Around the World With Auntie Mame

by Dennis, Patrick

  “Basil, dear boy, if you would only stop interrupting. So I’d got this blue wool from a little shop in Oxford Street, which has far nicer wool and much cheaper than . . .”

  “Grrrravell-Pitt!” Captain Fitz-Hugh said.

  “Exactly, Basil. But when I came out of the little shop in Oxford Street it had started to rain and, whilst I had my umbrella, I was afraid that the rain would soak through the paper sack and spoil the wool, for blue, as you know, has a dreadful tendency to fade . . .”

  “Aunt Griselda, please . . .”

  “And so,” she continued holding up an imperious hand, “I bought the first newspaper I could find—oh, one of those dreadful tabloids—to wrap up my wool. And then, as luck would have it, a taxi put a man down right in front of me. So I got into the taxicab and came back here. But I couldn’t help noticing this frightful scandal all over the front page of the paper.”

  “About Gravell-Pitt?”

  “But, of course, dear boy. In any event, I was to lunch with Maude Brockway-Teal at Gunter’s, so I put the blue wool, paper and all, away. Then we talked for so long that I was afraid I’d miss my train and went directly to the station, leaving the wool here, only to find when I’d got back to Heaves that I’d really got plenty of blue wool, which I’d mislaid in the morning room. (The morning room at Heaves faces north and is consequently very dark.) So I needn’t have come to London at all.”

  “But what did the story say?” Basil said, his face working dramatically.

  “How should I know, dear boy? I don’t interest myself in such tittle-tattle. However, the newspaper and the blue wool are right there in my sewing table.”

  “D’you mean you have the paper?”

  “But, of course, dear boy. ‘Willful waste means woeful . . .’ Basil! Do be careful with my sewing table. You’ll mix up all the colors!”

  Basil snatched out an old London tabloid that was as yellow as Lady Gravell-Pitt’s teeth, and with it some blue wool, which, as Lady Spavin said, had faded. Right there on the front page was a photograph of Hermione, teeth grinning eerily from beneath a cloche hat, and a headlined feature article reading:

  PARK LANE ‘PEERESS’

  CALLED CONFIDENCE WOMAN

  ‘Lady’ Hermione Gravell-Pitt, of 25 Park Lane, née Beryl Green, was formally charged with operating a confidence game today . . .

  The story went on to say that a certain Mrs. Schwarz of Durban, South Africa, had been bilked out of £25,000 by Lady Gravell-Pitt with the promise of being presented at Court. It went on to say (continued on page 6) that Lady Gravell-Pitt had a most unsavory record, describing some of her shadier deals both in the business and social worlds, and it added that she wasn’t a Lady at all, having been divorced by Mr. Nigel Gravell-Pitt some years before he had been knighted for conspicuous archaeological work in the ruins of Kush. (So that explained where Hermione had found her teeth.)

  “If I may borrow this newspaper and your list,” I said to Captain Fitz-Hugh, “I think you can see Auntie Mame very soon. In about an hour, in fact.”

  I RACED INTO THE HOUSE IN GROSVENOR SQUARE just as the last of Hermione’s rag, tag, and bobtail were leaving, replete with chocolate éclairs and tea sandwiches.

  “Where’s Auntie Mame?” I asked Hermione.

  “She’s resting in her room and does not wish to be disturbed,” Hermione said, giving me a big insincere ocher-colored smile. “Where have you been all day?”

  “In Court circles, Beryl,” I said, bounding up the stairs.

  “I thought I told you not to speak to me,” Auntie Mame said tearfully from her big canopied bed.

  “Come off it,” I said. “Get out your white evening gown and your feathers—you’re being presented tonight.”

  “Did Hermione finally arrange it?” Auntie Mame said, sitting bolt upright.

  “Hermione didn’t have a damned thing to do with it,” I said. “Now, dry your eyes and take a look at this. Then give me Beryl’s—I mean Hermione’s—dinner list for tonight and I’ll call off the wolves.”

  HALF AN HOUR LATER AUNTIE MAME DESCENDED looking stately and serene in her white brocade Court gown, her diamonds flashing. As she reached the bottom step, the doorbell rang.

  “That will be Basil,” I said, looking at my watch.

  One of the footmen stepped forward, but Auntie Mame said, “I will answer the door myself, thank you.” She did, and Captain the Honourable Basil Fitz-Hugh stepped in, wearing his decorations. He didn’t say anything. He just took Auntie Mame in his arms. It was that way that Lady Gravell-Pitt found them.

  “Well, I must say that this is a pretty picture,” Hermione said.

  “One of the most beautiful in the world,” Auntie Mame said coldly.

  “But your dinner guests. What about the party?”

  “The party’s over, Beryl. I’m being presented tonight.”

  “What?”

  “I said I am being presented at the Court of St. James’s. Tonight.”

  “B-but, Mame,” she spluttered, her dentures dancing, “I haven’t had a chance to make any arrangements. These things take . . .”

  “I feel certain that you have not made any arrangements, Beryl. And what is more, you are not going to have a chance to do any further arranging. Here is your copy of the Court Circular,” she said, handing Lady Gravell-Pitt the yellowed tabloid. “I believe that the only court you’ve ever really known is the Old Bailey.”

  “That’s a hot one, Auntie Mame!” I said. Basil chuckled with a certain self-conscious embarrassment.

  “B-but, Mame, I can . . .”

  “You can go upstairs, get a few things together, and leave this house tonight,” Auntie Mame said. “I’ll have your baggage sent to you tomorrow. All I want you to do now is get out of my sight.”

  There was nothing else for Lady Gravell-Pitt to do.

  Auntie Mame put an arm around each of us and swept us into the garden room, where she poured heroic drinks.

  “Thank you, my darling,” Basil said, “and drink up. You’ll need all the strength you can get for the ordeal of tonight.”

  “Oh, Basil,” Auntie Mame said, caressing him with her eyes, “you must think I’m such a vain, silly, empty-headed, foolish . . .”

  “I certainly do, my beloved,” he said, “and you are to be repaid for your asininity tonight. First by sitting for hours in the car, whilst the traffic is at a standstill; then by waiting about for even more hours in rooms that are either too hot or too cold with a lot of gabbling females in white and diamonds, and finally by trooping out like a horse in the circus to make your curtsy. But when that is done, then you can come back down to earth and be with me.”

  “Oh, Basil,” Auntie Mame said.

  “And now we’d better think about leaving. You know what the traffic will be.”

  “So early, darling? We haven’t even eaten.”

  “Nor will you be likely to for hours and hours and hours. My Aunt Griselda always takes the precaution of tucking a few sandwiches into a special pocket she has built into her train for these Court functions. She may take pity on you and share one. Now, my fond and foolish angel, we must go.”

  “Patrick, my little love,” Auntie Mame said, “would you mind running up and fetching my wrap? And if you’ll look in the cupboard in your room, darling, you’ll find a surprise—a present I bought for you to make up for those dreadful old duds Hermione tried to sell you.”

  “What is it?” I asked, heading for the stairs.

  “A lovely new opera cape, darling. And a black top hat.”

  “Just what I’ve always wanted,” I lied.

  INDEED THERE THEY WERE. AND THEY BOTH fitted. I thought the effect was rather dashing, even if I did look a little like an unemployed magician.

  Auntie Mame’s room was dark but I managed to find her ermine wrap. However, I tripped and fell over something in the middle of the floor. Turning on the lights, I saw that it was her jewel case—quite empty. Auntie Mame was wearing a lot of rocks, I
knew, but there were plenty more where they came from. I grabbed her wrap and hurried to tell her that her jewelry had been stolen. But just as I got to the corridor, I saw Lady Gravell-Pitt sneaking quietly down the stairs.

  “Hey!” I shouted. “Auntie Mame’s jewelry has been . . .”

  Lady Gravell-Pitt turned and gave me one terrible look, then she stumbled on the stairs and went headlong down their entire length, landing with a splat at Auntie Mame’s feet. But that isn’t all that landed. Rings and necklaces and bracelets and brooches and Auntie Mame’s second-best tiara spewed out of Hermione’s hands like water.

  I raced down the stairs and swept up the loot in my new opera cape.

  “All right, Hermione,” Auntie Mame said. “Now get out. Get out this instant, before I call the police.”

  Lady Gravell-Pitt scrambled to her feet and bolted, and that was the last we ever saw of her.

  SITTING IN THE CAR, IN THE TRAFFIC, ON OUR WAY to call for Basil’s aunt, Auntie Mame again vilified herself for being such a fool.

  “It’s all right, darling,” Basil said, kissing her gently so as not to spoil her paint job.

  “And Lady Gravell-Pitt didn’t really get away with anything, Auntie Mame,” I said. “See. I have all your other jewelry right here in my opera cape. Look.”

  I produced my opera cape, which made a commodious bag, and emptied it into Auntie Mame’s lap. Rings and bracelets and necklaces tumbled out onto the white brocade. And there in the center, grinning up from among the sapphires and rubies and emeralds and pearls, were Lady Gravell-Pitt’s teeth.

  Auntie Mame and the Fortune Hunter

  RETURNING TO THE LIVING ROOM, I FOUND PEGEEN waiting patiently. She’s the first person I’ve ever met who seemed genuinely interested in anyone’s trip abroad.

  “Well, I think it’s criminal to take a growing boy off for a vacation and then not let him get one breath of fresh air or sunshine. I mean just keeping him in hotels and houses and . . .”

  “Nothing could be further from the truth, dear,” I said. “Auntie Mame was always vitally concerned with my well-being. We had a lovely sunny holiday while we were gone— swimming, sailing, all that sort of thing.”

  “Where? In the Trafalgar Square fountain?”

  “Not a bit of it. In Biarritz—or very near there. Auntie Mame took a lovely villa and she invited Vera Charles and Lady Spavin and—well quite a lot of her pals—for a simple, pastoral outing. She was also more than selfless in her contributions to the Spanish Civil War.”

  I looked at Pegeen sitting tearfully on the sofa and then I looked at my stepped-up drink and put it down. There are times when alcohol does more harm than good. In vino veritas and veritas was not for us that night.

  I SUPPOSE THAT AUNTIE MAME could have gone right on being the toast of London as Captain the Honourable Basil Fitz-Hugh’s special lady friend and as the protégée of Griselda, Lady Spavin. But once Auntie Mame conquered anything she generally wearied of it. And after a few weeks of constant social life in Court circles Auntie Mame decided that sunnier climes were calling, and besides, she said, English cooking gave her the pip. The next thing I knew, she’d rented a villa near Biarritz.

  A division of labor was then decided upon: I was left behind to deal with temporarily closing the house in London, while Auntie Mame and Vera went on to open the villa temporarily in Biarritz.

  Okaying invent’ry lists and so forth took over a week—a cold, damp week—and so I was delighted to see the sunshine of Biarritz. Auntie Mame met me at the station, brown as an Indian and looking very jaunty in rose-colored slacks and espadrilles. She kissed me many times, threw my luggage in the boot of Captain the Honourable Basil Fitz-Hugh’s two-seater, and took over the wheel.

  “Ah, my little love,” she said, patting my hand, as she careened past the casino, “welcome to the Pyrénées. You’ll love it. Rather brassy, perhaps, but quaint in a feral way. Delicious bathing and the natives all so sweet and friendly—neither French nor Spanish but Basque, the best of both cultures.” She very nearly crashed into a sight-seeing bus, and the driver shouted after her, shaking his fist. “See what I mean, darling? Real Basque camaraderie. Basil and I just love it.”

  “How is Basil?” I asked.

  “Oh, darling, we’re so happy.”

  “Are you engaged?”

  “Well, dear, no. I mean being engaged is so silly for people of our age. Basil wants to marry me and I want to marry him and we’ll be doing it sometime in the fall. It’s all rather vague and not a bit official. Basil and I simply have an Understanding.”

  “That’s nice,” I said. “And how’s Vera?”

  “Oh,” Auntie Mame said, with a sweeping gesture that almost sent the Hon Basil’s car over a cliff and into the Atlantic Ocean. “poor, poor Vera. She’s taken leave of her senses completely. She’s gone mad, mad, mad. And over a man.”

  “No kidding,” I said. Vera Charles had had a succession of gentlemen companions during her many years as a star, but they had all been Just Awfully Good Friends and—leaving some simple token of friendship such as a diamond bracelet or a mink coat—they usually went back to their wives after discovering that Vera was really too selfish to share very much of herself with anyone.

  “If you can call him a man,” Auntie Mame sputtered. “He’s more like something from the reptile world to me. Basil thinks so, too.”

  “Well, if Vera cares so much about him, he must be very rich.”

  “Rich? Hoooo! That’s a hot one! Amadeo hasn’t anything besides the clothes on his back and what he can mooch from Vera— and from me. His name is Amadeo Armadillo. He’s a shifty little spick from some silly South American country that nobody ever heard of until Amadeo married so many rich women that he put the place on the map. He seems to be the principal export and they’re lucky to be rid of him.”

  “But how did Vera manage to meet him?” I asked.

  “Oh, it was just one of those silly moth-and-flame encounters one reads about in magazine stories. Vera went down to the casino one night for a go at the roulette and came home with ten thousand more frances and Amadeo. He’s been with us ever since. To hear her tell it, she looked across the table into Amadeo’s nasty little snake eyes and it was love, love, love at first sight. My own version is that Amadeo looked at all of Vera’s bracelets and that big stack of chips in front of her and decided that poor Vera was the target for tonight.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Vera,” I said. “It usually works the other way.”

  “True, my little love,” Auntie Mame said, “but you must remember that Vera’s getting on. She’s a good deal older than I am and she’s finally reached the Dangerous Age. Although why she couldn’t reach it with a nice old banker or one of her dukes is beyond me. At any rate, Amadeo has moved right into my villa—my villa, if you please. He orders my servants about, arrives late for meals, borrows money, flirts outrageously with every woman except, possibly, Griselda Spavin, has no visible means of support, and Vera thinks he’s sheer heaven. What she sees in him is beyond me.”

  “Looks?” I ventured.

  “Looks? Wait till you see him! He’s ugly. He’s stupid. He’s rude. And he’s a bore. He’s lived entirely off women—don’t ask me how. But Vera’s not that rich, even if she does have the first nickel she ever made. Oh, Patrick, my little love, I’ve got to make Vera see the light. And you’ve got to help me!”

  Auntie Mame swung the car viciously to the right and we lurched through some fancy wrought-iron gates, jounced along a rutted driveway, and stopped in front of a huge watermelon-pink house of the Spanish persuasion.

  “Here we are at Villa Dolorosa, my little love. Isn’t it divine?”

  It was terrible. It had been built during the twenties by an old silent-screen star who had managed to combine the worst of Granada, Bauhaus, and Hollywood and set it all incongruously down on a beautiful, natural promontory between Biarritz and St. Jean de Luz. The uncompromising pink of its stucco was set off by a red t
ile roof, by grilles and balconies, by twisted columns and bottle-bottom windows. Inside, if anything, it was even worse. There were archways and pillars and niches and grottoes. There were gates where doors should have been and doors where windows should have been. Everything that was supposed to be marble was really painted wood, and everything that was supposed to be wood was really painted plaster, and everything that was supposed to be plaster was really painted papier-mâché. It was furnished vaguely in the period of the Spanish Inquisition with a few touches of leopard and chromium. Happily, Auntie Mame had taken a very short lease.

  “I’m putting you in the Velázquez Room, darling, right next to Vera. Get into your bathing things and come right down. Everyone’s on the beach.”

  When I was unpacked and ready, Auntie Mame was waiting in the patio in a sleek swimming suit; she insisted that I tuck into a Continental breakfast. “Eat, darling,” she said. “It isn’t wise to see Amadeo on an empty stomach.”

  We wandered through some rather garish gardens and down a long flight of stone steps to the beach where Auntie Mame’s guests were gathered. Save for Vera’s inamorato, I had met them all before.

  The Hon. Basil Fitz-Hugh came capering up, looking very English-gentleman-on-holiday in bathing trunks and something he called a “boskbeddy,” which I came to realize later was British for Basque beret. He said I was looking jolly well and that it would be ripping to have some young blood around the place.

  Vera, beneath the spell of Amadeo Armadillo, had gone all girlish and soft. She greeted me with a certain regrettable ingénue charm and even kissed me.

  Next came Basil’s old aunt, Griselda, Lady Spavin. She was sitting under a straw hat, under a veil, under a sunshade, under a Deauville umbrella, doing a bit of needlework. I gathered that her function was to chaperone the middle-aged lovers.

  Last came Vera’s South American fortune hunter, Amadeo Armadillo. I could see Auntie Mame’s point instantly. He looked like a gigolo and talked like a dialect comedian. He wasn’t as tall as Vera, even in his Cuban heels. He was partial to suitings in powder blue, maize yellow, and rose beige, with the shoulders padded out so far that he had to go through doorways crabwise. And I think he corseted. He favored navy-blue silk shirts with pale satin neckties, and all of his shoes that weren’t suède were lizard—or both.