‘If Celia comes … ’
‘But there she is. And Sylvia too.’
‘And who is with them? A red-head! I have always wanted a red-head.’ ‘Celia!’ ‘Sylvia!’
‘And you — I don’t know your name — but you’re the colour of new-minted gold, and I’m a fortune-hunter. What would you like to drink?’
The poets exaggerated the situation, and so did the newspaper men, the reporters and special correspondents who came hurriedly to Edinburgh when the rumour spread of social revolution there. It was not that, nor was there ever a danger of planned and serious revolt. There was, admittedly, a noise of uncommon hilarity in the streets, and the business done, in shops and offices, from the breweries of the Canon-gate to the solemn buildings of the University, shrank and dwindled to the likeness of an Italian torrent in high summer: a mere runnel of activity in a river-bed that could hold a winter flood.
The several dance-halls in the city changed their tunes: that also is true. The mechanic beat and the jungle rhythm — the Congo’s black emotion sterilized by the monotonous percussion of an industrial complex — that was banished over-night, and orchestras gladly returned to the waltz. Strauss and the quickening languors of Vienna ruled the air, and a myriad couples traced their spirals of delight on floors that had lately been debased by the dull stamping of feet obedient, at far remove, to the sad impulse of transported slaves.
That is true — but there was no truth whatever in the story written by a reporter of The Daily Day who pretended to describe a scene at the Waverley Station. According to him, a vast, unruly horde of young women, many of whom lived in the tall, turbulent houses of the old High Street and the Canongate — the Gothic parts of Edinburgh — had gone out like shepherds at shearing time, and having driven in a large flock of young men of curious habit — of habit unknown to the majority, but judged inimical to their pleasure by the aggressive young women — had folded them, as if they were sheep, in pens in the station; where, he said, they bleated like sheep.
And then, he continued, the young women took by storm an out-going train — an express train to London — and having by force removed its passengers, compelled the curious young men to take their places; who, indeed, filled the train to overflowing. And as slowly it steamed away from Edinburgh, the exultant young women on the platform pelted the émigrés with rotten fruit, and cheered their departure with barbaric glee.
That was quite untrue. No such thing occurred, though the story was widely believed. What was true, and perhaps the most convincing proof of demoralization, was a widespread contempt of time. Nearly every family, as well as every factory, had been ruled by the clock; and now clocks were ignored. Few were the husbands who still came home for dinner, and when they did they found an empty house. For their wives had gone out. Children were wantonly neglected, and during the few days that the epidemic lasted, they enjoyed uncommon liberty: it was not worth their while to go to school when their teachers, as they knew, were occupied elsewhere. Few letters were delivered, and no telephones rang. For a week there was unbroken fine weather, and under its enormous sky Edinburgh wore a look of lively but idle serenity.
Copies of the improper verses continued to circulate, and few families failed to see them. Though nearly everyone in Edinburgh was respectable by habit, temper, and convention, nearly everyone had one or two friends whose standards were less exacting than their own, and these friends, of inferior probity, were the agents who distributed the verses. Their motive was simple: they were all, it now transpired, devoted admirers of Robert Burns, and they felt it their duty to rescue from the neglect of many years these hitherto unknown examples of his genius.
The cult of Burns was rooted so deeply in Scotland that none could ignore the newly discovered poems, though many, after a first reading, professed dislike of them and deplored their survival. From the very beginning there were those who foresaw their effect and vainly demanded their suppression. By accepted standards they were outrageous in content, yet manifestly the work of genius. Without warning, like a squall on the Line, they broke with a roar of laughter into the dull lives of a multitude of people who were impotently aware of the boredom of their lives — and having broken in they remained in memory with the authority of Robert Burns for warrant, and, for profound disturbance, an anarchic quality which the poets of Rose Street had not exaggerated when they called it Dionysiac. Dionysus was a god whose power no one could deny, and for nearly two hundred years the authority of Robert Burns, in Scotland, had been second only to Holy Writ. So Edinburgh, under its tall, bright sky and the benignancy of late September, was shaken to its foundation by their twin assault.
A rumour of war, like a sinister but familiar voice, was also, at this time, whispering in its suburbs and perplexing its inner parts. The 2nd Carabiniers (The Duke of Rothesay’s Dragoon Guards), now at Redford Barracks, were an Edinburgh regiment, recruiting some two-thirds of their strength from the city. They were under orders for the Far East. Their departure was imminent, and within the last few days the prospect of their foreign tour had been darkened by one of those sudden political storms which have so often obscured the modern world with their unexpected violence. The Carabiniers — the regiment that Simon Telfer commanded — were about to embark for Singapore, for a tour of duty in Malaya. Their movement had not been anticipated, but most of those concerned, whether officers or soldiers, wives or dependants, were looking forward to spending a couple of years in a tropical peninsula where the comfort of the climate was substantiated by a plentiful supply of domestic servants. But then had come news of a military threat, a Communist threat, to the great island of New Brabant, that lay midway between Singapore and Western Australia.
In Edinburgh, therefore, when the news spread of a Communist offensive in the island, it was quickly assumed that the Carabiniers, under orders for Malaya, were in fact on their way to war in New Brabant. And the imminent departure of its own regiment, for battle in the far parts of the earth, reinforced the excitement that Robert Burns and Dionysus had already stimulated.
The soldiers responded joyously to the innumerable invitations they received, but with a magnificent restraint let no indulgence interfere with their military duties. Their behaviour won the praise of all. Young women loudly proclaimed their virtues, and their officers boasted gratefully of their punctual attendance at kit inspections. In their last few days at Redford Barracks, the Carabiniers created a new legend by their superlative ardour and their incomparable discipline. Edinburgh took them to its heart, and the War Office sent them its thanks. Many senior officers in Whitehall had gloomily predicted mutiny and an armed refusal to leave the city; and when their fears were falsified their relief was great.
The Carabiniers with their forty-eight battle honours — Blenheim began the tale and Burma wrote their latest paragraph — stood firm as the Castle Rock itself — as firm in discipline as they were in love on late-night leave — and Edinburgh waited for their embarkation in tears and pride.
VIII
In the minority conspicuously untouched by the Dionysiac infection was Jane Telfer.
Jane was lonely, frightened, and unhappy. Simon had gone again to London — the War Office had wakened him at midnight, the Royal Air Force had flown him at dawn — and Yacky Doo had disappeared. She had gone again and again to his flat in the mews behind St George’s Church, and the pale blue door, as still it refused her entrance, had taken on a blank and mocking look. Desperately she wanted a reconciliation with him. She wanted to admit her theft — and then her loss — of that abominable book in its manila envelope.
She had looked in vain for Paula Moberley, who had gone to the Gargoyle Restaurant and persuaded Fred the barman to give it to her. — And how had Paula known what was in the envelope? Who had told her? Why had she lied, and been flagrantly dishonest, to get possession of it? — She must have known its value, and there was only one person who could have told her that.
On Monday night Paula had dined with Tom
and Mona Murdoch, with Hugh Burnett, and with Max; and on the following morning she had returned to the Gargoyle and Fred had given her the book. So it was Max who had told her — told her its value and described the envelope — and would he have done that except under the compulsion of extreme emotion?
Jane was exceptionally well-balanced, but even the equipoise of sane and healthy emotions cannot prevent a girl from becoming ignobly and wildly jealous of a schoolfellow whom she has always detested, when she finds proof that her schoolfellow has become her father’s mistress. And that was Jane’s discovery. She had had her suspicions, and her suspicions had been reinforced by the gossip of her old friend Hester. She had tried to repel them, and to some extent had succeeded because she had always discounted everything that Hester told her. But now, confronted by her own deduction, she admitted both it and the humiliating recognition that Hester had been justified in all she hinted.
Paula was her father’s mistress, and Paula had stolen the book because her father, loose and garrulous in the intoxication of an old man’s love, had told her about it—just as Simon, in her arms, had broken a promise and told her. Jane had her sense of honesty, and admitted that she had got her knowledge of the book by a sensual and irrelevant argument, but, for the life of her, she could not see that an argument of that sort, so natural between her and Simon, was proper in the case of her father and her detested schoolfellow. Paula’s influence had been malignant, and by any standard of behaviour her association with Max was insufferable.
Hatred was a new experience for Jane. As a schoolgirl she had often said, of Paula, ‘I hate that creature’ — but the feeling had been superficial, a mere ripple of sensation that did not touch the thinking part of her brain. But now that old remembrance was allied to a real cause for hatred, and intermittently she hardly knew how to contain an emotion so violent and so unfamiliar. From time to time, when she was alone, without any compulsion to restrain her feelings, she was physically shaken by them. Her heart resounded in her breast, and when she held out her hands she could see her fingers trembling. But in public places, among friends or with her family, her self-control was perfect.
At Charlie Youghal’s sea-funeral she had, however, avoided, as far as she could, conversation with her fellow-mourners. She had supposed, until then, that Paula’s motive in stealing the book was a simple desire to get possession of something that might conceivably be worth £10,000. But now it occurred to her that Paula’s intention could be more devious, and far worse than that. It was possible, she realized, that Paula, stealing the book from her, had done so with the purpose, first of all, of discrediting her, Jane — and then — oh, most heinous! — of ingratiating herself, Paula, in Max’s esteem! Her possession of the book would prove that she, Jane, had been guilty not only of wild impropriety, but of gross carelessness in losing what she had purloined; whereas she, Paula, could present herself to Max as one who was zealous in concern for his property — and in her possession of it could use the power of possession! She might, even now, be blackmailing him: demanding, with a menace of exposure, money — or what else did she want? Perhaps she loved him. Perhaps she was serious in her love, and wanted (despite the considerable obstacle of Mrs Arbuthnot) to marry him….
These conflicting fears had harassed poor Jane throughout the voyage, and whenever she looked at her father and saw the gravity of his expression — when he was thinking either of his youthful love-affair with the pretty little maid in the broom cupboard, or of his mother’s insistence that he must regularly take Communion to be a success in his profession — she felt sure that Paula was responsible for the unhappiness he showed.
Max, too, was worried and indifferent to the emotional epidemic which had raised the blood-pressure and heightened the complexion of his native city. His sisters, Jessie and Annie, were still in his house on Corstorphine Hill, and Jessie’s enquiries about the book grew more and more pressing. But Max could answer none of her questions — not truthfully, that is — for he had no idea where it was, and Hector Macrae to whom he had entrusted it had vanished.
He still trusted Hector. Hector was a poet — a poet of genius — and poets of that calibre were, as he knew, often indifferent to the petty claims of day-to-day responsibility and bourgeois punctuality. But Hector had disappeared, and with him all knowledge of the book. — Unless there was any truth in Paula’s claim that she knew something of it? But that he did not believe.
After the funeral and their indiscretion in his office, he and Paula had dined at the Gargoyle, where a bottle or two of champagne had revived her affection and let her display it in a manner that he found embarrassingly possessive. With that tactless and profoundly inconvenient memory which, to their detriment, so many women own, she recalled his unmeant and instantly regretted proposal, at the height of his passion, to ‘cut and run’ — it was his own phrase — to the white beaches of the Caribbean and a blank horizon of total irresponsibility.
He had temporized. He had not said, ‘I spoke like a fool, and what I suggested in a moment of stark aberration was such nonsense, and so impossible, that I shan’t even bother to tell you I didn’t mean it’ — he had not said that because with her so close to him, he could not bear to think of losing her, though he had no wish to win her outright.
At nearby tables, almost as close to him as Paula, were his fellow-citizens and their wives, or the wives of remoter citizens, and in their presence he knew that he was for ever bound to Edinburgh by ties too strong for him to break. And so, a little uncertainly to begin with, but gaining confidence as he went on, he told her that words were often used to convey a general emotion rather than a precise intention. A happy phrase, he said, could be thrown into conversation in the same way as a gifted pianist, gaily improvising on a favourite theme, may spread his fingers to strike a chord appropriate to the mood of what he is playing. Words, he assured her, did not always carry the promise and precision of a legal document, but might also serve as illustration, or decoration.
‘What you’re telling me,’ she interrupted, ‘is that you’ve had time to think again and you’re frightened. You’re frightened to do what you want to do, and take what you can get. You’d like to have me, all to yourself, at Montego Bay, wouldn’t you?’
‘There isn’t a man here who would say no to that.’
‘I’m not interested in other men, I’m interested in you. I could love you, Max, if you gave me the chance. And when, a little while ago, you said to me … ’
‘I don’t deny what I said! But what I’m telling you now is that words must be judged in their own context. You must realize that! You’re a fine girl, and I’m very fond of you. Very fond indeed … ’
‘To me,’ said Paula, ‘your words meant more than you think. I took them seriously. I thought you were asking me, deliberately and meaning everything you said, to give up my life here, my life in Edinburgh, and, at the cost of antagonizing all my friends, to start a new life with you. Somewhere far away. And because of that promise — for I thought it was a promise — I let you seduce me.’
‘Not for the first time!’ said Max indignantly.
‘This was the time that mattered,’ said Paula. ‘And — dear Max! — I think I’m going to hold you to your promise.’
‘But it wasn’t a promise! It was a figure of speech!’
‘It would give us both such happiness if we went away together. Such great happiness. And you have worked so hard, Max, that you deserve happiness. Even now, you are looking worried … ’
‘Oh, no, I’m not! I’ll be damned if I am!’
‘But you are. You are worrying about that silly book, which may be worth ten thousand pounds, and which you have lost. And you won’t let me help you to get it back — though I could, very easily.’
‘I don’t believe you. I was a fool to tell you anything about it.’
‘If you hadn’t told me, I couldn’t have found it for you.’ ‘You found it? How could you find it when no one has lost it?’
; ‘But someone did lose it, and I — oh, dear!’
Suddenly, and unexpectedly, Paula opened her mouth in the weariness of a long, noisy yawn, and crossing her hands on the table, let down her head till it lay on the cushion of her wrists. ‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘I want to go to sleep.’
‘You can’t go to sleep here!’
‘I can sleep anywhere,’ she whispered with a confiding smile, and closed her eyes.
That was on Wednesday evening, and on Thursday morning, though Max could not recall the occasion with any pleasure, he did congratulate himself on having behaved sensibly and well in circumstances of considerable difficulty. He had not been so foolish as to try immediately to waken Paula. That would only have roused expostulation, stirred her to anger, and started an argument. Instead, he let her sleep, and told a waiter to bring him some more brandy and a cigar. The spectacle they presented — of Max, still dressed for a funeral, smoking a large Romeo y Julieta while Paula slept quietly with her head on the table — attracted some attention, but those who were rude enough to stare were quickly discouraged by the arrogance of Max’s returning gaze, and his calm pretence that there was nothing in the situation to cause surprise or embarrassment. — Not, that is, to a man of the world.
He finished his cigar, and again summoning a waiter, told him to bring coffee and ask the doorman to call a taxi.
He woke Paula by touching her forearm with a hot spoon. She raised her head, hiccuped, and said, ‘I’ve had a lovely nap.’
‘Drink this,’ said Max, ‘and then we’ll go.’
Presently, with an air of dignified indifference to those about her, she walked to the door, and as she got into the waiting taxi said to Max, in the voice of a girl who had been well brought-up, ‘Thank you for a pleasant evening.’ But then she laid her head on his shoulder and said, in a very different voice, ‘Let’s go quite soon. Next week. Can we go next week? To Montego Bay or anywhere you like — so long as we’re together.’ She sighed, and fell asleep again.
The Merry Muse Page 14
