The Penguin Complete Novels of Nancy Mitford

by Nancy Mitford

  Whilst Walter, who apparently was going to write an article on Puvis de Chavannes, was examining the picture of John the Baptist, Paul gazed at the large Manet and wished he were dead. He felt, however, that like the hero of his own book, he would be too cowardly and ineffective ever to achieve a satisfactory suicide; he was no Roman soldier to lean upon his sword.

  Presently, as they drove towards Mrs Fortescue’s house in Portman Square, Walter said, shouting to make himself heard above the twitterings, groanings and squeakings of his ancient motor car:

  ‘Sally and I met your Marcella last night; she was out with that poor mut Remnant and they joined our party later. We thought she was rather a dreary old do. Whatever do you see in her, Paul?’

  ‘Heaven knows,’ said Paul, drearily.

  2

  Amabelle Fortescue, unlike so many members of her late profession, was an intelligent, a cultured and a thoroughly nice woman. The profession itself had, in fact, been more a result of circumstances than the outcome of natural inclination. Cast alone and penniless upon the world at eighteen by the death of her father, who had been a respectable and well-known don at Oxford, she had immediately decided, with characteristic grasp of a situation, that the one of her many talents which amounted almost to genius should be that employed to earn her bread, board and lodging. Very soon after this decision was put into practice, the bread was, as it were, lost to sight beneath a substantial layer of Russian caviare; the board, changing with the fashions of years, first took to itself a lace tablecloth, then exposed a gleaming surface of polished mahogany, and finally became transformed into a piece of scrubbed and rotting oak; while the lodging, which had originally been one indeed, and on the wrong side of Campden Hill, was now a large and beautiful house in Portman Square.

  Amabelle, without apparently the smallest effort, without arousing much jealousy or even causing much scandal, had risen to the top of her trade. Then just as, at an unusually early age, she was about to retire on her savings, she had married a charming, well-known and extremely eligible Member of Parliament whom she lost (respectably, through his death) some three years later. After her marriage she became one of the most popular women in London. Her past was forgiven and forgotten by all but the most prudish, and invitations to her house were accepted with equal satisfaction by pompous old and lively young.

  The house itself was one of Amabelle’s most valuable assets, and its decoration, calculated as it was to suit the taste of the semi-intelligent people who were her friends, showed a knowledge of human nature as rare as it was profound. What could be more subtle, for instance, than the instinct which had prompted her to hang on the walls of her drawing-room three paintings, all by Douanier Rousseau? Her guests, on coming into this room, were put at their ease by the presence of pictures, and ‘modern’ pictures at that, which they could recognize at first sight. Faced by the works of Seurat, of Matisse, even of Renoir, who knows but that they might hesitate, the name of the artist not rising immediately to their lips? But at the sight of those fantastic foliages, those mouthing monkeys, there could arise no doubt; even the most uncultured could murmur: ‘What gorgeous Rousseaus you have here. I always think it so wonderful that they were painted by a common customs official – abroad, of course.’ And buoyed up by a feeling of intellectual adequacy, they would thereafter really enjoy themselves.

  The rest of the house was just as cleverly arranged. Everything in it belonged to some category and could be labelled, there was nothing that could shock or startle. People knew without any effort what they ought to say about each picture, each article of furniture in turn. To the Victorian domes of wool flowers in the hall they cried, ‘How decorative they are, and isn’t it quaint how these things are coming back into fashion? I picked up such a pretty one myself at Brighton, and gave it to Sonia for a wedding present.’ To the black glass bath those privileged to see it would say, ‘Isn’t that just too modern and amusing for words, but aren’t you frightened the hot water might crack it, darling?’ And to the Italian chairs and sideboards, the exquisite patina of whose years had been pickled off in deference to the modern taste for naked wood, ‘How fascinating, now do tell me where you get all your lovely things?’

  Amabelle’s own personal charm operated in much the same way. She was clever enough only to open up, to put, as it were, on view, those portions of her mentality to which whomsoever she happened to be with could easily respond. All her life she had had before her one ambition, to be a success in the world of culture and fashion, and to this end alone her considerable talents and energy had been directed; from a child she had played to the gallery quite consciously and without much shame. If the fulfilment of this ambition brought with it the smallest degree of disappointment, she managed very successfully to conceal the fact from all but herself – herself and possibly one other, Jerome Field.

  Jerome Field was Amabelle’s official friend, so to speak, appointed by her to that position, and for life. Their friendship had already lasted over twenty years, and had been a most satisfactory one on both sides; for while Jerome was necessary to Amabelle’s comfort and happiness, her only confidant, the one person who thoroughly understood her character and yet never questioned anything that she might do, she, supplying much of brightness and domesticity to an otherwise lonely existence, was no less indispensable to him. The fact that there had never been the smallest hint of love in their relationship (he being frankly in love with his business affairs and she with social life, and neither of them capable of any other real or lasting passion), lent it a peculiar flavour for which she at least was grateful.

  On the afternoon of Paul’s sad vigil in the Tate, Jerome Field took tea, as was his almost invariable custom, in the Douanier Rousseau drawing-room.

  ‘The worst part of getting old in these days,’ he said, ‘seems to be that those of one’s friends who are neither dead, dying nor bankrupt, are in prison. It is really most depressing, one never knows when one’s own turn may not be coming. I said to my directors only today, “Now mind, if I go to the Old Bailey I don’t intend to stand in the dock alone. I asked all of you to be directors on the distinct understanding that you know as well as I do how to add, subtract and even multiply, and I count on you to be equally responsible with me for any slips that are made.” That shook ’em, I can tell you, especially that fat old fool, Leamington Spa; he practically asked me how long we could expect to be at large.’

  ‘But I do hope,’ said Amabelle with some anxiety, ‘that you’re not in immediate danger of arrest, are you? Do try and put it off till after Christmas anyhow.’

  ‘Why, do you need me for something special at Christmas time?’

  ‘Not more than usual, darling. I always need you as you know perfectly well. The thing is that I hope you’ll come and stay with me for Christmas – I’ve taken a house in the country then.’

  ‘Not in England?’

  ‘Yes, in Gloucestershire, to be exact.’

  ‘Good gracious, Amabelle!’

  Jerome Field was one of those rare and satisfactory people who always play the exact part that would be expected of them. At this particular juncture it was obviously indicated that he should register a slightly offended amazement. He did so.

  ‘The country in England, my dear. What a curious notion. Whatever could have made you think of such a thing? Do you say you have actually taken a house?’

  Amabelle nodded.

  ‘Have you seen it?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘How long have you taken it for, may one ask?’

  ‘Two months. I signed the agreement today.’

  ‘Without even seeing the house?’

  ‘Yes, I couldn’t be bothered to go all that way. The house agents seem to think it’s very nice and comfortable and so on, and after all it’s only for such a short time. I thought of moving in just before Christmas. The Monteaths are coming down with their baby, and naturally I want you
too. I think it will be rather fun.’

  ‘But it’s such an extraordinary idea. Whatever will you do in the country for two months, at that time of year too? I’m afraid you’ll be bored and wretched.’

  ‘I don’t know. After all, hundreds of people live in the country, I believe, and presumably they must occupy themselves somehow. Besides, it’s patriotic not to go abroad now. I’ve heard you say so over and over again.’

  ‘Abroad, yes. But there’s nothing to stop you from staying in London, which would surely be more pleasant than to traipse down to Gloucestershire in this weather.’

  ‘You’re not very encouraging, are you?’

  ‘Where is this house, anyway?’

  ‘It’s called Mulberrie Farm, and it’s in the Cotswolds, near Woodford – incidentally, it’s quite near Compton Bobbin, so I shall expect to have little Bobby trotting round most days, and you know how I dote on that child. Apparently Mulberrie Farm itself is very old and lovely. I’m awfully excited about it.’

  ‘Now why, apart from the obvious attractions of young Bobby (horrid little brat) do you choose the Cotswolds of all places? Anything more dreary in winter can hardly be conceived. I dare say that Devonshire or Dorset would have been quite pleasant, but the Cotswolds – !’

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t on Bobby’s account in the least, much as I shall love having him so near. I didn’t even discover that he lived there until after I had signed the lease. No, I read a book about the Cotswolds once when I was waiting for a train at Oban, I don’t know why, but I bought it off a book-stall. I suppose I wanted change for a pound note. Anyhow, I read it, and apparently the Cotswolds are naked, grey hills with lush valleys and Saxon churches and Elizabethan farm houses and lonely wolds, which sound so entrancing, lonely wolds, don’t you agree? In fact, if I like it as much as I know I shall, I might easily buy a house there and settle down among the lonely wolds for ever.’

  Jerome snorted.

  ‘Not cross, are you darling?’

  ‘No, of course I’m not. But, frankly, I don’t think you’ll enjoy yourself much.’

  ‘Then I can come straight back here, can’t I?’

  ‘Yes, that’s true.’

  ‘There’s one other reason why I don’t want to be in London at present,’ said Amabelle slowly. ‘Michael is coming back for good at Christmas, and I can’t, I can’t, face all that business over again. There are limits to one’s powers of endurance, you know.’

  ‘You managed him quite all right before,’ said Jerome drily.

  ‘I’m three years older now and more easily bored by that sort of thing. Besides, Michael makes such appalling scenes and I really don’t feel quite equal to them any longer.’

  ‘Who says you’ll have to feel equal to them? May I remind you, my dear, that three years at Michael’s age is a lifetime, and I should think it more than doubtful that he will still be in love with you when he gets back.’

  ‘Oh, well, if you’re merely going to be disagreeable –’

  At this moment Paul and Walter were announced.

  3

  Amabelle got up to shake hands with them and began moving tables and chairs into different positions.

  ‘Darlings, I couldn’t be more pleased to see you.’

  ‘Let me help with that.’

  ‘Months and months since I saw Paul last.’

  ‘If you’d just say where you want it put.’

  ‘All right, I can manage. There that’s perfect. Now Jerome and Walter can settle down to a game of backgammon, which I know they’re longing to do, while I have a little chat with Paul. Come over here to the fire, darling, and tell me a whole lot of things I’m dying to know about. First of all, was your book really meant to be funny when you wrote it? – don’t answer if you’d rather not; secondly, why did you cut me dead in the Ritz today; and thirdly, who was that very repellent female you were lunching with?’

  ‘What a clever woman you are, Amabelle,’ said Paul admiringly. ‘It’s perfectly terrifying how nothing ever escapes those tiny yellow eyes.’

  ‘Large green in point of fact.’

  ‘There’s nobody like you – luckily. The book was intended as a horrible tragedy, the female was my fiancée, Marcella Bracket, and the reason I cut you was that if I hadn’t she would certainly have insisted on being introduced and I know just how she would bore you.’

  ‘Oh, I see. She’s a bore as well as being hideous, is she? I must say, she looks it all right.’

  ‘I think she’s maddeningly beautiful.’

  ‘She’s certainly not that, poor girl. I can see that we shall have to get you out of this.’

  ‘I wish you could, but unfortunately I happen to be in love.’

  ‘That won’t last,’ said Amabelle soothingly. ‘It never does with you. As for the book, it’s no good writing about the upper classes if you hope to be taken seriously. You must have noticed that by now? Station masters, my dear, station masters.’

  ‘I know, I know. Of course, I have noticed. But you see my trouble is that I loathe station masters, like hell I do, and lighthouse keepers, too, and women with harelips and miners and men on barges and people in circuses; I hate them all equally. And I can’t write dialect. But you must admit I had a pawnbroker in my book.’

  ‘Yes, and such a pawnbroker – those Gibbon periods! Pawnbrokers, my dear, don’t often talk like that in real life, at least, I can’t imagine that they do. No wonder he was taken for a comic figure. What between your book and your young woman you seem to be in a pretty mess, poor darling.’

  ‘I am indeed,’ said Paul gloomily. He was enjoying this conversation as people can only enjoy talking about themselves.

  ‘Though what it is you can see in her I don’t know.’

  ‘Go on saying that. Say that she’s awful and hideous and stupid and unkind, you don’t know what a lot of good it’s doing me.’

  ‘All right, I will, only don’t cry if you can help it, there’s a sweetie. I expect you’ll get over her quite soon, you know; it’s happened before, hasn’t it? Still, of course, it must be hellish for you while it lasts, having to look at that penny bun face every day. The poor girl’s certainly no oil painting.’

  ‘Oh, I am glad to hear you talk like this, Amabelle; it’s cheering me up no end. It makes things much less awful if you honestly think her plain, because perhaps one day I shall see her as you do, and then everything will be all right again.’

  ‘Well, just you bring her round here some time and I’ll tell you all about her.’

  ‘Ha, ha, she’d bore you to death, she’s the most cracking bore I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Are you going to marry her?’

  ‘No such luck. I’m not rich enough. Her mother’s out to catch a guardsman for her.’ To Paul the word ‘guardsman’ was synonymous with millionaire. ‘Besides, it’s not as though she cared for me in the least. She only got engaged to me because she thinks I have some clever friends she would like to meet. She’s a terrific intellectual snob among other things.’

  ‘You seem to have her pretty well sized up, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, she’s driving me mad.’

  ‘Now, don’t cry, or I shall stop talking about you. Do you intend to start another book soon?’

  ‘What’s the good of that? I only get laughed at; I don’t care to be made such a fool of again, I can tell you. It has hurt me terribly – terribly. Look at these.’ He drew the press cuttings from his pocket. ‘They mock at me, they make fun of my sacred feelings. It’s not very nice for me, is it?’

  ‘Poor sweet.’

  ‘It’s the most appalling disappointment, I must say. All my life I have wanted to write; I love it. Now I don’t know what I am going to do. It is hell – hell!’

  ‘I should keep off fiction, if I were you. People don’t understand tragedy in these days, only sentiment; and quite frankly your book was a bit melodramatic, darling,
wasn’t it? Now, why don’t you try your hand at something else, some different form?’

  ‘Yes, perhaps I should.’

  ‘Biography, for instance. I’ve always been told that it’s very good mental exercise, and it can be quite profitable into the bargain.’

  ‘What a nice woman you are, Amabelle,’ said Paul, cheering up visibly. ‘Thank goodness I came to see you. I never thought of biography, but of course that’s the very thing for me. Yes, but whose? May I be your Boswell, darling?’

  ‘I believe books are still censored in England, old boy, and I don’t much fancy the idea of being burnt by the public hangman, thanks awfully, just the same. No, you choose carefully some really sympathetic character – and talking of sympathetic characters, here’s darling Sally. How’s the mother?’

  ‘Very well considering,’ said Sally, who looked enchanting in a seal-skin tippet. ‘Pleased to see you, Paul – not so pleased to see Walter at the backgammon table again. What did you promise me, darling?’

  ‘It’s all right, darling. I’m throwing doubles the whole time today. There, you see, I’ve got old Jerome on the run again. Backgammoned, in fact. That’s a sixteen game,’ he said, leaning back in his chair and putting an arm round Sally’s waist. ‘Anyhow, my sweet, it’s hardly fair to grumble, considering that that most peculiar garment you’ve got on now was bought entirely out of my winnings last week, eh? So go away, or you’ll spoil the luck.’

  ‘How’s my goddaughter, Sally?’ asked Paul.

  ‘Good heavens, are you going to be its godfather too?’ said Amabelle. ‘Whatever induced you to ask him of all people, Sally? And how many godparents does that make?’

  ‘Altogether about twelve, I think,’ said Sally vaguely. ‘We thought it would be silly not to ask Paul, as he is literally the only religious maniac we know.’