by Ann Bridge
Antony came in to lunch, looking rather tired. “It’s hot,” he said as he sat down, and told the boy to turn on the fan.
“Hillier came round to ask for you this morning, Ant,” Anastasia said about half-way through the meal, when a sort of commination service had been held on the follies and iniquities of the unfortunate Mr. Losely.
“I know—he came on to see me at the office. I say, Asta, I’m afraid he’s going to want most awfully to come on this trip.”
“Oh, no, Antony!” Rose burst out.
He glanced at her in surprise. “Why not, Rose? I thought you said you didn’t know him.”
“He was at the cinema last night, and came and talked to us, twice. I thought him a most pestilential young man.”
“Oh, now why, Rose?” Anastasia asked, with her usual interested reasonableness.
“Oh, I don’t know. He gives you his opinion without waiting to see if you want to hear it. And he uses most tiresomely affected expressions. But of course it’s nothing to do with me, really,” said Rose. “And his hair!” she added, as a final indictment.
“He can’t help his hair,” Antony said, laughing. “I give you his flourishing his opinions at you.”
“Flourishing! He simply bludgeons you with them. But he must have his hair permed, or something.”
“No, he doesn’t. It was always like that, even at school. But I think it’s perhaps going to be rather difficult not to let him come, especially now there’s this hitch over Losely,” Antony went on, speaking as much to. Anastasia as to Rose. “He’s come out here to do a book, and naturally he wants to see everything he can; and this trip would take him into places he could hardly see otherwise.”
“Can’t he take some donkeys and go alone? Don’t people, I mean?” Rose asked.
“He doesn’t know Chinese—or nothing like enough. He couldn’t do that,” said Anastasia with finality. She looked at her brother. “What do you feel about it, Ant?”
“Oh, I’d much rather not have him along, of course,” he answered. “I haven’t seen him for some years, and though I don’t dislike him quite as much as Rose does, I can’t say I think he’s improved. We four know one another and we should all have been easy together—if he comes, it won’t be the same thing at all. But I think it might be rather dog-in-the-mangerish not to let him come, when he’s here, and we’re going. After all, to some extent it’s his bread and butter. What do you say, Tasia?”
“I agree,” she said. “I’m afraid so, at least. Though I’d rather he didn’t butter his bread with Por Hua.” Antony jerked out a monosyllabic laugh, and continued to watch his sister; and Rose watched them both. She was always amused, and touched, and almost a little jealous of their close monopolistic concern for one another. “I never did find him quite as tiresome as you,” Anastasia went on, scooping out the pinkish flesh of a small ribbed green melon. “I should think H.H. will be frightfully bored, though, if he comes. I really don’t know, Ant, whether it’s good enough. Need we be so altruistic?”
“It’s Henry’s own fault, partly—he blew the gaff about our going, I gather,” said Antony. He turned to Mrs. Pelham and asked with rather an effort—“Didn’t he, Rose?”
He could not help watching her face as she answered.
“Well yes, he did, really,” she said. “The creature came up and asked about you, and Henry was a little detailed about your movements, I thought.” She spoke with perfect self-possession.
“Well, I must go,” said Antony; getting up. “Oh, by the way, Asta, Madame de Brie met me in the street; she’s got a cocktail tomorrow and she wants us to go—‘et cette charmante Madame Pelham, si elle est toujours chez vous.’”
“I’m ‘chez vous’ as far as Madame de Brie is concerned,” said Rose; “I like her parties.”
“Yes, I don’t see why we shouldn’t go,” said Anastasia. “After all, till Losely recovers, we’ve got rather a lot of time on our hands.”
Peking in the saison morte is like most other cities in that condition, as far as the European inhabitants are concerned. There are always more people there than one expects, and they are gladder to see one another than at other times; their rather scattered social encounters have more intimacy, there is a “we few, we happy few, we band of brothers” feeling about these remnants of a society supporting life somehow among the vast alien population of the great dusty city, whose air is stale and foetid with the accumulated exhalations of four months of heat. Any familiar face, as the ricksha carries one about the hot streets, is then a positive pleasure.
This genial tone was fully in evidence at Mme. de Brie’s party. She had a large house in the Tartar City perfectly tasteless but exceedingly comfortable; she herself was a large, stout, good-tempered woman, entirely without illusions, but sympathetic and generous, and remarkable, in a society predominantly diplomatic, for the freedom with which she expressed her immediate opinion, whatever it was. M. de Brie styled himself a merchant; he had an office in the Rue Marco Polo where a few dusty-looking bottles of wine and cases of cigars were in evidence; but his real merchandise, as everyone knew quite well, was machine-guns and aeroplanes, which he sold to war-lords. He was a smallish man, very broadly built, with a curiously flattened pale face in which glittered a pair of very humorous and malicious pale-brown eyes; he was a great ladies’ man, and surprisingly enough a successful one—his manners were slightly petit-maître.
Mrs. Pelham and Anastasia had gone round to the office in the car to pick up Lydiard; as they waited between the high grey walls of the de Brie’s hu-t’ung, while the cars in front of them were setting down before the scarlet doors, Anastasia remarked—“Mrs. Bingham told me at the Bétemps this morning that the de Bries have got the girl coming out.”
“Which girl?” Antony asked.
“The daughter—she’s been with an aunt in Europe, being educated.”
“Oh ah. Has she come?”
“Not yet—she arrives next week.”
“What were you doing at the Bétemps? Holding forth?”
“No—Rose wants some undies made, and I took those new pillow-cases round to be monogramed—I thought Sœur Marie-Joseph might as well be getting on with them while we were away.”
“By Sœur Marie-Joseph I suppose you mean those wretched little insects of Chinese girls who sew for her,” said Antony.
Rose laughed. “Why should Asta hold forth, Antony?”
“Oh, she does—she goes round to the C. of E. Mission and Miss Pennefeather’s Female School, and lectures to them on English Life and Letters, and John Stuart Mill, and heaven knows what,” said Lydiard, with not unamiable irony; “I thought she might have started lecturing in French to the insects now.”
“Gracious, Asta, this is something quite new—I’d no idea—” Rose was beginning, when the car, which had lurched forward again, came to a sudden stop. “Here we are—hop out, girls,” Lydiard broke in.
The inner courts of the de Brie house were full of straggling summery groups of people, being plied with things to eat and drink by numerous servants in white. Mme. de Brie greeted the three cousins with warmth, and retained Anastasia by one hand while she spoke to the next comers; she was very fond of “Mdlle. Lydyarre”. Then she turned to her.
“Il faut que je vous dise, ma chère, que votre frère est revenu de Pei-t’ai-ho avec l’air plus désagréable que jamais!” she declared vigorously. “Moi qui voulais recommencer un petit flirt avec lui, en le rencontrant hier—mais c’est à peine qu’il me répond, et de plus il me jette des regards de vinaigre! Ce n’est pas chic de sa part.”
Anastasia laughed. “He’s hopeless, Madame. I shouldn’t bother with him.”
Mrs. Pelham in the meantime had wandered on with Antony. Her eyes roamed over the groups, looking for Henry; he had said that he was coming, but so far there was no sign of him. Then she was accosted by her host. M. de Brie was one of the people to whom Rose found it very difficult to talk—they had nothing in common, and she was always a little
intimidated by his dry waspish comments. For the sake of something to say she made some civil remarks about his daughter’s arrival, and he made a conventional reply. But he did not go away, and unable to think of a fresh subject, she ploughed on at that one—
“Quel âge a votre fille, Monsieur?”
He flashed his pale eyes at her, and showed his teeth in a faintly malicious grin.
“Madame, je me suis marié à quatorze ans—ma fille en a dix-sept!” he said, with fine irony, and turned to greet another guest, leaving Rose, as he had intended, feeling that she had been thoroughly snubbed. But there was no real ill-feeling in him—in a moment he was back again: “Madame, vous permettez que je vous présente à Lady Downham? Elle veut faire votre connaissance.” And he marched her off and introduced her to the elderly lady whom Henry had pointed out to her at the Ch’eng K’wang, again as “Lady Downham.” Lady Harriet was standing, very English, very erect and pleasant, beside a fantastic grotto of rocks, below which large-finned and ludicrous goldfish swam in a small pool; her rather clever black-and-white dress made a discreet and harmonious job of a figure which was no longer very good, though, standing, the immense distinction of her carriage was more eminent than ever. The introduction over, M. de Brie removed himself with continental deftness.
“How clever the French are!” said Lady Harriet, looking after him through a lorgnette. “They come and go so neatly. We tend to hang about rather, I always think. Don’t you?”
Rose laughed outright. “I’d never thought of it, but we do,” she said. “An Englishman would be here still, for ages.”
Lady Harriet looked at her with pleasure. Mrs. Pelham was always pretty, sometimes beautiful; but when she was amused or pleased the sudden flowering of expression in her face made her quite enchanting—and at the moment she was both. She had been taken with Lady Harriet’s appearance at the cinema, and was glad to meet her; to find the particular flavour which she did find, even in those first words, delighted her.
“Exactly,” Lady Harriet now replied, smiling—people nearly always smiled when Rose Pelham laughed. “But even the French seem to find our names very difficult. I can’t think why. I never find them particularly complicated myself.”
Mrs. Pelham supposed that it was because on the Continent every member of the family seemed to stick to the whole title, “even younger sons. If Father is a Vicomte, aren’t they all Vicomtes?”
“H’m, I suppose so. Though Vicomte is a more difficult word than Lord,” said Lady Harriet a little absently, again using her lorgnette. “Do tell me, who is that thin lame man, with the very interesting face?” she asked. “I’ve not seen him before.”
Rose looked. “Oh, that’s my cousin, Antony Lydiard.”
“Antony Lydiard! What a fascinating name. So he’s your cousin. What does he do?”
“He’s in the Posts.”
“He doesn’t look like posts,” said Lady Harriet, still using her lorgnette. “He looks like a writer or a philosopher, or something. Are posts all he does?” There was something about the very slight emphasis with which she reiterated the word ‘Posts’ which made it faintly ridiculous—Rose was charmed.
“Do you think the man he’s talking to now looks like a writer, Lady Harriet?” she asked—for Antony had been engaged in conversation by Roy Hillier.
“Oh, my dear! What an alarming creature! You know who he is, of course?” When she spoke, in a voice always rather on the lower chords, Lady Harriet had a way of deepening the tone on words which she emphasised—‘is’ was so emphasised in this question.
“Yes. I can’t bear him,” said Mrs. Pelham frankly.
“Well, if you’re accustomed to your cousin—! Of course the one is obviously aware of everything, and the other only of what he sees. But he’s very intelligent, you know, Mr. Hillier; he’s quite good company.”
“I hate very clever people,” said Rose. “I mean—is it any good being so clever if one is aware of so little?” She was thinking partly of Henry, who, unspeakably as he often expressed it, was aware of so much.
“There’s never any real harm in being clever, I think,” said Lady Harriet—but now, putting down her lorgnette, she stopped studying the two men, and looked rather curiously at her companion. How pretty she was, and how charmingly dressed, and how direct and pleasant in her speech—and she did not look in the least stupid herself. And that really very interesting and attractive young man, who was obviously full of intelligence, to judge by his face, was her cousin. And she was proclaiming her hatred of cleverness. How intriguing!
“But you haven’t told me about your cousin,” she went on. “I know about Mr. Hillier. Does he really do nothing but posts?” And again, by deepening her voice, she put that delightfully ridiculous emphasis on the word.
“No—he composes a bit, and really plays rather well. Would you like to meet him?” Mrs. Pelham asked.
“Presently—I should love to. Don’t let’s disturb them now—he and Mr. Hillier seem to have a lot to say to one another.”
“Mr. Hillier is trying to persuade Antony to let him join our trip, I expect,” said Rose resentfully—and in response to Lady Harriet’s questions she told her about the proposed expedition to Por Hua Shan. When were they going? Lady Harriet asked, and Rose explained the delay, and prompted by some instinctive certainty that it would go down all right, she gave the exact reason, and followed it up with the full history of Tu Yu Jen and his similar complaint. Lady Harriet was charmed. She laughed her very defined laugh—Ha! ha!—a laugh full of rich enjoyment. “Really, what a perfectly original country, isn’t it?” she said. She and Rose got on like a house on fire, and before they parted Rose had promised to go and lunch with her at the Hotel de Pékin, to take her to see the Lydiards, and to cause Anastasia to accompany her on an expedition to the Summer Palace a few days later. She was amused at Lady Harriet’s direct determination to learn what she wanted to know, to meet whom she wanted to meet, and to enjoy, without any delay or circumlocution, the society of anyone who she felt would amuse her. It was all done with perfect courtesy and grace, and without any forcing of the note—but that simple certainty as to what she wanted, and instant quiet setting about obtaining it was quite new to Rose Pelham, and it pleased as much as it amused her.
And she did not feel again the curious sense of some discord which the sight of Lady Harriet had produced in her that evening at the Ch’eng K’wang. Since that night, and the first morning of reaction after it, she had been much more at peace. The menacing reality, once met and passed, had broken the uneasy dream—and the reality had not in fact been so menacing. Those chilling fears, and the cold proud resolution which controlled them had gone, drowned in a warm flood of passion; Henry had led her with gentleness into a world which she found she could inhabit gladly. For the moment she felt happy and satisfied—the curious intuitive wisdom and directness of physical tenderness was doing its unfailing work in her, and her long-stifled affection was free once more to express itself fearlessly. This alone was an immense relief. And—child of her day and generation that she was—she derived a definite satisfaction from having “gone through with it”, from the fact that she had had the courage of her convictions, and had not been afraid, in the last resort, to give to Henry what he wanted and her husband did not. This was of course partly the first flush of passion in a proud woman, who had given herself with difficulty and now was glad.
Hillier, whom nobody wanted, had definitely been included in the Por Hua Shan party by the time that Rose and Asta and Lady Harriet Downham made their expedition to the Summer Palace. The painful conscientiousness which always afflicted the Lydiards where any human being of their acquaintance was concerned had operated successfully in his case. Henry Hargreaves was greatly disgusted. “It’s all very well, you know, old Antony being such a Samaritan; but the fellow will probably be an infernal nuisance. He’ll want to pry and poke his nose into village concerns, and all that—may be dangerous, you know. And he’ll probably put
us all into his blasted book! These writer fellows, darling”—here he made one of his rapid transitions from irritation to his peculiar brand of nonsense—“these writer fellows have eyes like lynxes! We shall have to be most frightfully bien élevés.” And he gave her a kiss.
“We will be frightfully bien élevés” said Rose gaily, kissing him in return.
The two cousins and Lady Harriet had a perfect day for the Summer Palace—fine and clear, though still hot. They drove out in an antique saloon attached to the Legation, known as “the Conference car”, which Sir James Boggit had put at Lady Harriet’s disposal during his absence at Pei-t’ai-ho. Both Miss Lydiard and Mrs. Pelham once more noticed their companion’s clothes with admiring approval—a soft voile dress of a very dark grey, with a minute white hair-cord check, and a clever black hat with little white wings; like everything else about her, Lady Harriet’s dress had dignity, great style, and an inconspicuous appropriateness. At the Summer Palace they left the car, and wandered about that extraordinary and exotic manifestation of a rather tasteless extravagance. The Chinese can hardly go wrong in architecture, and their buildings rarely lapse from taste; but the Summer Palace does so lapse, and is only redeemed by the presence of hill and water and the gentle grace of trees from sheer absurdity. Some features are not so redeemed. They dutifully stood before the famous Bronze Cow. “My dear, what an object!” said Lady Harriet. “I don’t see any point in it. Do you see any reason for having a Bronze Cow?” Rose, laughing, did not, though Anastasia gave facts about the sculptor. They walked across the Marble Bridge to the island in the centre of the Lake—that they could admire, with its perfect arc and overwhelming repetition of balusters topped with little marble figures, grinning white and grotesque against the blue sky and the soft green of the willows. And they liked the island itself, with its simpler buildings, the cool shady sun-splashed courtyards entered through doorways in scarlet walls, shaped like fans, like horseshoes, like circles and ovals. But when they had re-crossed the bridge and were again among the fantastic pavilions on the shore, carved wherever carving could exist, on lattices, on screens, on loggias and arcades, Lady Harriet stopped again, before the Marble Boat this time, in disapproving astonishment.
