Two People

by A. A. Milne

  ‘I have ordered a few oysters bearded in their shells,’ he said. ‘Then with your permission I suggest the Sole Veronique. After that, Mrs. Wellard——?’

  ‘Oh, I think that will be enough for me.’

  ‘A bird of some kind?’

  ‘Oh no, please.’

  ‘An omelette aux fines herbes, perhaps? Or just a sweet?’

  ‘Yes, I think a sweet. That will be lovely.’

  ‘A pêche Melba. You never knew Melba, Mrs. Wellard?’

  ‘No. No, I’m afraid I didn’t.’

  ‘Ah!’ There was a full-length novel in his sigh, of the Great Singer who had sacrificed Love to Art, mainly at Mr. Fondeveril’s expense.

  ‘She must have been lovely.’

  ‘We don’t breed those women now.’ He picked up the wine-list. ‘You will join me in a glass of wine?’

  ‘Well, I——’

  ‘A light hock? A Johannisberger ’21? A dry year.’

  ‘Yes, that would be lovely.’

  He took out his watch. ‘You have that enviable gift of punctuality, Mrs. Wellard. So rare in women. Ah, you were—— This? Yes.’ He put it back in his pocket. ‘It was presented to me by a well-known City firm. I had been called into consultation financially, and managed to straighten up their affairs, and they—’ he made a gesture—‘insisted—well—’ he made another gesture—‘what could I say? You have lemon? That’s right. Well, how did you enjoy last night?’

  ‘Were you there?’ said Sylvia eagerly. ‘Didn’t you love it?’

  ‘I gather that you did, Mrs. Wellard.’

  ‘Oh, but didn’t you?’ said Sylvia, her happiness dying out of her eyes.

  ‘Well, yes, but in a more critical way, naturally. One forms the habit in the Studios of seeing things in Relation to Background. One looks for Composed Masses rather than for Flat Surfaces, if you see what I mean.’

  Sylvia tried to look as if she did.

  ‘You mean that a scene might be good in itself without fitting in with the rest of the show?’

  ‘You have caught my meaning exactly,’ said Mr. Fondeveril gratefully.

  ‘Well, I enjoyed every minute of it,’ she smiled.

  ‘You are so young,’ he said indulgently. ‘You remember what Wordsworth said, Mrs. Wellard?’

  Sylvia, not having made use of the quotation that morning as a clue for 17 across, shook her head.

  ‘“To be young is very heaven.” My dear wife would have agreed with him. She had that joie-de-vivre which so few have nowadays. In the hunting-field, in the salon, on the moors, wherever she might be.’ He drank a glass of hock to her memory.

  ‘You must have been very lonely without her,’ said Sylvia gently.

  ‘I had my Maggie. Lady Ormsby. She was a great companion.’

  ‘Oh, I should think so! I think she’s a darling.’

  ‘We went about everywhere together. Inseparables. We might be on Hampstead Heath one day, at the Zoological Gardens another, wherever we were, Maggie would tell me what she would do if she were this or that, the Head Keeper or whatever it might be, and always, Mrs. Wellard, she would put her finger on just the One Essential Point. A great gift that. Organizing Power.’

  ‘She must be a wonderful organizer. You can see that from her house.’

  ‘Yes.’ He was thoughtful, wondering how to Get to Grips with his problem. He looked up absently, and bowed absently to a stockbroker who had just gone past their table. ‘One of our proconsuls,’ he said absently. Miss Prentice made an entrance and waited for hands. Catching Sylvia’s expectant eye she executed her mechanical smile, and Sylvia smiled happily back, feeling that she knew all London.

  ‘In many respects’, said Mr. Fondeveril, ‘she has had a hard life.’

  ‘Miss Prentice?’

  ‘My daughter, Maggie. Lady Ormsby.’

  ‘Oh! Yes—— I suppose——’

  ‘To be bereft of a mother at her tender age—and such a mother! I tried to take her place, but naturally I could not always be with her. One was sent here and there’—he indicated the Bahamas and Nova Zembla with a couple of gestures—‘they would tell you at the Service Clubs how it is, a telegram, a few hasty moments to pack a suit-case—it was an odd upbringing for the child. A Bohemian existence. She had friends in the Latin Quarter, naturally,’ said Mr. Fondeveril, carried into a side current by the promising implications of the word ‘Bohemian’, ‘de Musset, of course, was before her time, but Renoir was still quite a young man. However——’ He emphasized with a shrug the difference between Renoir and a real mother. ‘And then suddenly to be plunged into the vortex of Social Life; Peeress of the Realm, persona grata at Court, mistress of millions. But through it all, Mrs. Wellard, she has kept her good name. That highest jewel in a woman, far above rubies. No breath of scandal’, said Mr. Fondeveril, ‘has ever—has ever’, said Mr. Fondeveril, ‘breathed upon her. Scandal’, said Mr. Fondeveril, going out to meet the Johannisberger ’21 half-way, ‘spreads her wings in the most unlikely places, and her shadow falls alike upon the spotless as upon the—’ he rejected ‘spotted’ just in time, and ended ‘as upon the transgressor’.

  ‘I think it’s horrid the way people talk,’ said Sylvia.

  ‘It is natural that we should feel it more deeply than most,’ said Mr. Fondeveril. ‘A collateral of her mother’s’, he added in a lowered voice, ‘was mixed up in the Tranby Croft Affair.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘In perfect innocence, of course, but her name was—mentioned.’

  ‘But that was cards, wasn’t it? How could she——’

  ‘One thing leads to another, Mrs. Wellard. There was Talk. In the old days one would have called the fellow out,’ said Mr. Fondeveril, putting his hand lightly to where his sword-hilt would have been, ‘but now—— You are from the country, my dear Mrs. Wellard. It must be difficult for you to realize what a—a camorra of gossip and scandal London has become.’ He stopped short at Mrs. Wellard’s sudden look of surprise. Camorra, that was the word, surely? The cheese was camembert. Reassured, he said again, ‘An absolute camorra.’ But Sylvia was only surprised because she had just seen her husband.

  III

  There was a taste of warmth in the air. The crocuses would be dying now at Westaways, their task fulfilled, their fading purple and gold dipped in a last salute to the sun. Bravely they had seen the winter out, and, dying, had handed on the torch to the waiting daffodils. Green spires on Emperor and Golden Spur were touched with a first faint yellow; now day by day, almost hour by hour, a new candle would be lit to the glory of spring.

  Spring at Westaways. The daffodils in the orchard, beneath the black and white of pear and plum. The high green banks under the hedges, starred with pale primroses round which periwinkle and wild strawberry ran. The grey walls of Westaways down whose sides mauve and purple aubrietia poured, and pink phlox, catching up blue forget-me-nots in their stream; golden showers of burbaris waiting to break; brooms forming into a pale yellow cloud; clumps of polyanthus in a bewildering medley of colour; and then the deep oranges and reds and umbers of careless wallflower and prim tulip.

  ‘We’ve missed the crocuses,’ thought Reginald gloomily on his omnibus. ‘Are we going to miss the daffodils?’

  He felt homesick suddenly. London was a good place to visit, but not a good place to live in. You always had to be doing something in London; in the country you could do nothing. ‘Doing nothing’—which meant doing everything: thinking, seeing, listening, feeling, living. He was going to waste a morning now, the first morning of spring; whatever he did he would be wasting it. A little honest work? Funny expression, that. Why was ‘work’ honest? It was the primal curse on man. By the sweat of thy brow shalt thou eat bread. It seemed that man was intended for better things; should strive, then, for better things; should strive to avoid work. ‘Work’ was a punishment, to
escape or to get through quickly. Not man’s final goal.

  Still there’s this to be said for work, he reflected gloomily. It takes you away from your thoughts. . . .

  However, it appeared that there was something other than work which could take him away from his thoughts about Sylvia. At the theatre there was a letter for him from Mr. Pump. Mr. Pump had never managed to assimilate Reginald’s London address. However urgently Reginald might have written from Hayward’s Grove, the answer would have come by way of Westaways. Luckily he didn’t want to write to Mr. Pump nor minded how greatly Mr. Pump’s letters were delayed. For Mr. Pump was not pleased with him. Caressing his long white beard with one hand, and holding the lapel of his frock-coat with the other, Mr. Pump had told him the Duty which he owed to (1) Mr. Pump, (2) England, (3) Himself: the duty of delivering a second novel in time for autumn publication. At Reginald’s reply that Mr. Pump had done quite well out of the first book, and England would doubtless do quite well without the second, and that, as for himself, he was prepared to take a lenient view of his own default, Mr. Pump had abandoned the national claim, and concentrated on his own, reinforcing it with much talk of Overhead Charges, Outlay and the Building Up of a Public. As Reginald was lunching with Mr. Pump at the time, thus increasing Outlay by several shillings, he felt uncomfortable but stubborn, and Mr. Pump, after paying the bill, had called for a taxi (‘Overhead Charges’) and removed himself frostily to his office. Now he was Pumps Limited; getting smartly into touch with Mr. Wellard by way of the theatre.

  Pumps Limited had had their attention called to the production of a play which, they understood, was, in fact, a dramatized version of a novel published by them under the title Bindweed, and wished to remind the author that by the terms of their agreement with him all moneys derived from dramatic and cinematographic versions of this book were to be divided equally between author and publisher.

  ‘Good lord,’ said Reginald, ‘I’d absolutely forgotten! And I’ve had a hundred pounds already. No, I haven’t, I’ve had ninety; Nixon’s agent had the other ten. Does Mr. Pump think he’s going to get fifty of that—or forty-five? I’m damned if he gets fifty. And what about all the other royalties? And film-rights? If we sell those, as Nixon seems certain we shall, and Venture gets half, and Nixon gets half, and Pump gets half, what do I get? Looks like minus a half. In fact, the more we sell for, the more I pay. That’s cheery.’

  He tried to remember the exact terms of his agreement, but realized that he had nothing on which to stimulate his memory. The agreement had never meant anything to him. What had Raglan called Pump on that first day? ‘A swindler and a bloodsucker.’ A bloodsucker certainly. The blasted unhygienic Pump, as Ormsby had so well put it. And now he was tied to him for six books (or was it twelve?)—yes he did remember that part of the agreement, remembered liking it at the time!—and every single one would be messed up in this way, and every single one would be a constant maddening irritation to him. Not the irritation of making less money than he had expected, for he lived happily within his income, but the irritation of being, as he felt, cheated, the irritation of wrangling about this wretched agent’s-commission, of continuous wrangles, week after week. Always being reminded of it! Writing a cheque for Pump every week! How could anybody possibly tolerate writing a cheque for Pump every week? And then a weekly letter back from Pump, protesting against the deduction of commission, and another wrangle!

  ‘I hope the play’s a failure,’ he thought viciously. ‘Serve him dashed well right if it is. Well, that settles it. I’11 never write another book. Not for Pump to get his messy paws on. Why did I ever get mixed up in all this?’

  He lay back in his stall, brooding over his troubles. The rehearsal went on, but at first he hardly noticed it. Should he talk to Nixon about this? But Nixon was a professional, he an amateur; Nixon would despise him for his ignorance, his amateurishness. Fancy getting mixed up with Pump! What about this fellow playing the love-scene now—Toddy, as they all called him. Reginald had been introduced to Toddy, and liked him because he knew the initials of every first-class cricketer who had ever played. One couldn’t help liking an actor who knew that; just as one couldn’t help liking a first-class cricketer who knew all about the stage. He would ask Toddy to have lunch with him. Better than going to the club, and sitting next to somebody one hated. And brooding.

  Or Coral Bell? But somehow (what was it?) he felt a little ‘off’ Coral Bell. That party last night: was it the feeling of being the one amateur among three professionals; the fact that (naturally) she had been talking to Nixon and Lattimer most of the time; the absence of any sort of intellectual intimacy between them—what was it which had left him with the impression of having been ever so slightly snubbed? Or was it just that he realized now that they belonged to different worlds; that she only came into his as a Jack-o’-lantern with whom he could never catch up? Or was it—Sylvia?

  But Toddy was different. One didn’t want to make contact with Toddy. One only wanted to discuss cricket with him. One could talk cricket with Toddy for ever.

  Apparently not to-day, though.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, old man, but I’m just going to give Coral a couple of oysters at Drivers. We want to get back early, and run through that scene again.’

  ‘Oh, well, another day, perhaps.’

  ‘Rather!’

  The keenness of this maligned profession! It played golf, it went into Society. Well, what on earth was it supposed to do, when it wasn’t rehearsing? You couldn’t stay at home and act all by yourself. What was it to do? Read improving text-books by men who knew nothing about acting? Or study Shakespeare?

  Miss Masters was in a corner, putting on her hat.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Reginald with a smile, on his way to the door.

  ‘Hallo, have you been here? I’m glad I didn’t know. I should have passed out, I should have thrown up altogether.’

  Reginald fell for the old compliment, and wondered, not without exhilaration, that anybody could be frightened of him.

  ‘Are you lunching anywhere particular?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Why not come round to the Ivy with me, and see how terrifying I really am?’

  ‘Sposh,’ said Miss Masters. ‘I should adore to.’

  IV

  Miss Masters might have been described as a woman of her word, though, in the opinion of her friends, she was almost too faithful to it. There was a time when she was always ‘passing out’; a time when everything was ‘dim’ for her, as once it had been ‘grim’; days when the world was ‘definitely’ this, that and the other or most of its incidents ‘shame-making’. To these milestones of the past Life was now adding ‘sposh’ and ‘mottled’, and when it became definitely mottled, there was really nothing for a girl to do but to ‘throw up’.

  ‘Well, how do you like your part?’ said Reginald, when she had decided on the smoked salmon.

  ‘Absolutely “sposh”,’ said Miss Masters with conviction.

  ‘Really? I’m so glad.’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit extra listening to somebody rewriting your book for you? I mean I should have thought it was a bit too mottled. I mean definitely. Of course I don’t know what Phil’s done, but I mean it must be a bit extra having another man re-writing your sposh scene, and leaving out the Night in the Harem altogether. I mean I should throw up definitely, I should pass out altogether, if I wrote a book, and Phil or somebody came along and made the Vicar do the girl wrong when I mean it wasn’t that sort of book. You know what I mean. Too mottled altogether.’

  ‘It is rather disconcerting,’ admitted Reginald. ‘I try not to think of it as my book any longer, and then when I do recognize a line I’ve written, I feel rather proud.’

  ‘Of course I haven’t read the book,’ said Miss Masters. ‘I mean I thought I oughtn’t to. I mean it would be disconcerting, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Reginald, smilingly
exchanging words with her.

  ‘I mean you can only call it mottled when the book says a girl has black hair, and Phil makes it golden, and Ned Lattimer says play it as if it were mouse-coloured, and a girl’s own hair is chestnut. Well, I mean you either pass out or you don’t.’

  ‘Where did you first meet Lattimer?’

  ‘Ned? At Wolverhampton. Have you ever been there?’

  ‘Never. I don’t think I want to.’

  ‘It is a bit dim. I was playing Rachel in The Night Light. Ned was in front—waiting for a train, I should think. He came behind specially to see me, well, I mean I nearly passed out when I heard it was the great Mr. Masters, I nearly threw up altogether. He asked me why I had gone on the stage. Well, I mean, when you’re nearly passing out, you can’t say straight off because you admired Mrs. Siddons and had read all Shakespeare when you were ten. It was all I could do to utter at all, and I just gulped out because I had seven sisters at home and my stepmother beat me. I mean it was the only thing I could think of. Ned Lattimer said, “Ah, that explains it. I was wondering,” in rather a bleak manner. Then he asked me which of Shakespeare’s heroines I wanted to play. Well, really, I wasn’t quite composs by this time, I mean I was sort of hesitating between Perdita in A Tale of Two Cities and Little Nell in The Dolls House, when Alec, our manager, I could have kissed him, said “She’d make a good Viola, don’t you think?” Well, I mean anything looking less like a producer who thought I’d make a good Viola than Ned, I mean, if you’d seen his face, so I pulled myself together, and said I’d murdered Viola once at school, and once at the Academy, and it would look as if I had something against the poor girl if I did it again. Ned liked that, and told me to come and see him in London. So I did.’

  ‘Accompanied by stepmother?’

  Miss Masters flashed a smile at him and said No. It was rather dim for the stepmother, but she’d had to pass out at Wolverhampton.

  The luncheon went on. Miss Masters, thought Reginald, was good fun for a lunch; well, a quick lunch; well, the smoked-salmon course, anyway. But think of being married to her! Sposh for five minutes perhaps, but after that dim and grim and mottled and more than a bit extra. He would throw up, he would pass out altogether. Definitely.