and that would worry him, because he likes me to dress, always. I’m being so frank because we hope you’ll stay with us some time, and to have poor Harry worrying for months would be too bad. You don’t mind?”

  “I do not think I would mind anything said by you.”

  “That’s a great compliment. You mustn’t mind anything my husband says either. Though I’m so fond of travel myself,” explained Lady Carmel, “he is not; and he’s so used to England as home, he quite forgets other countries are home too. It must be very sad to be away; but let us hope, only temporarily.” (By this oblique reference Lady Carmel covered the entire European situation, and felt she had said quite enough.) “So you must borrow anything you want from Andrew, Professor, and there are several thousand books in the library; my husband sleeps there in the afternoon, but otherwise it is very little used. Syrett will valet you—”

  “Dear Lady Carmel, I was never valeted in my life.”

  “Well, do you mind letting Syrett, so as not to hurt his feelings? I don’t suppose he’ll do much, in fact Andrew says he just eats his head off, but he wouldn’t like to be told not to. I’m being so perfectly frank, Professor, because I never forget how once as a girl I completely disorganized a French household by coming downstairs to breakfast. When I found out by accident, after nearly three months, I was so mortified that I’ve never liked France since. It’s the other countries I want to travel in,” said Lady Carmel hastily.