by Evelyn Waugh
In the broad tolerance of Bellamy’s this eccentric had been accepted quite fondly. He was dead many years now. It was not conceivable, Mr. Pinfold thought, that all the passengers in the Caliban should suddenly have become similarly afflicted. This chatter was designed to be overheard. It was a put-up job. It was in fact the generals’ subtle plan, substituted for the adolescent violence of their young.
Twenty-five years ago or more Mr. Pinfold, who was in love with one of them, used to frequent a house full of bright, cruel girls who spoke their own thieves’ slang and played their own games. One of these games was a trick from the school-room polished for drawing-room use. When a stranger came among them, they would all—if the mood took them—put out their tongues at him or her; all, that is to say, except those in his immediate line of sight. As he turned his head, one group of tongues popped in, another popped out. Those girls were adept in dialogue. They had rigid self-control. They never giggled. Those who spoke to the stranger assumed an unnatural sweetness. The aim was to make him catch another with her tongue out. It was a comic performance—the turning head, the flickering, crimson stabs, the tender smiles turning to sudden grimaces, the artificiality of the conversation which soon engendered an unidentifiable discomfort in the most insensitive visitor, made him feel that somehow he was making a fool of himself, made him look at his trouser buttons, at his face in the glass to see whether there was something ridiculous in his appearance.
Some sort of game as this, enormously coarsened, must, Mr. Pinfold supposed, have been devised by the passengers in the Caliban for their amusement and his discomfort. Well, he was not going to give them the satisfaction of taking notice of it. He no longer glanced to see who was speaking.
“… His mother sold her few little pieces of jewelry, you know, to pay his debts…”
*
“… Were his books ever any good?”
“Never good. His earlier ones weren’t quite as bad as his latest. He’s written out.”
“He’s tried every literary trick. He’s finished now and he knows it.”
“I suppose he’s made a lot of money?”
“Not as much as he pretends. And he’s spent every penny. His debts are enormous.”
“And, of course, they’ll catch him for income-tax soon.”
“Oh, yes. He’s been putting in false returns for years. They’re investigating him now. They don’t hurry. They always get their man in the end.”
“They’ll get Pinfold.”
“He’ll have to sell Lychpole.”
“His children will go to the board-school.”
“Just as he did himself.”
“No more champagne for Pinfold.”
“No more cigars.”
“I suppose his wife will leave him?”
“Naturally. No home for her. Her family will take her in.”
“But not Pinfold.”
“No. Not Pinfold…”
*
Mr. Pinfold would not give ground. There must be no appearance of defeat. But in his own time, when he had sauntered long enough, he retired to his cabin.
“Gilbert,” said Margaret. “Gilbert. Why don’t you speak to me? You passed quite close to me on deck and you never looked at me. I haven’t offended you, have I? You know it isn’t me who’s saying all these beastly things, don’t you? Answer me, Gilbert. I can hear you.”
So Mr. Pinfold, not uttering the words but pronouncing them in his mind, said: “Where are you? I don’t even know you by sight. Why don’t we meet, now? Come and have a cocktail with me.”
“Oh, Gilbert, darling, you know that’s not possible. The Rules.”
“What rules? Whose? Do you mean your father won’t let you?”
“No, Gilbert, not his rules, the Rules. Don’t you understand? It’s against the Rules for us to meet. I can talk to you now and then but we must never meet.”
“What do you look like?”
“I mustn’t tell you that. You must find out for yourself. That’s one of the Rules.”
“You talk as though we were playing some kind of game.”
“That’s all we are doing—playing a kind of game. I must go now. But there’s one thing I’d like to say.”
“Well?”
“You won’t be offended?”
“I don’t expect so.”
“Are you sure, darling?”
“What is it?”
“Shall I tell you? Dare I? You won’t be offended? Well…” Margaret paused and then in a thrilling whisper said: “Get your hair cut.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Mr. Pinfold; but Margaret was gone and did not hear him.
He looked in the glass. Yes, his hair was rather long. He would get it cut. Then he pondered the new problem: how had Margaret heard his soundless words? That could not be explained on any theory of frayed and crossed wires. As he considered the matter Margaret briefly returned to say: “Not wires, darling. Wireless,” and then was gone again.
That perhaps should have given him the clue he sought; should have dispelled the mystery that enveloped him. He would learn in good time; at that moment Mr. Pinfold was baffled, almost stupefied, by the occurrences of the morning and he went down to luncheon at the summons of the gong thinking vaguely in terms of telepathy, a subject on which he was ill-informed.
At the table he tackled Glover at once on a question that vexed him. “I was not at Eton,” he said suddenly, with a challenge in his tone.
“Nor was I,” said Glover. “Marlborough.”
“I never said I was at Eton,” Mr. Pinfold insisted.
“No. Why should you, I mean, if you weren’t?”
“It is a school for which I have every respect, but I was not there myself.” Then he turned across to the table to the Norwegian. “I never wore a black shirt in the Albert Hall.”
“No?” said the Norwegian, interested but uncomprehending.
“I had every sympathy with Franco during the Civil War.”
“Yes? It is so long ago I have rather forgotten what it was all about. In my country we did not pay so much attention as the French and some other nations.”
“I never had the smallest sympathy with Hitler.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Once I had hopes of Mussolini. But I was never connected with Mosley.”
“Mosley? What is that?”
“Please, please,” cried pretty Mrs. Scarfield, “don’t let’s get on to politics.”
For the rest of the meal Mr. Pinfold sat silent.
Later he went to the barber’s shop and from there to his listening post in the empty lounge. He saw the ship’s surgeon pass the windows. He was on his way, evidently, to the Captain’s cabin for almost immediately Mr. Pinfold heard him say: “… I thought I ought to report it to you, skipper.”
“Where was he last seen?”
“In the barber’s shop. After that he completely disappeared. He’s not in his cabin.”
“Why should he have gone overboard?”
“I’ve had my eye on him ever since we sailed. Haven’t you noticed anything odd about him?”
“I’ve noticed he drinks.”
“Yes, he’s a typical alcoholic. Several of the passengers asked me to look him over, but I can’t you know, unless he calls me in or unless he does something violent. Now they’re all saying he’s jumped overboard.”
“I’m not going to stop the ship and put out a boat simply because a passenger isn’t in his cabin. He’s probably in someone else’s cabin with one of my female passengers doing you know what.”
“Yes, that’s the most likely explanation.”
“Is there anything the matter with him apart from the bottle?”
“Nothing a day’s hard work wouldn’t cure. The best thing for him would be to be put swabbing decks for a week…”
And after that the ship, like an aviary, was noisy with calls and chatter.
“… He can’t be found.”
“… Overboard.”<
br />
“… No one’s seen him since he left the barber…”
“… The Captain thinks he’s got a woman somewhere…”
Very wearily Mr. Pinfold tried to shut his mind to these distractions and to read his book. Presently the note changed. “It’s all right, he’s found.”
“… False alarm.”
“… Pinfold’s found.”
“I’m glad of that,” said the general gravely. “I was afraid we might have gone too far.”
And the rest was silence.
*
The cutting of Mr. Pinfold’s hair fomented relations with Margaret. She prattled off and on all that afternoon and evening, gloating fondly over the change in Mr. Pinfold’s appearance; he looked younger, she said, smarter, altogether more lovable. Gazing long and earnestly into his looking-glass, turning his head this way and that, Mr. Pinfold saw nothing very different from what he was used to, nothing to justify this enthusiasm. Margaret’s gratification, he surmised, sprang less from his enhanced beauty than from the evidence he had given of his trust in her.
Interspersed with her praises there was an occasional hint of some deeper significance: “… Think, Gilbert. Barber’s shop. Doesn’t that tell you anything?”
“No. Should it?”
“It’s the clue, Gilbert. It’s what you most want to know, what you must know.”
“Well, tell me.”
“I can’t do that, darling. It’s against the Rules. But I can hint. Barber’s shop, Gilbert. What do barbers do beside cutting hair?”
“They try and sell one hairwash.”
“No. No.”
“They make conversation. They massage the scalp. They iron moustaches. They sometimes, I believe, cut people’s corns.”
“Oh, Gilbert, something much simpler. Think, darling. Sh… Sh…”
“Shave?”
“Got it.”
“But I shaved this morning. You’re not asking me to shave again?”
“Oh, Gilbert, I think you’re sweet. Is your chin a little bit rough, darling? How long after you shave does it get rough again? I think I should like it rough…” And she was off again on her galloping declaration of love.
More than once Mr. Pinfold—or rather a fanciful image of him derived from his books—had been the object of adolescent infatuation. Margaret’s fervent, naïve tones reminded him of the letters which used to come two a day usually for periods of a week or ten days, written in bed probably. They were confidences and avowals of love, bearing no address; asking no reciprocation or sign of recognition; the series ending as abruptly as it had begun. As a rule, he read none after the first, but here on the hostile Caliban, these guileless words uttered in Margaret’s sweet, breathless tones fell softly on Mr. Pinfold’s ear and he listened complacently. Indeed he began to relish these moments of unction which compensated for much of the ignorant abuse. That morning he had determined to change his cabin. That evening he was loath to cut himself off from this warm spring.
But night brought a change.
Mr. Pinfold did not dress or dine. He was very weary and he sat alone on deck until the passengers began to come up from dinner. Then he went to his cabin and for the first time for three days put on pajamas, said his prayers, got into bed, turned off the light, composed himself for sleep, and slept.
He was awakened by Margaret’s mother.
“Mr. Pinfold. Mr. Pinfold. Surely you haven’t gone to sleep? Everyone is in bed now. Surely you haven’t forgotten your promise to Margaret?”
“Mother, he didn’t make any promise.” Margaret’s voice was tearful and strained, almost hysterical. “Not really. Not really what you could call a promise. Don’t you see how awful it is for me, if you upset him now? He never promised.”
“When I was young, dear, any man would be proud of a pretty girl taking notice of him. He wouldn’t try and get out of it by pretending to be asleep.”
“I asked for it. I expect I bore him. He’s a man of the world. He’s had hundreds of other girls, all sorts of horrible, fashionable, vicious old hags in London and Paris and Rome and New York. Why should he look at me? But I do love him so,” and in her anguish she uttered the whimper which Mr. Pinfold had heard before in this ship on other lips.
“Don’t cry, my dear. Mother will talk to him.”
“Please, please not, Mother. I forbid you to interfere.”
“ ‘Forbid’ isn’t a very nice word, is it, dear? You leave it to me. I’ll talk to him. Mr. Pinfold. Gilbert. Wake up. Margaret’s got something to say to you. He’s awake now, dear, I know. Just tell her you’re awake and listening, Gilbert.”
“I’m awake and listening,” said Mr. Pinfold.
“All right then, hold on”—she was like a telephone operator, Mr. Pinfold thought—“Margaret’s going to speak to you. Come along, Margaret, speak up.”
“I can’t, Mother, I can’t.”
“You see, Gilbert, you’ve upset her. Tell her you love her. You do love her, don’t you?”
“But I’ve never met her,” said Mr. Pinfold desperately. “I’m sure she’s a delightful girl, but I’ve never set eyes on her.”
“Oh, Gilbert, Gilbert, that’s not a very gallant thing to say, is it? Not really like you, not like the real you. You just pretend to be hard and worldly, don’t you? and you can’t blame people if they take you at your own estimate. Everyone in the ship you know, has been saying the most odious things about you. But I know better. Margaret wants to come and say good night to you, Gilbert, but she’s not sure you really love her. Just tell Mimi you love her, Gilbert.”
“I can’t, I don’t,” said Mr. Pinfold. “I’m sure your daughter is a most charming girl. It so happens I have never met her. It also happens that I have a wife. I love her.”
“Oh, Gilbert, what a very middle-class thing to say!”
“He doesn’t love me,” wailed Margaret. “He doesn’t love me anymore.”
“Gilbert, Gilbert, you’re breaking my little girl’s heart.”
Mr. Pinfold was exasperated,
“I’m going to sleep now,” he said. “Good night.”
“Margaret’s coming to see you.”
“Oh, shut up, you old bitch,” said Mr. Pinfold.
He should not have said it. The moment the words crossed his lips—or, rather, his mind—he knew it was not the right thing to say. The whole sturdy ship seemed to tremble with shock. There was a single piteous wail from Margaret, from her mother an inarticulate but plainly audible hiss of outrage, an attempt at bluster from the son: “My God, Peinfeld, you’ll pay for that. If you think you can talk to my mother like…” And then, most unexpectedly came a hearty chuckle from the general.
“Upon my soul, my dear, he called you an old bitch. Good for Peinfeld. That’s something I’ve been longing to say to you for thirty years. You are an old bitch, you know, a thorough old bitch. Now perhaps you’ll allow me to handle the situation. Clear out, the lot of you. I want to talk to my daughter. Come here, Meg, Peg o’ my heart, my little Mimi.” The voices became thick, the diction strangely Celtic as sentiment overpowered the military man. “You’ll not be my little Mimi ever again, any more after tonight and I’ll not forget it. You’re a woman now and you’ve set your heart on a man as a woman should. The choice is yours, not mine. He’s old for you, but there’s good in that. Many a young couple spend a wretched fortnight together through not knowing how to set about what has to be done. And an old man can show you better than a young one. He’ll be gentler and kinder and cleaner; and then, when the right time comes you in your turn can teach a younger man—and that’s how the art of love is learned and the breed survives. I’d like dearly to be the one myself to teach you, but you’ve made your own choice and who’s to grudge it you?”
“But, Father, he doesn’t love me. He said not.”
“Fiddlesticks. You’re as pretty a girl as he’ll meet in a twelvemonth. There’s certainly no one in this ship to touch you and if he’s the man I think, he’ll be
feeling the need of an armful by now. Go in and get him, lass. How do you think your mother got me? Not by waiting to be asked, I can tell you. She was a soldier’s daughter. She always rode straight at her fences. She rode straight at me, I can tell you. Don’t forget you’re a soldier’s daughter too. If you want this fellow Pinfold, go in and take him. But for God’s sake come on parade looking like a soldier. Get yourself cleaned up. Wash your face, brush your hair, take your clothes off.”
Margaret went obediently to her cabin. There she was joined by her friend, several friends, it seemed, a whole choir of bridesmaids who chanted an epithalamium as they disrobed her and tied her hair.
Mr. Pinfold listened with conflicting resentment and fascination. He was a man accustomed to his own preferences and decisions. It seemed to him that Margaret’s parents were being officious and presumptuous, were making altogether too free with his passions. He had never, even in his bachelor days, been a strenuous philanderer. Abroad, especially in remote places, he used to patronize brothels with the curiosity of a traveler who sought to taste all flavors of the exotic. In England he was rather constant and rather romantic in his affections. Since marriage he had been faithful to his wife. He had, since his acceptance of the laws of the Church, developed what approximated to a virtuous disposition; a reluctance to commit deliberate grave sins, which was independent of the fear of Hell; he had assumed a personality to which such specifically forbidden actions were inappropriate. And yet amorous expectations began to stir in Mr. Pinfold. That acquired restraint and dignity of his had suffered some hard knocking-about during the last few days. Margaret’s visit was exciting. He started to plan her reception.
The cabin with its two narrow bunks was ill-designed for such purposes. He began by tidying it, putting away his clothes and straightening the bed. He succeeded only in making it look unoccupied. She would enter by that door. She must not find him reclining like a pasha. He must be on his feet. There was one chair only. Should he offer it to her? Somehow he must dispose her, supine, on the bunk. But how to get her there silently and gracefully. How to shift her? Was she portable? He wished that he knew her dimensions.
