The White Monkey amc-1

by Джон Голсуорси

  “Are you prepared, if necessary, to repeat this to the Board?”

  The young man pressed his hands together.

  “Well, sir, I’d much rather have held my tongue; but if you decide it’s got to be taken up, I suppose I must go through with it now. I’m sure I hope you’ll decide to leave it alone; perhaps it isn’t true—only why didn’t Mr. Elderson say: ‘You ruddy liar!’?”

  Exactly! Why didn’t he? Soames gave a grunt of intense discomfort.

  “Anything more?” he said.

  “No, sir.”

  “Very well. You’ve not told anyone?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then don’t, and leave it to me.”

  “I’ll be only too happy to, sir. Good-morning!”

  “Good-morning!”

  No—very bad morning! No satisfaction whatever in this sudden fulfilment of his prophetic feeling about Elderson. None!

  “What d’you think of that young fellow, Gradman? Is he lying?”

  Thus summoned, as it were, from stupor, Gradman thoughtfully rubbed a nose both thick and shining.

  “It’s one word against another, Mr. Soames, unless you get more evidence. But I can’t see what the young man has to gain by it.”

  “Nor I; but you never know. The trouble will be to get more evidence. Can I act without it?”

  “It’s delicate,” said Gradman. And Soames knew that he was thrown back on himself. When Gradman said a thing was delicate, it meant that it was the sort of matter on which he was accustomed to wait for orders—presumptuous even to hold opinion! But had he got one? Well, one would never know! The old chap would sit and rub his nose over it till Kingdom Come.

  “I shan’t act in a hurry,” he said, almost angrily: “I can’t see to the end of this.”

  Every hour confirmed that statement. At lunch the tape of his city club showed the mark still falling—to unheard-of depths! How they could talk of golf, with this business on his mind, he could not imagine!

  “I must go and see that fellow,” he said to himself. “I shall be guarded. He may throw some light.” He waited until three o’clock and repaired to the P. P. R. S.

  Reaching the office, he sought the Board room. The chairman was there in conference with the manager. Soames sat down quietly to listen; and while he listened he watched that fellow’s face. It told him nothing. What nonsense people talked when they said you could tell character from faces! Only a perfect idiot’s face could be read like that. And here was a man of experience and culture, one who knew every rope of business life and polite society. The hairless, neat features exhibited no more concern than the natural mortification of one whose policy had met with such a nasty knock. The drop of the mark had already wiped out any possible profit on the next half-year. Unless the wretched thing recovered, they would be carrying a practically dead load of German insurance. Really it was criminal that no limit of liability had been fixed! How on earth could he ever have overlooked that when he came on the Board? But he had only known of it afterwards. And who could have foreseen anything so mad as this Ruhr business, or realised the slack confidence of his colleagues in this confounded fellow? The words “gross negligence” appeared ‘close up’ before his eyes. What if an action lay against the Board! Gross negligence! At his age and with his reputation! Why! The thing was plain as a pikestaff; for omitting a limit of liability this chap had got his commission! Ten per cent, probably, on all that business—he must have netted thousands! A man must be in Queer Street indeed to take a risk like that! But conscious that his fancy was running on, Soames rose, and turned his back. The action suggested another. Simulate anger, draw some sign from that fellow’s self-control! He turned again, and said pettishly: “What on earth were you about, Mr. Manager, when you allowed these contracts to go through without limit of liability? A man of your experience! What was your motive?”

  A slight narrowing of the eyes, a slight compression of the lips. He had relied on the word ‘motive,’ but the fellow passed it by.

  “For such high premiums as we have been getting, Mr. Forsyte, a limited liability was not possible. This is a most outrageous development, and I’m afraid it must be considered just bad luck.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Soames, “there’s no such thing as luck in properly regulated assurance, as we shall find, or I’m much mistaken. I shouldn’t be surprised if an action lay against the Board for gross negligence!”

  That had got the chairman’s goat! – Got his goat? What expressions they used nowadays! Or did it mean the opposite? One never knew! But as for Elderson—he seemed to Soames to be merely counterfeiting a certain flusteration. Futile to attempt to spring anything out of a chap like that. If the thing were true, the fellow must be entirely desperate, prepared for anything and everything. And since from Soames the desperate side of life—the real holes, the impossible positions which demand a gambler’s throw—had always been carefully barred by the habits of a prudent nature, he found it now impossible to imagine Elderson’s state of mind, or his line of conduct if he were guilty. For all he could tell, the chap might be carrying poison about with him; might be sitting on a revolver like a fellow on the film. The whole thing was too unpleasant, too worrying for words. And without saying any more he went away, taking nothing with him but the knowledge that their total liability on this German business, with the mark valueless, was over two hundred thousand pounds. He hastily reviewed the fortunes of his co-directors. Old Fontenoy was always in low water; the chairman a dark horse; Mont was in land, land right down in value, and mortgaged at that; old Cosey Mothergill had nothing but his name and his director’s fees; Meyricke must have a large income, but light come, light go, like most of those big counsel with irons in many fires and the certainty of a judgeship. Not a really substantial man among the lot, except himself! He ploughed his way along, head down. Public companies! Preposterous system! You had to trust somebody, and there you were! It was appalling!

  “Balloons, sir—beautiful colours, five feet circumference. Take one, gentleman!”

  “Good gad!” said Soames. As if the pricked bubble of German business were not enough!

  Chapter II.

  VICTORINE

  All through December balloons had been slack—hardly any movement about them, even in Christmas week, and from the Bickets Central Australia was as far as ever. The girl Victorine, restored to comparative health, had not regained her position in the blouse department of Messrs. Boney Blayds & Co. They had given her some odd sewing, but not of late, and she had spent much time trying to get work less uncertain. Her trouble was—had always been—her face. It was unusual. People did not know what to make of a girl who looked like that. Why employ one who without qualification of wealth, rank, fashion, or ability (so far as they knew) made them feel ordinary? For—however essential to such as Fleur and Michael—dramatic interest was not primary in the manufacture or sale of blouses, in the fitting-on of shoes, the addressing of envelopes, making-up of funeral wreaths, or the other ambitions of Victorine. Behind those large dark eyes and silent lips, what went on? It worried Boney Blayds & Co., and the more wholesale firms of commerce. The lurid professions—film-super, or mannequin—did not occur to one, of self-deprecating nature, born in Putney.

  When Bicket had gone out of a morning with his tray and his balloons not yet blown up, she would stand biting her finger, as though to gnaw her way to some escape from this hand-to-mouth existence which kept her husband thin as a rail, tired as a rook, shabby as a tailless sparrow, and, at the expense of all caste feeling, brought them in no more than just enough to keep them living under a roof. It had long been clear to them both that there was no future in balloons, just a cadging present. And there smouldered in the silent, passive Victorine a fierce resentment. She wanted better things for herself, for him, chiefly for him.

  On the morning when the mark was bumping down, she was putting on her velveteen jacket and toque (best remaining items of her wardrobe), having taken a resolve. Bicket
never mentioned his old job, and his wife had subtly divined some cause beyond the ordinary for his loss of it. Why not see if she could get him taken back? He had often said: “Mr. Mont’s a gent and a sort o’ socialist; been through the war, too; no high-and-mighty about HIM.” If she could ‘get at’ this phenomenon! With the flush of hope and daring in her sallow cheeks, she took stock of her appearance from the window-glasses of the Strand. Her velveteen of jade-green always pleased one who had an eye for colour, but her black skirt—well, perhaps the wear and tear of it wouldn’t show if she kept behind the counter. Had she brass enough to say that she came about a manuscript? And she rehearsed with silent lips, pinching her accent: “Would you ask Mr. Mont, please, if I could see him; it’s about a manuscript.” Yes! and then would come the question: “What name, please?” “Mrs. Bicket?” Never! “Miss Victorine Collins?” All authoresses had maiden names. Victorine—yes! But Collins! It didn’t sound like. And no one would know what her maiden name had been. Why not choose one? They often chose. And she searched. Something Italian, like—like—Hadn’t their landlady said to them when they came in: “Is your wife Eyetalian?” Ah! Manuelli! That was certainly Italian—the ice-cream man in Little Ditch Street had it! She walked on practising beneath her breath. If only she could get to see this Mr. Mont!

  She entered, trembling. All went exactly as foreseen, even to the pinching of her accent, till she stood waiting for them to bring an answer from the speaking tube, concealing her hands in their very old gloves. Had Miss Manuelli an appointment? There was no manuscript.

  “No,” said Victorine, “I haven’t sent it yet. I wanted to see him first.” The young man at the counter was looking at her hard. He went again to the tube, then spoke.

  “Will you wait a minute, please—Mr. Mont’s lady secretary is coming down.”

  Victorine inclined her head towards her sinking heart. A lady secretary! She would never get there now! And there came on her the sudden dread of false pretences. But the thought of Tony standing at his corner, ballooned up to the eyes, as she had spied out more than once, fortified her desperation.

  A girl’s voice said: “Miss Manuelli? Mr. Mont’s secretary, perhaps you could give me a message.”

  A fresh-faced young woman’s eyes were travelling up and down her. Pinching her accent hard, she said: “Oh! I’m afraid I couldn’t do that.”

  The travelling gaze stopped at her face. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll see if he can see you.”

  Alone in a small waiting-room, Victorine sat without movement, till she saw a young man’s face poked through the doorway, and heard the words:

  “Will you come in?”

  She took a deep breath, and went. Once in the presence, she looked from Michael to his secretary and back again, subtly daring his youth, his chivalry, his sportsmanship, to refuse her a private interview. Through Michael passed at once the thought: ‘Money, I suppose. But what an interesting face!’ The secretary drew down the corners of her mouth and left the room,

  “Well, Miss—er—Manuelli?”

  “Not Manuelli, please—Mrs. Bicket; my husband used to be here.”

  “What!” The chap that had snooped ‘Copper Coin!’ Phew! Bicket’s yarn—his wife—pneumonia! She looked as if she might have had it.

  “He often spoke of you, sir. And, please, he hasn’t any work. Couldn’t you find room for him again, sir?”

  Michael stood silent. Did this terribly interesting-looking girl know about the snooping?

  “He just sells balloons in the street now; I can’t bear to see him. Over by St. Paul’s he stands, and there’s no money in it; and we do so want to get out to Australia. I know he’s very nervy, and gets wrong with people. But if you COULD take him back here…”

  No! she did not know!

  “Very sorry, Mrs. Bicket. I remember your husband well, but we haven’t a place for him. Are YOU all right again?”

  “Oh! yes. Except that I can’t get work again either.”

  What a face for wrappers! Sort of Mona Lisa-ish! Storbert’s novel! Ha!

  “Well, I’ll have a talk with your husband. I suppose you wouldn’t like to sit to an artist for a book-wrapper? It might lead to work in that line if you want it. You’re just the type for a friend of mine. Do you know Aubrey Greene’s work?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It’s pretty good—in fact, very good in a decadent way. You wouldn’t mind sitting?”

  “I wouldn’t mind anything to save some money. But I’d rather you didn’t tell my husband I’d been to see you. He might take it amiss.”

  “All right! I’ll see him by accident. Near St. Paul’s, you said? But there’s no chance here, Mrs. Bicket. Besides, he couldn’t make two ends meet on this job, he told me.”

  “When I was ill, sir.”

  “Of course, that makes a difference.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, let me write you a note to Mr. Greene. Will you sit down a minute?”

  He stole a look at her while she sat waiting. Really, her sallow, large-eyed face, with its dead-black, bobbed, frizzy-ended hair, was extraordinarily interesting—a little too refined and anaemic for the public; but, dash it all! the public couldn’t always have its Reckitt’s blue eyes, corn-coloured hair, and poppy cheeks. “She’s not a peach,” he wrote, “on the main tree of taste; but so striking in her way that she really might become a type, like Beardsley’s or Dana’s.”

  When she had taken the note and gone, he rang for his secretary.

  “No, Miss Perren, she didn’t take anything off me. But some type, eh?”

  “I thought you’d like to see her. She wasn’t an authoress, was she?”

  “Far from it.”

  “Well, I hope she got what she wanted.”

  Michael grinned. “Partly, Miss Perren—partly. You think I’m an awful fool, don’t you?”

  “I’m sure I don’t; but I think you’re too soft-hearted.”

  Michael ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Would it surprise you to hear that I’ve done a stroke of business?”

  “Yes, Mr. Mont.”

  “Then I won’t tell you what it is. When you’ve done pouting, go on with that letter to my father about ‘Duet’: ‘We are sorry to say that in the present state of the trade we should not be justified in reprinting the dialogue between those two old blighters; we have already lost money by it!’ You must translate, of course. Now can we say something to cheer the old boy up? How about this? ‘When the French have recovered their wits, and the birds begin to sing—in short, when spring comes—we hope to reconsider the matter in the light of—of’—er—what, Miss Perren?”

  “‘The experience we shall have gained.’ Shall I leave out about the French and the birds?”

  “Excellent! ‘Yours faithfully, Danby and Winter.’ Don’t you think it was a scandalous piece of nepotism bringing the book here at all, Miss Perren?”

  “What is ‘nepotism’?”

  “Taking advantage of your son. He’s never made a sixpence by any of his books.”

  “He’s a very distinguished writer, Mr. Mont.”

  “And we pay for the distinction. Well, he’s a good old Bart. That’s all before lunch, and mind you have a good one. That girl’s figure wasn’t usual either, was it? She’s thin, but she stands up straight. There’s a question I always want to ask, Miss Perren: Why do modern girls walk in a curve with their heads poked forward? They can’t all be built like that.”

  The secretary’s cheeks brightened.

  “There IS a reason, Mr. Mont.”

  “Good! What is it?”

  The secretary’s cheeks continued to brighten. “I don’t really know whether I can—”

  “Oh! sorry. I’ll ask my wife. Only she’s quite straight herself.”

  “Well, Mr. Mont, it’s this, you see: They aren’t supposed to have anything be—behind, and, of course, they have, and they can’t get the proper effect unless they curve their chests in and poke
their heads forward. It’s the fashion-plates and mannequins that do it.”

  “I see,” said Michael; “thank you, Miss Perren; awfully good of you. It’s the limit, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I don’t hold with it, myself.”

  “No, quite!”

  The secretary lowered her eyelids and withdrew.

  Michael sat down and drew a face on his blotting-paper. It was not Victorine’s…

  Armed with the note to Aubrey Greene, Victorine had her usual lunch, a cup of coffee and a bit of heavy cake, and took the tube towards Chelsea. She had not succeeded, but the gentleman had been friendly and she felt cheered.

  At the studio door was a young man inserting a key—very elegant in smoke-grey Harris tweeds, a sliding young man with no hat, beautifully brushed-back bright hair, and a soft voice.

  “Model?” he said.

  “Yes, sir, please. I have a note for you from Mr. Mont.”

  “Michael? Come in.”

  Victorine followed him in. It was ‘not half’ sea-green in there; a high room with rafters and a top light, and lots of pictures and drawings on the walls, and as if they had slipped off on to the floor. A picture on an easel of two ladies with their clothes sliding down troubled Victorine. She became conscious of the gentleman’s eyes, sea-green like the walls, sliding up and down her.

  “Will you sit for anything?” he asked.

  Victorine answered mechanically: “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you mind taking your hat off?”

  Victorine took off the toque, and shook out her hair.

  “Ah!” said the gentleman. “I wonder.”

  Victorine wondered what.

  “Just sit down on the dais, will you?”

  Victorine looked about her, uncertain. A smile seemed to fly up his forehead and over his slippery bright hair.

  “This is your first shot, then?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All the better.” And he pointed to a small platform.