Parade's End (65 page)

Looking round that scene Sylvia’s humour calmed her and she heard the general say:

‘She’s supposed to walk on my arm to that table and sign the settlement… . We’re supposed to be the first to sign it together… . But she won’t. Because of the price of coal. It appears that she has hothouses in miles. And she thinks the English have put up the price of coal as if … damn it you’d think we did it just to keep her hothouse stoves out.’

The duchess had delivered, apparently, a vindictive, cold, calm and uninterruptible oration on the wickedness of her country’s allies as people who should have allowed France to be devastated, and the flower of her youth slain in order that they might put up the price of a comestible
that
was absolutely needed in her life. There was no arguing with her. There was no British soul there who both knew anything about economics and spoke French. And there she sat, apparently immovable. She did not refuse to sign the marriage contract. She just made no motion to go to it and, apparently, the resulting marriage would be illegal if that document were brought to her! …

The general said:

‘Now, what the deuce will Christopher find to say to her? He’ll find something because he could talk the hind legs off anything. But what the deuce will it be? …’

It almost broke Sylvia’s heart to see how exactly Christopher did the right thing. He walked up that path to the sun and made in front of the duchess a little awkward nick with his head and shoulders that was rather more like a curtsy than a bow. It appeared that he knew the duchess quite well … as he knew everybody in the world quite well. He smiled at her and then became just suitably grave. Then he began to speak an admirable, very old-fashioned French with an atrocious English accent. Sylvia had no idea that he knew a word of the language – that she herself knew very well indeed. She said to herself that upon her word it was like hearing Chateaubriand talk – if Chateaubriand had been brought up in an English hunting county… . Of course Christopher
would
cultivate an English accent to show that he was an English country gentleman. And he would speak correctly – to show that an English Tory can do anything in the world if he wants to… .

The British faces in the room looked blank; the French faces turned electrically upon him. Sylvia said:

‘Who would have thought? …’ The duchess jumped to her feet and took Christopher’s arm. She sailed with him imperiously past the general and past Sylvia. She was saying that that was just what she would have expected of a
milor Anglais… . Avec un spleen tel que vous l’avez!

Christopher, in short, had told the duchess that as his family owned almost the largest stretch of hothouse coal-burning land in England and her family the largest stretch of hothouses in the sister-country of France, what could they do better than make an alliance? He would instruct his brother’s manager to see that the duchess was supplied for the duration of hostilities and as long after
as
she pleased with all the coal needed for her glass at the pit-head prices of the Middlesbrough-Cleveland district as the prices were on the 3rd of August, nineteen fourteen… . He repeated: ‘The pit-head price …
livrable au prix de l’houille-maigre dans l’enceinte des puits de ma campagne
.’ Much to the satisfaction of the duchess, who knew all about prices.

A triumph for Christopher was at that moment so exactly what Sylvia thought she did not want that she decided to tell the general that Christopher was a Socialist. That might well take him down a peg or two in the general’s esteem … for the general’s arm-patting admiration for Tietjens, the man who did not argue but acted over the price of coal, was as much as she could bear… . But, thinking it over in the smoking-room after dinner, by which time she was a good deal more aware of what she did want, she was not so certain that she
had
done what she wanted. Indeed, even in the octagonal room during the economical festivities that followed the signatures, she had been far from certain that she had not done almost exactly what she did not want… .

It had begun with the general’s exclaiming to her:

‘You know your man’s the most unaccountable fellow… . He wears the damn-shabbiest uniform of any officer I ever have to talk to. He’s said to be unholily hard up… . I even heard he had a cheque sent back to the club. Then he goes and makes a princely gift like that – just to get Levin out of ten minutes’ awkwardness… . I wish to goodness I could understand the fellow… . He’s got a positive genius for getting all sorts of things out of the most beastly muddles… . Why he’s even been useful to me… . And then he’s got a positive genius for getting into the most disgusting messes… . You’re too young to have heard of Dreyfus… . But I always say that Christopher is a regular Dreyfus… . I shouldn’t be astonished if he didn’t end by being drummed out of the army … which heaven for-fend!’

It had been then that Sylvia had said:

‘Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that Christopher was a Socialist?’

For the first time in her life Sylvia saw her husband’s godfather look grotesque… . His jaw dropped down, his white hair became disarrayed and he dropped his pretty
cap
with all the gold oakleaves and the scarlet. When he rose from picking it up his thin old face was purple and distorted. She wished she hadn’t said it; she wished she hadn’t said it. He exclaimed:

‘Christopher! … A So …’ He gasped as if he could not pronounce the word. He said: ‘Damn it all! … I’ve loved that boy… . He’s my only godson… . His father was my best friend… . I’ve watched over him… . I’d have married his mother if she would have had me… . Damn it all, he’s down in my will as residuary legatee after a few small things left to my sister and my collection of horns to the regiment I commanded… .’

Sylvia – they were sitting on the sofa the duchess had left – patted him on the forearm and said:

‘But general … godfather… .’

‘It explains everything,’ he said with a mortification that was painful. His white moustache drooped and trembled. ‘And what makes it all the worse – he’s never had the courage to tell me his opinions.’ He stopped, snorted and exclaimed: ‘By God, I
will
have him drummed out of the service… . By God, I will. I can do that much… .’

His grief so shut him in on himself that she could say nothing to him… .

‘You tell me he seduced the little Wannop girl… . The last person in the world he should have seduced… . Ain’t there millions of other women? He got you sold up, didn’t he? … Along with keeping a girl in a tobacco-shop… . By jove, I almost lent him … offered to lend him money on that occasion… . You can forgive a young man for doing wrong with women. We all do… . We’ve all set up girls in tobacco-shops in our time… . But, damn it all, if the fellow’s a Socialist it puts a different complexion… . I could forgive him even for the little Wannop girl, if he wasn’t … But … Good God, isn’t it just the thing that a dirty-minded Socialist would do? … To seduce the daughter of his father’s oldest friend, next to me… . Or perhaps Wannop was an older friend than me… .’

He had calmed himself a little – and he was not such a fool. He looked at her now with a certain keenness in his blue eyes that showed no sign of age. He said:

‘See here, Sylvia … You aren’t on terms with Christopher for all the good game you put up here this afternoon… . I shall have to go into this. It’s a serious charge
to
bring against one of His Majesty’s officers… . Women do say things against their husbands when they are not on good terms with them… .’ He went on to say that he did not say she wasn’t justified. If Christopher had seduced the little Wannop girl it was enough to make her wish to harm him. He had always found her the soul of honour, straight as a die, straight as she rode to hounds. And if she wished to nag against her husband, even if in little things it wasn’t quite the truth, she was perhaps within her rights as a woman. She had said, for instance, that Tietjens had taken two pair of her best sheets. Well, his own sister, her friend, raised Cain if he took anything out of the house they lived in. She had made an atrocious row because he had taken his own shaving-glass out of his own bedroom at Mountby. Women liked to have sets of things. Perhaps, she, Sylvia had sets of pairs of sheets. His sister had linen sheets with the date of the battle of Waterloo on them… . Naturally you would not want a set spoiled. But this was another matter. He ended up very seriously:

‘I have not got time to go into this now… . I ought not to be another minute away from my office. These are very serious days… .’ He broke off to utter against the Prime Minister and the Cabinet at home a series of violent imprecations. He went on:

‘But this will have to be gone into… . It’s heart-breaking that my time should be taken up by matters like this in my own family… . But these fellows aim at sapping the heart of the army… . They say they distribute thousands of pamphlets recommending the rank and file to shoot their officers and go over to the Germans… . Do you seriously mean that Christopher belongs to an organization? What is it you are going on? What evidence have you? …’

She said:

‘Only that he is heir to one of the biggest fortunes in England, for a commoner, and he refuses to touch a penny. His brother Mark tells me Christopher could have … oh, a fabulous sum a year… . But he has made over Groby to me… .’

The general nodded his head as if he were ticking off ideas.

‘Of course, refusing property is a sign of being one of these fellows. By Jove, I must go… . But as for his not
going
to live at Groby… . If he is setting up house with Miss Wannop… . Well, he could not flaunt her in the face of the country… . And, of course, those sheets! … As you put it it looked as if he’d beggared himself with his dissipations… . But of course, if he is refusing money from Mark, it’s another matter… . Mark would make up a couple of hundred dozen pair of sheets without turning a hair… . Of course there are the extraordinary things Christopher says. I’ve often heard you complain of the immoral way he looks at the serious affairs of life… . You said he once talked of lethal-chambering unfit children.’

He exclaimed:

‘I must go. There’s Thurston looking at me… . But what then is it that Christopher has said? Hang it all, what
is
at the bottom of that fellow’s mind? …’

‘He desires,’ Sylvia said, and she had no idea when she said it, ‘to model himself upon our Lord… .’

The general leant back in the sofa. He said almost indulgently:

‘Who’s that … our
Lord
?’

Sylvia said:

‘Upon our Lord Jesus Christ… .’

He sprang to his feet as if she had stabbed him with a hatpin.

‘Our …’ he exclaimed. ‘Good God! … I always knew he had a screw loose… . But …’ He said briskly: ‘Give all his goods to the poor! … But He wasn’t a … Not a Socialist! What was it He said: Render under Cæsar … It wouldn’t be necessary to drum Him out of the army …’ He said: ‘Good Lord! … Good Lord! … Of course his poor dear mother was a little … But, hang it! … The Wannop girl! …’ Extreme discomfort overcame him… . Tietjens was half-way across from the inner room, coming towards them.

He said:

‘Major Thurston is looking for you, sir. Very urgently… .’ The general regarded him as if he had been the unicorn of the royal arms, come alive. He exclaimed:

‘Major Thurston! … Yes! Yes! …’ and, Tietjens saying to him:

‘I wanted to ask you, sir …’ He pushed Tietjens away as if he dreaded an assault and went off with short, agitated steps.

So sitting there, in the smoking-lounge of the hotel which was cram-jam full of officers, and no doubt perfectly respectable, but over-giggling women – the sort of place and environment which she had certainly never expected to be called upon to sit in; and waiting for the return of Tietjens and the ex-sergeant-major – who again was certainly not the sort of person that she had ever expected to be asked to wait for, though for long years she had put up with Tietjens’ protégé, the odious Sir Vincent Macmaster, at all sorts of meals and all sorts of places … but of course that was only Christopher’s rights … to have in his own house, which, in the circumstances, wasn’t morally hers, any snuffling, nervous, walrus-moustached or orientally obsequious protégé that he chose to patronise. And she quite believed that Tietjens, when he had invited the sergeant-major to celebrate his commission with himself at dinner, hadn’t expected to dine with her… . It was the sort of obtuseness of which he was disconcertingly capable, though at other times he was much more disconcertingly capable of reading your thoughts to the last hair’s breadth… . And, as a matter of fact, she objected much less to dining with the absolute lower classes than with merely snuffly little official critics like Macmaster, and the sergeant-major had served her turn very well when it had come to flaying the hide off Christopher… . So, sitting there, she made a new pact, this time with Father Consett in heaven.

Father Consett was very much in her mind, for she was very much in the midst of the British military authorities who had hung him… . She had never seemed before to be so in the midst of these negligible, odious, unpresentable, horse-laughing schoolboys. It antagonised her, and it was a weight upon her, for hitherto she had completely ignored them; in this place they seemed to have a coherence, a mass … almost a life… . They rushed in and out of rooms occupied, as incomprehensibly, as unpresentably, with things like boots, washing, vaccination certificates. Even with old tins! … A man with prematurely white hair and a pasty face, with a tunic that bulged both above and below his belt, would walk into the drawing-room of a lady who superintended all the acid-drop and cigarette stalls of that city and remark to a thin-haired,
deaf
man with an amazingly red nose – a nose that had a perfectly definite purple and scarlet diagonal demarcation running from the bridge to the upper side of the nostrils – that he had got his old tins off his hands at last. He would have to repeat it in a shout because the red-nosed man, his head hanging down, would have heard nothing at all. The deaf man would say Humph! Humph! Snuffle. The woman giving the tea – a Mrs. Hemmerdine, of Tarbolton, whom you might have met at home, would be saying that at last she had got twelve reams of notepaper with forget-me-nots in the top corners when the deaf-faced man would begin, gruffly and uninterruptedly, a monologue on his urgent need for twenty thousand tons of sawdust for the new slow-burning stoves in the men’s huts.