House of All Nations

by Christina Stead

  * * *

  Scene Fifty-one: All About the Lord

  When Alphendéry got back from coffee, Jacques Manray hailed him, ‘Mr. Schicklgrüber’s here and is looking for you. He’s in Mr. Bertillon’s office.’

  Alphendéry’s face lightened. He became jovial and hurried upstairs.

  But Jules had not seen Schicklgrüber. Alphendéry went round the doors and inside Comte Jean de Guipatin’s room he heard a warm, callow drawl, ‘Well, it’s all over London that Jules and Carrière have a big sterling contract and that’s you’re betting on sterling staying on the level. Do you know that’s what I call crazy? I don’t care, but he ought to. I heard it and the Lord heard it too.’

  The young comte answered dubiously, ‘Jules says no, but Carrière is bragging. It’s his idea of a modern duel. The duel’s old-fashioned and he’s carrying it out with modern weapons—honorably and by subterfuge! That was the story he told me. Carrière’s an old school friend of mine, as is Jules.’

  ‘Well—sterling’s going off for sure: that’s my guess,’ said Schicklgrüber airily.

  Alphendéry opened the door, with a broad grin. ‘Hullo, Davigdor!’ He began with a full throat, ‘What bloody reactions are you and the Lord promoting this week?’

  Schicklgrüber didn’t heed this remark which touched on universes far beyond his poor brain. He leapt up and towered grotesquely over Alphendéry. ‘By jing!’ He grinned widely and said to Jean de Guipatin, ‘It sounds like the Bull of Bashan, it smells like Araby, it smiles like a Cheshire Cat, it can explain everything like a Chedar boy: it must be Alphendéry. Well, I hear you been inspecting the banks in Antwerp and Amsterdam with a view to taking over same. What’s the result?’

  ‘Marble is used for tombs and by a simple analogy for the places we keep our jack in,’ said Michel.

  Davigdor lowered his voice, looked obscenely at them both, his way of expressing intimacy. ‘I hear there’s a Dutch group wants to buy Jules out. Why don’t he sell? He’s only got to get a couple of first-class accountants in: I know a good firm.’

  They both laughed at his naïve and buffoon inquisitiveness. He leered joyously. ‘How’s that new feller of yours getting on? That hard-luck feller that was in the Claude smash?’

  ‘The market rose and Aristide ran, not even waiting to pick up his dignity,’ said Jean de Guipatin simply.

  For a moment there was silence. Both the bank men looked at Davigdor with undisguised speculation. He smiled knowingly at them. Davigdor Schicklgrüber, a Rhineland Jew, in many respects resembled the ideal Aryan although he was not, as the saying goes, as blond as Hitler, as athletic as Goebbels, as manly as Roehm, or as refined as Goering. Instead, he was blond, blue-eyed, tall, muscular, and given to physical exercises. After picking up a living loafing in Rhineland towns, selling novelties, furs, and ladies’ shirtwaists, he came, through an uncle in the Hebrew community, into stockbroking, thence into England and thus into a familiar’s job with Lord Zinovraud, the great Scottish peer and multimillionaire. As anti-Semitism was Lord Zinovraud’s public policy, or rather one of the tricks he kept up his wide sleeve, for his private commissions he used the great lout Davigdor, who talked as if he had adenoids and so seemed stupid, and asserted that he had nothing on his mind but petticoats. Davigdor had a vocabulary of two or three hundred words at the most and a lot of those were primitive Anglo-Saxon, also common in low German. Davigdor’s exclusive trick was professional Boeotianism: everyone loved him for a fool and no one suspected him. Everyone immediately said, ‘Now this great man, Lord Zinovraud, like all great men from time out of mind, keeps his jester, chuckle-headed Schicklgrüber,’ and they concluded, ‘No use trying to pry Schicklgrüber out of his job: I couldn’t be as idiotic as Schicklgrüber if I tried—he was born for the job.’

  Thus the professional clod ran round Europe with the name of ‘the Lord’ on his lips and the open secret of his connection with ‘the Lord’ in everyone’s heart: and yet no one suspected his missions or really asked why such a nitwit was forever taking de luxe expresses from Berlin to Paris and Paris to Lisbon and Lisbon to Rome. He did it for women, they said, taking their cue from Schicklgrüber himself. In fact, most businessmen had a sort of commiseration for Schicklgrüber who stood so close to the old childless millionaire and yet did not know how to make the best of such an opportunity.

  Davigdor was, as usual, dressed in shabby clothes and had a seedy appearance, bloodshot eyes, and a jaundiced complexion. ‘I say, that was a wonderful tip you gave me, Michel,’ said Schicklgrüber. ‘I buy the Inprecor every week now, and I tell the Lord the news out of it: he thinks my political sense has gone up one thousand per cent. He dreams of the Reds at night. He thinks they have long ears and he doesn’t know they can really put two sentences together. He’s a pest … he’s always ringing me up to find out what I know of the situation. You know me, Michel, I’m a fool: I don’t know Mussolini from Hoover. But he’s beginning to think I’m a politician. Can you beat it? He said to me, “Go to Paris and nose out the situation.” What can I do? I tell you, it’s not a blessing exactly. Day before yesterday, I’d been up with a girl all night. I only got to bed at six o’clock. I was lying on the couch, she on the bed: clothes—everywhere. Suddenly the phone rings. I take it in my sleep. “Whazzat?” “Jew, aren’t you up yet?” he yells. He calls me “Jew”: a joke of his. “Lemme lone,” I say, “I just got to bed.” “Whaddye think of Insull?” he says. “Can’t think, Lord,” says I, “too tired.” “Try sleeping alone,” he yells and jams down the telephone. In a quarter of an hour it rings again. “Jew!” “What?” “Get down to my country place. Quick! My car’lll be there in five minutes.” “O.K., Lord.” I left the girl there. Maybe, she’s still there. I haven’t been home since. He’s like that. What did he want me for? Ask me about this house painter Hitler. A nobody. Getting me out of bed for that.’

  ‘Where did you come from?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I was all over the place last week. Germany, I think. The Lord had some message to send to Berlin. No idea what it was. He never trusts me: I’m too stupid. I met a wonderful blonde on the station and she started to flirt right away. I shied off her … you know how I am.’

  ‘Yes. I know.’

  ‘Sure. But she kept right after me. I slept with her in Berlin, two or three days: nice girl. Say! I hope I gave the feller the Lord’s message. Did I? Gave me her address: Frau Florry Weiler, Poste Restante. I think I’ll write. She said she’d come to London. I gave her my address. J. Davies, Poste Restante, Ipswich. Never had time to do anything else in Berlin. They say it’s miserable now. Is it?’

  ‘What are things like in Germany?’

  ‘Oh, bad, good … do I know? Had no time to see. I was in bed all the time. Oh, I saw another girl, too. A Hungarian, too. Jing, what a girl! Blonde, too. She was married to an officer. Say! I couldn’t get anywhere with the Lord if you hadn’t told me about that paper: what’s the name? Prinkor? I say; how you doing here? Bad, eh?’

  ‘What makes you say that, Davigdor?’

  ‘Oh, I hear in London. Don’t know where I heard. Some ass journalist, someone in the office. Don’t know. It’s just instinct. But Bertillon is selling in London. Why? Only seems one thing. When the gold flies out of the coalscuttle, the bailiff is drinking a beer round the corner. Worth anything? Purely as sniffing, I mean, Michel.’

  ‘You interest me, Davigdor. Where are you lunching?’

  ‘Oh, lessee! Ten o’clock seeing a blonde. Eleven o’clock. Don’t know what I’m doing. Oh: eleven o’clock seeing a blonde. Twelve? Maybe some date with a girl. One I’ll have lunch with you, Michel; You tell me all the dirt. He, he. Eh? ’Safternoon, can’t see you—sleeping with someone.’

  ‘Well, wait a minute.’

  Alphendéry went to Jules. ‘I say, Jules, the “fool for the Lord’s sake” is here. Do you want to see him? He says there are tales about you in London
: selling gold and so on. See what you can get out of him.’

  ‘Certainly: where is he?’

  Schicklgrüber, a boorish flibbertigibbet, was by now in the midst of a tale of his sexual prowess, to William. When Jules entered, Schicklgrüber sprang up, held out his hand with pleasure. His interest in rich men was so instinctive that it was robbed of servility: he had a manly style with them which came from the sympathy he felt for them.

  ‘Bertillon! Why don’t you send Carrière to a sanatarium for life.’

  ‘Why? Do they talk about it in London?’

  ‘Sure, sure! They know everything in London. Why, everyone knows that brewery deal never went through and that he’s just pulling your leg. Why, he had all the dope, Jules. He knew the pound was slipping. And he’s tightening the noose round your neck every quarterday. What a machaia for him. Why don’t you get him for grand larceny or whatever you Frenchmen have? You don’t have that, do you?’

  ‘Go to the devil,’ said Jules.

  ‘Jules,’ Davigdor implored, ‘your credit is no good in London, no good at all. Because you haven’t got the stomach to dish Carrière. You know he’s going about saying he’ll get you? Why don’t you bump him off? Say, give the boys a show.’

  William intervened, ‘We don’t owe him anything, Schicklgrüber; we don’t have to pay him.’

  ‘No? And the billet-doux from Jules he’s showing all over London and Amsterdam and everywhere. Say, you’re dumb, Jules. Why don’t you bump him off?’

  William said, ‘What billet-doux? Then there is a contract.’

  ‘Oh, sure, just a little bit of a private letter: that’s all.’

  ‘You lie, Jules,’ said Davigdor cheerfully. ‘It’s a contract. I saw it. Everyone saw it. He says he’s going to publish it in Sournois’ paper if you don’t come through.’

  ‘Does the Lord own newspapers?’ inquired Alphendéry.

  ‘The Lord? Oh, no, no, no. He wants to influence cabinets. He says, “Look at Hearst, Rothermere, Beaverbrook, and Coty. They own newspapers and they’re about as effectual as a dead leech.”’

  Schicklgrüber, seeing Bertillon sit down, sat down again. ‘Jules, go the right way about it. For instance, you’re going to have trouble with this louse Carrière. This self-decorated Christmas tree Carrière has got the first infirmity of feeble minds. He’s telling it round that he’s going to buy a newspaper. Now, you keep away from all that and you’ll win hands down. Never own a newspaper; own journalists: never buy the news-services. Just pay a whisper: never involve a politician—he’ll let you down or be let out. And compromise: don’t fight.’

  ‘Too much to remember,’ said Jules curtly. ‘You’ve got to handle politicians, like live wires, with newspapers.’

  ‘But bait them, keep them swarming round, don’t land them into your basket, or you’ll find they’re sting rays.’ The great horselaugh followed which made everything he said seem the gabblings of a born natural.

  Bertillon cut this line off abruptly, with his teeth. He was darker than usual. ‘Does the Lord do all his share business through your firm, Ganz and Genug, Davigdor?’

  ‘Not all—just a few dribbles. Don’t know where he does most of his stuff. He doesn’t trust me, you know. “Imbecile,” he calls me. He rings up. “Idiot,” he says.’

  ‘Well, Davigdor, couldn’t you shuttle us a bit of it?’

  ‘If we could get Zinovraud’s business,’ said Alphendéry, ‘a hundred Carrières couldn’t hurt us: it would be worth our while and we’d pay you a first-rate salary, Davigdor. Do you want the money?’

  Schicklgrüber opened his eyes. ‘Really? It’s not so very much, you know. I don’t know where he does his business. Not with us. I have no influence with him. He does what he likes. No influence. No, course I got no dough. I could use money. But could I hand you the business? I don’t know. He has no confidence in me.’

  Jules compressed his mouth satirically. ‘Go on, Davigdor, cut out the come-on!’

  ‘No, no, really,’ protested Schicklgrüber. ‘I have to beg and pray him to give me a few hundred shares to keep me with Ganz and Genug. They wanted to fire me the other day.’

  Jules let a loud laugh blurt.

  Schicklgrüber shambled out to get his shave; his blond-red hair had been sticking out of his graceless chin all the morning. He renewed the appointment to lunch with Alphendéry at one. When he had gone Alphendéry said, ‘Shave? No, blonde. He’s probably picked up six since he got up this morning.’

  ‘If he ever went to bed.’

  William marveled for the tenth time, ‘How does he do it? He’s the ugliest man in Europe.’

  Pettishly, Jules cried, ‘Go and wash the sleep out of your eyes: you’re crazy if you think women like collar ads. Anyone can see Davigdor can make good. I say, this is more important. What do you think Lord Zinovraud pays him?’

  ‘Very little,’ said Michel. ‘Look how seedy he looks. That proves Schicklgrüber is honest. Another man would rob the Lord left and right. That’s how he keeps his job.’

  Jules smiled quaintly. ‘He must make a pile in commissions. I hear Ganz and Genug have no other client: they don’t seem to do any business.’

  Lazily, William, ‘Say, what other clients would you want?’

  Jules was working away at the problem of Davigdor, like a hundred other men in Europe, ‘Do you think Davigdor is as stupid as he makes out? You can’t tell me he’s been with the Lord since fifteen years and got nothing out of it. It isn’t human.’

  Alphendéry opined, ‘All rich men, especially in their old age, begin to long for someone who will hang round them, amuse them, apologize for them, be valet-and-son in one, new doormat and old dog. He’ll probably provide for Davigdor in his will. But he’s mean and crabby … I think it highly likely that Davigdor doesn’t get anything out of it beyond his commissions on the stock-exchange business.’

  William clattered rudely, ‘He’s the Lord’s stalking-horse for women. He’s his come-on man. He can’t run all those girls himself. That’s the secret.’

  ‘The Lord’s seventy-eight if he’s a day. Why he goes round in a Bath chair.’

  ‘You’re crazy now: I saw Zinovraud in the paper this week. He believes in Hitler and he looks gilt-edged.’

  Bertillon stirred again. ‘He would put us on our feet, if he’s Zinovraud’s procurer. And this Carrière business. Zinovraud could crush Carrière if the brewery deal is a fraud.’

  ‘A pander is always nearest to a rich man’s heart,’ said Alphendéry.

  ‘His what?’ William’s lazy tones.

  Jules waved his hand. ‘What should we offer him, Alphendéry? Have you any idea?’

  Alphendéry said promptly, ‘Offer him two hundred thousand francs a year plus commissions, the fourth fifty thousand to be a permanent advance on commissions annually. That salary is for the Lord’s Continental business and any tips Davigdor can give us.’

  William said, ‘That’s a lot of money.’

  ‘If it gets to be known—and it would be known tomorrow—that we’re operating for the Lord, money will flow into our pockets by itself. We can laugh at Carrière, the Comtesse de Voigrand, ex-kings, and functioning dictators.’

  ‘A multimillionaire as canny as Zinovraud doesn’t trust his business to his decoy,’ objected William. ‘I don’t believe he has Zinovraud in his pocket at all: that’s his selling talk.’

  Jules insulted his bachelor brother. ‘Say, what do you know about it? Get a girl for a rich man and you’re on his pay roll for life. And he’ll trust you where he wouldn’t trust his own mother.’

  At lunch Alphendéry made Schicklgrüber the proposition and Schicklgrüber turned it down.

  ‘But Davigdor, do you get that much from Ganz and Genug? Surely not.’

  ‘Oh, sometimes no, sometimes yes—it depends on the market, you know. Sometimes the Lord
gets big news and then he plunges heavily. I can never tell. I make pots, sometimes, but I’m such a fool about women, I spend it all. Then I send Louise, my girl, you know, to posh schools and then I send my old wife a lot. I’m having a good time; why shouldn’t she? I never have a bean. But I don’t want to give the Lord the idea I’m hawking his account about. You know. He might get sick of me and throw me out. After all, what string have I got him on? I’m not worth anything to him. When he wants to, he can enroll me in the unemployed. Nobody in the City of London or anywhere else would offer me ten francs then. That’s the reason you boys want me. Everyone knows I’m the Lord’s mongrel pup that he found pissing on his doormat one night. Don’t I look like it? Haw, haw!’

  His golden horselaugh, engaging, idiotic, rang out among the palms and mirrors of Philippe’s. Alphendéry laughed. Other diners stopped for a moment and smiled, rare thing in Paris. He said lower, ‘I had a wonderful girl before lunch. By jings, Paris has wonderful women. Vienna, too. Berlin, too. I don’t know how I manage to stay in London. I’m like a cat on hot bricks. I tell the Lord he’s crazy but he cares only for money. That’s his only weakness. He’s a wonderful man,’ he went on earnestly shaking his curly head over the plate, ‘he’s a genius.’ A legato note of awe went trailing through his throat, ‘He’s a genius, Michel! He’s a wonderful man.’