by A. A. Milne
Lady Ormsby looked at him with the loving smile with which she always thought of him. The idea of telling a woman you had only just met that she will lose her reputation if she is seen about with your husband was rather funny.
‘Bless you, dear,’ said Maggie. ‘Now, what were you going to tell me?’
Mr. Fondeveril told her. And the country cousins said, ‘Who is he? I know I’ve seen him before.’ And the Wellards consulted the menu again, drank coffee, and went off to the Rialto.
III
But it is doubtful if they ever got there. The Wellards’ London was widening daily, but would never catch up with the geography of the Film Magnate. Reginald had started half a dozen Rialtos behind, and did not seem to be making any ground. As soon as he could say confidently to himself, ‘This is the Taj Mahal,’ the Louvre would flash its new-found lights at him, and leave him with the dazzled feeling that it was somewhere else. ‘No, darling, that’s the Bargello. The Louvre—or am I thinking of the Rialto?’ And though it was certainly of the Rialto that they were thinking when they left the Ivy, and of the film which everybody said was so good, it was at the Giant Pyramid, as likely as not, that they passed the evening.
In the company of two-dimensional husbands and wives. Which surprises you most, Reginald had asked Coral Bell, that so many marriages are successes, or that so many are failures? The surprising thing, surely, was that so many were successes. Do we ever stop fouling the domestic nest? If a writer is to be serious about married life, there is only one way for him to be serious; the marriage must be a tragic failure; sordid, unlovely; a vulgarity of body, mind or spirit. If a writer is to be humorous about married life, there is only one way for him to be humorous; the marriage must be a comic failure; but still sordid, still unlovely; vulgarity holding both its sides. Tragedy, comedy? A man loses his faith, his honour, his loved one, or he loses his hat; he is a theme for tragedy or comedy; but not if faith and honour and the loved one are never kept, not if all the world is mislaying its hat. Surely, thought Reginald, even in a film there should be a suggestion that marriage might be a lovely thing, that here was a beauty worth striving for, even if so many missed it.
That couple in front of us. Perhaps they have been holding hands for two years, watching a film like this once every week—a hundred films like this, and now they are to be married! How easy it makes it for them! How well-remembered, how right, the infelicities of marriage will seem! And if the children of their sordid house should fail to bring them honour, how inevitable to blame those other pictures, of the adventurous and the lightly clothed, for contaminating their young minds. . . .
Things aren’t moral and immoral, thought Reginald, they’re beautiful and ugly. Ugliness is the only thing which ought to be censored. . . .
From underneath the bed the husband’s head came cautiously out. Its jaws worked silently, chewing gum. There was an extremity of terror on its features, and as these became smaller and more distant, the cause of their apprehension came backwards into focus, a harsh-faced little woman with a rolling pin in her hand, seated opposite the door, waiting grimly for her husband’s return. Like that of some anxious tortoise, the husband’s head moved forth and back, like some misinformed hawk the wife waited to pounce on what was not there, on what was behind her, unseen, unsuspected. From wife to husband, from husband to wife, four thousand eyes were conducted, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, lest any implication of the misunderstanding should be overlooked. Wife waiting for Husband; Husband already there. Wife resolute to wait all night. Husband, under bed, doomed to remain all night. . . .
A Bedroom Scene. Fortunately not one of those Bedroom Scenes which corrupt the morals. All clean, healthy fun. . . .
Sylvia is laughing. (How curiously insensitive women are.)
Reginald is laughing. (Ugly, horrible; but, after all, it is rather comic.)
Chapter Fifteen
I
UNDOUBTEDLY Sylvia was, as they used to say, leading her own life. She was no longer Westaways, the Westaways that was invited to lunch or tea or dinner, to tennis parties or cricket matches; she was no longer the Wellards. ‘You’ now meant herself, ‘you’ was Sylvia Wellard, that lovely Sylvia Wellard, singular not plural. In the country ‘you’ was honestly you, in London, it seemed, ‘you’ was as often as not an invidious thou. How many husbands, not aware of this, have dragged in unnecessary wives, or wives unwanted husbands?
Of course Reginald also was leading his own life; very much thou. But this was natural. It was he who had written Bindweed, he who was part-author (if you called it that) of a play now in rehearsal, he who lunched with Mr. Pump in order to discuss the next novel. Sylvia had nothing to do with all this. Sylvia’s activities were social, in which Reginald might well have been asked to join; Reginald’s were business, in which Sylvia had no part. No wife could possibly object when Reginald became ‘thou’, but the most understanding husband might feel a little hurt (surely?) at the constant familiarity of this second person singular with Mrs. Wellard.
Reginald was hurt. Unreasonably, of course, but that made it no less painful. What I really want, he thought, what every man wants, is a harem. Three wives. One to look after me, one to talk to, one to love. And the loved one must be sacred. Nobody must see her, nobody come near her, but myself. Or is that nonsense? Yes. I think it is. Damnably unfair, anyhow. . . . If I were one of three husbands, what would Sylvia choose me for? Perhaps I shouldn’t be chosen at all. Yes, I should, I should. Shouldn’t I, Sylvia? You do love me still?
In the golden light of memory what a succession of lovely pictures the past threw up! Every shared experience at Westaways seemed now as some precious infinite moment in a dream, a realization of happiness never truly to be held, perhaps never again to be touched. There had they sat, there stood, there held hands; met, walked, kissed, looked into each other’s eyes; played, laughed together. This day, that day, when this had happened, when that had happened, each memory, however commonplace, brought now its sudden vivid, overwhelming picture of himself and Sylvia as one, inextricably twined. She was the lovely flower, on whose beauty he lived.
Was it only her physical beauty which kept him alive, only her body which he loved? Ridiculous! As seen thus in retrospect, every thought of hers, every misunderstanding, every incomprehension was part of the Sylvia to whom he was bound, the Sylvia to whom he had been unfaithful. There is an unfaithfulness of spirit, he thought, no less than of body. I have been unfaithful to Sylvia. God help me, I have even despised her. No, I haven’t, he thought quickly. . . . And then, Yes, I have.
I am being damnably jealous for no reason at all. Why can’t she go her way, I mine? And then we meet in the evening . . . at night . . . and are one again. I have my secret thoughts—why should not she? I have my friends, my activities—why should not she? It’s this damnable possessive instinct which men have. I want to be free, but I want her not to be free. And yet I am less free than she is, for I have that faint uneasy feeling of disloyalty to her when I am with another woman. Does she have that feeling? Of course not. Why should she?
I wish I could be on a desert island with her for ever and ever. . . . He laughed as he remembered that he had once wished to be there with Coral Bell.
I wish we had never come to London. (And never met Coral Bell? Certainly.)
I wish—oh, God knows what I wish. Only I love you, Sylvia, and don’t enjoy yourself too much without me, and—oh, let’s go back to Westaways soon! We were so terribly happy there.
But, as he came to the Green Park, he had altered it to ‘I mean, I was terribly happy there’, and, as he left the Park, again to ‘I mean, I seem now to have been terribly happy there’, and by the time he reached the theatre he was thinking that London wasn’t a bad place after all, when exciting things like this were happening.
‘This’ was Reginald’s first approach to a theatre through the stage-door. Miss Ethel Prentic
e, that popular favourite, was to be presented by Mr. Augustus Venture, that extremely popular impresario, in an entirely new play by Mr. Filby Nixon, that popular dramatist, based on that remarkably popular novel Bindweed. ‘It might amuse you to drop in to a rehearsal,’ wrote Nixon. ‘We start on Monday.’ And on Thursday Reginald felt that he could delay his amusement no longer.
So here he was, not quite knowing how to take the first step. Ask for Mr. Nixon? But then ought one to drag him away from the middle of rehearsal? Push through the swing-doors and hope for the best? The problem was settled for him.
‘Yessir?’ said a head, popping out of its cage.
Reginald explained, with that air of apology which somehow seemed natural to the situation.
‘There’s no rehearsal called for this morning, sir.’
‘Oh!’ (What had happened?) ‘They have been rehearsing here, haven’t they?’
‘Yes, that’s all right, sir, but there’s been just a little trouble, as I understand it. Mr. Nixon’s up with Mr. Venture now. Shall I tell him you’re here, sir?’
‘Oh, well, I don’t suppose he wants——’
‘No harm in letting him know, sir.’ He picked up the telephone.
So, a little later, Reginald was shaking hands with Mr. Augustus Venture, and was by him being introduced to Lattimer. (‘You know Lattimer, of course?’)
Though of no more than middle height Mr. Venture was probably the widest man in London. As he wore pale fawn waistcoats, and was fond of putting his thumbs under his braces, he seemed even wider than that. He had a reddish-brown suit, a red carnation in his button-hole, a high collar with a red bow tie, and a cigar in the middle of his round red baby face. Mr. Lattimer was black, and apparently in the Church. Even with this aid, thought Reginald ridiculously, Mr. Venture was much too wide to get into Heaven.
‘I’m glad you’ve come, old man,’ said Nixon again. ‘It concerns you in a sort of way.’
‘And four heads are better than three,’ murmured the clergyman sardonically.
Mr. Venture said something indistinctly through his cigar, and nodded to Nixon.
‘It’s like this,’ began Nixon.
Mr. Venture removed his cigar.
‘See here,’ said Mr. Venture, who had moments of wishing you to think he was an American. ‘See here, Mr.—— Sorry. Didn’t get your name.’
‘Wellard, Reginald Wellard,’ prompted Nixon in a distressful whisper. ‘The author.’
‘Well, see here, Mr. Willard——’ He inhaled deeply from his cigar, held it for a moment in two fat fingers, blew out a large cloud of smoke, returned the cigar to his mouth, and said to Nixon with the lethargy of a man who has now done his share, ‘You tell him.’
‘It’s Ethel. You know. Playing Sally.’
‘The world’s worst actress. You know,’ said the clergyman.
An inquiry as to who wanted her to act seemed to come from Mr. Venture’s cigar.
‘Damn it, Lattimer, what’s the good of saying that?”
‘He’s said it,’ mumbled the cigar.
‘Exactly. And here’s the result.’
Mr. Venture suddenly gave the impression that he was about to make a speech, and the clergyman’s instinctive ‘Oh, my God’, gave the impression that he had already heard it.
‘Mr. Willd,’ said Mr. Venture earnestly, keeping his thumbs under his braces, and speaking with difficulty through his cigar, ‘I got a lill codge in Kent, and erry wick I dry to that lill codge, and I par thounds lill houses, and all the thounds peel in those thounds lill houses go to the thear, paps once a year. Annie ersary, birsday, weng, ’tever it is. And warray go to see? Atser point. Not warray, but hooay go to see?’ He took the cigar out of his mouth, blew out a cloud of smoke, and said very distinctly and firmly, ‘That’s the point.’
‘And now that you know all about it,’ said Lattimer, extracting a gold case smartly from his hip-pocket, ‘have a cigarette.’
Something in Lattimer’s movement revealed him to Reginald as of the stage. Of course! Lattimer the producer. Not the clergyman. Idiot not to have seen it before. Well, that explained it.
‘Miss Prentice has thrown up her part, is that it?’ he asked.
‘We shall have to wait for the Sunday papers,’ said Lattimer. ‘She has either been called up suddenly by a film company which has an exclusive option on her services, or her doctor has ordered her to Madeira for a rest-cure.’
‘There’s simply nobody else,’ said Nixon, ‘except Letty——’
Mr. Venture withdrew a hand from his braces, and made a movement which put Letty, whoever she was, back to wherever she came from.
‘Then there’s nobody.’
‘I know a little girl,’ began Lattimer, but Mr. Venture made another movement, which returned all little girls to the Provinces, the Sunday Societies and the Academy of Dramatic Art.
‘Gussie feels, and I think he’s right,’ explained Nixon, ‘that you must have a name.’
Reginald looked round anxiously for Gussie, saw Mr. Venture’s braces, and identified them as (of course) Augustus.
‘Not warray, but hooay go to see,’ said Augustus.
‘Is there really nobody?’ Reginald asked Nixon.
‘Nobody except——’ Mr. Venture began to unhook a thumb, and Nixon withdrew the exception with a shrug. ‘Nobody.’
Reginald looked appealingly at Lattimer, and the ex-clergyman whipped out his gold cigarette-case again. Reginald shook his head, and asked him, ‘Well, what are you going to do?’ In his heart he was saying, ‘Oh, let’s go back to Westaways.’
‘I’ve told ’em my idea, Mr. Wellard. Naturally it isn’t popular, because it means more work for Nixon and less money for Venture.’
‘Damn it, Lattimer, there is a book after all. I owe some loyalty to Mr. Wellard. Besides, she wouldn’t come.’
Mr. Venture took his cigar out of his mouth, and said, ‘What would she want?’
‘Eighty.’
‘Money has nothing to do with it in her case,’ snapped Nixon.
‘Make it forty, then,’ said Mr. Venture, returning the cigar.
‘Besides, she isn’t a name at all in your sense of the word.’
‘Nay in bess sess ‘o’ wor’,’ said the cigar.
‘I don’t care a damn about that,’ said Lattimer. ‘She can act. And I’ve got a little girl for Sally, and she can act. And then we’re all happy.’ I suppose I’m helping, thought Reginald, but I don’t quite know how.
‘If Mr. Wellard doesn’t mind,’ began Nixon doubtfully. ‘Of course it could be done.’
‘What?’
‘After all, it’s your book.’ And then, as Mr. Venture seemed to be emphasizing that he had bought a play, ‘I know, Gussie, I know, but there are limits.’ He turned back to Reginald. ‘It’s Aunt Julia.’
To Mr. Venture, stiff in his chair with his thumbs under his braces, waiting to be photographed, a secretary came, spoke, continued to speak in monologue. She went out, leaving him still gazing rigidly at the opposite wall. Lattimer, half-sitting on Mr. Venture’s desk, was idly turning the pages of a theatrical Who’s What, and murmuring ‘God, what faces’. Filby Nixon explained, without prejudice, the Aunt Julia problem.
‘So really, old man, what it comes to is may she marry Andrew? If so, I can write in a scene quite easily. Of course, her part will have to be strengthened all through, well, that’s all right, I can do that, and there’s just a question whether she ought to be an aunt at all, well, I don’t mind the aunt so much, but I think she ought to be a widow. I mean any one so charming as she’ll make her must have been married before, don’t you think? It’ll shift the focus a bit from Sally, but then that’s just as well if we have one of Lattimer’s young girls. I know ’em, clever as the devil, but you want more than that to carry a long part. So really, you see——’
‘I see,’ said Reginald coldly. ‘It’s hardly my affair at all, is it?’ Sally—Sylvia—to be made a secondary character! And played by some clever young devil with a long nose.
‘Legally, I suppose not, but between authors there are other considerations. I’m in your hands entirely.’
‘That’s very decent of you. I’m bound to say——’ He broke off, and asked, ‘The idea being, I suppose, to get a name for the aunt as you can’t get one for the niece? Let’s have it clear.’
‘Exactly. A play wants all the help it can get nowadays. If you get people saying “I must go and see so-and-so——” ’
‘Well, who is she? See if it makes me say that.’
‘Coral Bell.’
‘Who?’ cried Reginald.
‘Coral Bell. I don’t suppose you remember her on the stage. She’s Lady Edgemoor now, that’s why Gussie takes to her. You’ve met her, haven’t you? Mrs. Wellard——’
‘Yes, yes, but would she come back?’
‘Well, that’s the point. Lattimer thinks she would.’
‘By Jove,’ said Reginald softly, ‘it would be marvellous if she did!’
Mr. Augustus Venture, coming to life suddenly, explained that he had a little cottage in Kent. Every week he drove to that little cottage, and passed thousands of little houses, and all the thousands of people in those thousands of little houses went to the theatre. Perhaps once a year. An anniversary, birthday, wedding, whatever it might be. And what did they go to see? That was the point. Not what, but who did they go to see? That was the point.
Reginald nodded. They would go to see Coral Bell. Who wouldn’t?
II
Meanwhile Lord Ormsby was going to see Sylvia Wellard again.
‘Hallo!’ said Sylvia with her friendly smile. ‘Tea, please, Alice.’
‘Not for me, Mrs. Wellard.’ He shook hands heartily, and sank into a chair. ‘But I’ll watch you.’
‘It’s nothing really to watch, you know.’
