CHAPTER IV
PONGILEONI SURPASSED HIMSELF in the final Badinerie. Euclidean axioms made holiday with the formulae of elementary statics. Arithmetic held a wild saturnalian kermess; algebra cut capers. The music came to an end in an orgy of mathematical merry-making. There was applause. Tolley bowed, with all his usual grace; Pongileoni bowed, even the anonymous fiddlers bowed. The audience pushed back its chairs and got up. Torrents of pent-up chatter broke loose.
‘Wasn’t the Old Man too mar-vellously funny?’ Polly Logan had found a friend.
‘And the little carroty man with him.’
‘Like Mutt and Jeff.’
‘I thought I should die of laughing,’ said Norah.
‘Such an old magician!’ Polly spoke in a thrilling whisper, leaning forward and opening her eyes very wide, as though to express in dramatic pantomime as well as words the mysteriousness of the magical old man. ‘A wizard.’
‘But what does he do up there?’
‘Cuts up toads and salamanders and all that,’ Polly answered.
‘Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog …’
She recited with gusto, intoxicated by the words. ‘And he takes guinea-pigs and makes them breed with serpents. Can you imagine it – a cross between a cobra and a guinea-pig?’
‘Ugh!’ the other shuddered. ‘But why did he ever marry her, if that’s the only sort of thing he’s interested in? That’s what I always wonder.’
‘Why did she marry him?’ Polly’s voice dropped again to a stage whisper. She liked to make everything sound exciting – as exciting as she still felt everything to be. She was only twenty. ‘There were very good reasons for that.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘And she was a Canadian, remember, which made the reasons even more cogent.’
‘One wonders how Lucy ever …’
‘Sh-sh.’
The other looked round. ‘Wasn’t Pongileoni splendid,’ she exclaimed very loudly, and with altogether too much presence of mind.
‘Too wonderful!’ Polly bawled back, as though she were on the stage at Drury Lane. ‘Ah, there’s Lady Edward.’ They were both enormously surprised and delighted. ‘We were just saying how marvellous Pongileoni’s playing was.’
‘Were you?’ said Lady Edward smiling and looking from one to the other. She had a deep rich voice and spoke slowly, as though everything she said were very serious and important. ‘That was very nice of you.’ The ‘r’ was most emphatically rolled. ‘He’s an Italian,’ she added, and her face was now quite grave and unsmiling. ‘Which makes it even more wonderful.’ And she passed on, leaving the two young girls haggardly looking into one another’s blushing face.
Lady Edward was a small, thin woman, with an elegance of figure that, in a low-cut dress, was visibly beginning to run to bones and angles, as were also the aquiline good looks of a rather long and narrow face. A French mother and perhaps, in these later days, the hairdresser’s art accounted for the jetty blackness of her hair. Her skin was whitely opaque. Under arched black eyebrows her eyes had that boldness and insistence of regard which is the characteristic of all very dark eyes set in a pale face. To this generic boldness Lady Edward added a certain candid impertinence of fixed gaze and bright ingenuous expression that was entirely her own. They were the eyes of a child, ‘mais d’un enfant terrible,’ as John Bidlake had warned a French colleague whom he had taken to see her. The French colleague had occasion to make the discovery on his own account. At the luncheon table he found himself sitting next to the critic who had written of his pictures that they were the work either of an imbecile or of a practical joker. Wide-eyed and innocent, Lady Edward had started a discussion on art … John Bidlake was furious. He drew her aside when the meal was over and gave her a piece of his mind.
‘Damn it all,’ he said, ‘the man’s my friend. I bring him to see you. And this is how you treat him. It’s a bit thick.’
Lady Edward’s bright black eyes had never been more candid, nor her voice more disarmingly French-Canadian (for she could modify her accent at will, making it more or less colonial according as it suited her to be the simple-hearted child of the North American steppe or the English aristocrat). ‘But what’s too thick?’ she asked. ‘What have I done this time?’
‘None of your comedy with me,’ said Bidlake.
‘But it isn’t a comedy. I’ve no idea what’s thick. No idea.’
Bidlake explained about the critic. ‘You know as well as I do,’ he said. ‘And now I come to think of it, we were talking about his article only last week.’
Lady Edward frowned, as though trying to recapture a vanished memory. ‘So we were!’ she cried at last, and looked at him with an expression of horror and repentance. ‘Too awful! But you know what a hopeless memory I have.’
‘You have the best memory of any person I know,’ said Bidlake.
‘But I always forget,’ she protested.
‘Only what you know you ought to remember. It’s a damned sight too regular to be accidental. You deliberately remember to forget.’
‘What nonsense!’ cried Lady Edward.
‘If you had a bad memory,’ Bidlake went on, ‘you might occasionally forget that husbands oughtn’t to be asked to meet the notorious lovers of their wives; you might sometimes forget that anarchists and leader writers in the Morning Post aren’t likely to be the best friends, and that pious Catholics don’t much enjoy listening to blasphemy from professional atheists. You might occasionally forget, if your memory were bad. But, I assure you, it needs a first-class memory to forget every time. A first-class memory and a first-class love of mischief.’
For the first time since the conversation had begun Lady Edward relaxed her ingenuous seriousness. She laughed. ‘You’re too absurd, my dear John.’
Talking, Bidlake had recovered his good humour; he echoed her laughter. ‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘I don’t in the least object to your playing practical jokes on other people. I enjoy it. But I do draw the line at having them played on me.’
‘I’ll do my best to remember next time,’ she said meekly and looked at him with an ingenuousness that was so impertinent, that he had to laugh.
That had been many years before; she had kept her word and played no more tricks on him. But with other people, she was just as embarrassingly innocent and forgetful as ever. Throughout the world in which she moved her exploits were proverbial. People laughed. But there were too many victims; she was feared, she was not liked. But her parties were always thronged; her cook, her wine merchant and caterer were of the first class. Much was forgiven her for her husband’s wealth. Besides, the company at Tantamount House was always variously and often eccentrically distinguished. People accepted her invitations and took their revenge by speaking ill of her behind her back. They called her, among other things, a snob and a lion hunter. But a snob, they had to admit to her defenders, who laughed at the pomps and grandeurs for which she lived. A hunter who collected lions in order that she might bait them. Where a middle-class Englishwoman would have been serious and abject, Lady Edward was mockingly irreverent. She hailed from the New World; for her the traditional hierarchies were a joke – but a picturesque joke and one worth living for.
‘She might have been the heroine of that anecdote,’ old Bidlake had once remarked of her, ‘that anecdote about the American and the two English peers. You remember? He got into conversation with two Englishmen in the train, liked them very much, wanted to renew the acquaintance later and asked their names. “My name,” says one of them, “is the Duke of Hampshire and this is my friend the Master of Ballantrae.” “Glad to meet you,” says the American. “Allow me to present my son Jesus Christ.” That’s Hilda all over. And yet her whole life consists precisely in asking and being asked out by the people whose titles seem to her so comic. Queer.’ He shook his head. ‘Very queer indeed.’
Turning away from the two discomfited young girls, Lady Edward was almost run do
wn by a very tall and burly man, who was hurrying with dangerous speed across the crowded room.
‘Sorry,’ he said without looking down to see who it was he had almost knocked over. His eyes were following the movements of somebody at the other end of the room; he was only aware of a smallish obstacle, presumably human, since all the obstacles in the neighbourhood were human. He checked himself in mid career and took a step to the side, so as to get round the obstacle. But the obstacle was not of the kind one circumvents as easily as that.
Lady Edward reached out and caught him by the sleeve. ‘Webley!’ Pretending not to have felt the hand on his sleeve, not to have heard the calling of his name, Everard Webley still moved on; he had no wish and no leisure to talk to Lady Edward. But Lady Edward would not be shaken off, she suffered herself to be dragged along, still tugging, at his side.
‘Webley!’ she repeated. ‘Stop! Whoa!’ And her imitation of a country carter was so loud and so realistically rustic that Webley was compelled to listen, for fear of attracting the laughing attention of his fellow guests.
He looked down at her. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said gruffly. ‘Sorry I hadn’t noticed.’ The annoyance, expressed in his frown and his ill-mannered words, was partly genuine, partly assumed. Many people, he had found, are frightened of anger; he cultivated his natural ferocity. It kept people at a distance, saved him from being bothered.
‘Goodness!’ exclaimed Lady Edward with an expression of terror that was frankly a caricature.
‘Did you want anything?’ he demanded in the tone in which he might have addressed an importunate beggar in the street.
‘You do look cross.’
‘If that was all you wanted to say to me, I think I might as well …’
Lady Edward, meanwhile, had been examining him critically out of her candidly impertinent eyes.
‘You know,’ she said, interrupting him in the middle of his sentence, as though unable to delay for a moment longer the announcement of her great and sudden discovery, ‘you ought to play the part of Captain Hook in Peter Pan. Yes, really. You have the ideal face for a pirate king. Hasn’t he, Mr Babbage?’ She caught at Illidge as he was passing, disconsolately alien, through the crowd of strangers.
‘Good evening,’ he said. The cordiality of Lady Edward’s smile did not entirely make up for the insult of his unremembered name.
‘Webley, this is Mr Babbage, who helps my husband with his work.’ Webley nodded a distant acknowledgment of Illidge’s existence. ‘But don’t you think he’s like a pirate king, Mr Babbage?’ Lady Edward went on. ‘Look at him now.’
Illidge uncomfortably laughed. ‘Not that I’ve seen many pirate kings,’ he said.
‘But of course,’ Lady Edward cried out, ‘I’d forgotten; he is a pirate king. In real life. Aren’t you, Webley?’
Everard Webley laughed. ‘Oh, certainly, certainly.’
‘Because, you see,’ Lady Edward explained, turning confidentially to Illidge, ‘this is Mr Everard Webley. The head of the British Freemen. You know those men in the green uniform? Like the male chorus at a musical comedy.’
Illidge smiled maliciously and nodded. So this, he was thinking, was Everard Webley. The founder and the head of the Brotherhood of British Freemen – the B.B.F.’s, the ‘B – y, b – ing, f – s,’ as their enemies called them. Inevitably; for, as the extremely well-informed correspondent of the Figaro once remarked in an article devoted to the Freemen, ‘les initiales B.B.F. ont, pour le public anglais, une signification plutôt péjorative.’ Webley had not thought of that, when he gave his Freemen their name. It pleased Illidge to reflect that he must be made to think of it very often now.
‘If you’ve finished being funny,’ said Everard, ‘I’ll take my leave.’
Tinpot Mussolini, Illidge was thinking. Looks his part, too. (He had a special personal hatred of anyone who was tall and handsome, or who looked in any way distinguished. He himself was small and had the appearance of a very intelligent street Arab, grown up.) Great lout!
‘But you’re not offended by anything I said, are you?’ Lady Edward asked with a great show of anxiety and contrition.
Illidge remembered a cartoon in the Daily Herald. ‘The British Freemen,’ Webley had had the insolence to say, ‘exist to keep the world safe for intelligence.’ The cartoon showed Webley and half a dozen of his uniformed bandits kicking and bludgeoning a workman to death. Behind them a top-hatted company-director looked on approvingly. Across his monstrous belly sprawled the word: INTELLIGENCE.
‘Not offended, Webley?’ Lady Edward repeated.
‘Not in the least. I’m only rather busy. You see,’ he explained in his silkiest voice, ‘I have things to do. I work, if you know what that means.’
Illidge wished that the hit had been scored by someone else. The dirty ruffian! He himself was a communist.
Webley left them. Lady Edward watched him ploughing his way through the crowd. ‘Like a steam engine,’ she said. ‘What energy! But so touchy. These politicians – worse than actresses. Such vanity! And dear Webley hasn’t got much sense of humour. He wants to be treated as though he were his own colossal statue, erected by an admiring and grateful nation.’ (The r’s roared like lions.) ‘Posthumously, if you see what I mean. As a great historical character. I can never remember, when I see him, that he’s really Alexander the Great. I always make the mistake of thinking it’s just Webley.’
Illidge laughed. He found himself positively liking Lady Edward. She had the right feelings about things. She seemed even to be on the right side, politically.
‘Not but what his Freemen aren’t a very good thing,’ Lady Edward went on. Illidge’s sympathy began to wane as suddenly as it had shot up. ‘Don’t you think so, Mr Babbage?’
He made a little grimace. ‘Well …’ he began.
‘By the way,’ said Lady Edward, cutting short what would have been an admirably sarcastic comment on Webley’s Freemen, ‘you must really be careful coming down those stairs. They’re terribly slippery.’
Illidge blushed. ‘Not at all,’ he muttered and blushed still more deeply – a beetroot to the roots of his carrot-coloured hair – as he realized the imbecility of what he had said. His sympathy declined still further.
‘Well, rather slippery all the same,’ Lady Edward politely insisted, with an emphatic rolling in the throat. ‘What were you working at with Edward this evening?’ she went on. ‘It always interests me so much.’
Illidge smiled. ‘Well, if you really want to know,’ he said, ‘we were working at the regeneration of lost parts in newts.’ Among the newts he felt more at ease; a little of his liking for Lady Edward returned.
‘Newts? Those things that swim?’ Illidge nodded. ‘But how do they lose their parts?’
‘Well, in the laboratory,’ he explained, ‘they lose them because we cut them off.’
‘And they grow again?’
‘They grow again.’
‘Dear me,’ said Lady Edward. ‘I never knew that. How fascinating these things are. Do tell me some more.’
She wasn’t so bad after all. He began to explain. Warming to his subject, he warmed also to Lady Edward. He had just reached the crucial, the important and significant point in the proceedings – the conversion of the transplanted tail-bud into a leg – when Lady Edward, whose eyes had been wandering, laid her hand on his arm.
‘Come with me,’ she said, ‘and I’ll introduce you to General Knoyle. Such an amusing old man – if only unintentionally sometimes.’
Illidge’s exposition froze suddenly in his throat. He realized that she had not taken the slightest interest in what he had been saying, had not even troubled to pay the least attention. Detesting her, he followed in resentful silence.
Complete Works of Aldous Huxley Page 89
