Читать книгу Lady Charing is Cross - Elizabeth Mackintosh - Страница 4

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It is a May morning in London, and we are looking at part of lady charing’s bedroom at Charing House. The house is situated in a Mayfair Square, and the bedroom is on the second floor. Through the open window at the back one can see the tops of the trees in the sunlight, and from the square below there comes, since this is the reign of Edward VII, the faint clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the purr of tyred wheels.

At the dressing-table, clad in a ravishing creation which she calls a wrapper, is lady charing. Her hair is in the process of being arranged for the day by her maid, cripps.

lady charing was forty last month, but no one remembers the fact; partly because her beauty has an ageless quality, and partly because she is less a person than an institution. For more than ten years now Charing House has been the social centre of London. No climber ‘arrives’ until his name appears on the Charing House list; no fallen idol is ‘cut’ until his name is dropped from that list. There are those who say that lady charing’s taste is a little too catholic; but these, no doubt, are such as have had to wait too long in the crush on the magnificent stairs when the Charings ‘receive’. Neither the catholicity nor the crush prevents them from being on the stairs next time.

cripps, too, is ageless. She comes of five generations of ‘service’, and in her own time she has been passed on from one generation to another, like a christening robe or any other valuable family possession. Occasionally she is sent to take lessons from a fashionable hairdresser. She translates her new knowledge with tact and success to her mistress’s head; but her own hair is done as she first learned to do it thirty-odd years ago.

lady charing (breaking the comfortable silence while she watches cripps’s activities in the mirror) Well, Cripps, was it a happy reunion last night in the housekeeper’s room?

cripps Very pleasant, my lady.

lady c. Have you left any of us a rag of reputation?

cripps (quietly reproving) We are interested, my lady, but never censorious.

lady c. And what have you gathered of interest? (Referring to a lock of hair) A little farther back, that.

cripps Like that, my lady?

lady c. That is better. Well, what is the gossip?

cripps No less than five Americans have taken houses in the Square for the season.

lady c. (not particularly interested) Oh? All railways?

cripps I understand that none of them are railways, my lady.

lady c. (genuinely inquiring) Dear me! What else do Americans make money in?

cripps Beginning from the north end of the Square, Number Three is tintacks, Number Ten rubber goods, Number Seventeen toothpaste, Number Twenty-two lumber—that is something to do with wood, not second-hand things, my lady—and Twenty-eight is something new called Advertising.

lady c. Are the Broomes not opening Twenty-eight this year, then?

cripps No, my lady. They married the last daughter off at a Christmas ball.

lady c. What, the fat one? What a little mistletoe will do!

cripps They say it was the punch, my lady.

lady c. What other news?

cripps Lady Trundle has been stealing umbrellas again.

lady c. The woman never had any sense.

cripps It is said to be involuntary, my lady.

lady c. (not listening) Imagine acquiring anything as convenient as kleptomania and squandering it on umbrellas.

cripps They have engaged a gentleman to go round after her and pay for anything she takes.

lady c. A gentleman?

cripps The younger son of an impoverished baronet, I understand, my lady.

lady c. (having considered it) Oh, well. I suppose it is no worse than chasing sheep in Australia. What else?

cripps Old Sir Archibald is breaking up.

lady c. Poor dear. His memory, is it?

cripps No, my Lady, he has taken to carrying parcels in the street.

lady c. I hardly think that is an infallible sign of decrepitude. In the winter one does things, even in town, that one would not dream of doing during the season.

[There is a knock on the bedroom door. cripps goes to the door and consults with the knocker, while lady charing picks up a buffer and idly polishes her nails.]

cripps Lady Tillicoultry is downstairs, my lady, and wants to know if she may come up.

lady c. But of course! Of course! (As cripps gives the message and comes away from the door) I wonder what Poppy is doing out of bed at ten of a morning.

cripps She is no doubt glad to have you back, my lady.

lady c. No doubt. But it is a gladness that could be contained until luncheon. (After a second’s pause) There was no gossip about the Tillicoultrys, was there? (The accent is on the name, and she obviously expects the answer to be ‘No’)

cripps (a little shocked) Oh, no, my lady. Certainly not. One would as soon expect gossip about our own household.

lady c. (having considered it a moment longer) Perhaps she just had cramp.

[With a sketchy knock at the door, lady tillicoultry comes in, and crosses to kiss her friend.]

lady t. Millie, my dear, how nice to have you back.

lady c. (genuinely glad to see her; holding out a left hand, presenting her cheek for the kiss) Poppy! How are you? You are looking radiant.

lady t. What a wonderful wrapper. How are you, Cripps?

cripps I am very well, my lady, thank you. (She provides a chair for the newcomer)

[lady tillicoultry—Venetia Mary Violet Graham-Grant-Moffat, Countess of Tillicoultry—is a year younger than her friend, but looks a little older. Her clothes, down to the last glove button, are as elegant as anything worn by the mistress of Charing House, but they have an odd air of having been put on by accident. Even her very fashionable and becoming hat is not quite straight.

[lady t. sinks into the chair that cripps has supplied, which is placed so that the two women can see each other in the mirror.]

lady t. I know this is an absurd hour for anyone but the butcher’s boy to call, but if I waited till luncheon there would be a dozen people and I would never see you again alone until August.

lady c. (dispassionately) Your wig is crooked.

lady t. (equally matter-of-fact, putting up her hands preparatory to correcting the slant) Which way?

lady c. The usual way.

lady t. (adjusting it without looking in the mirror; equably) Cosmo says that if I don’t get a new wig he will acquire a mistress. I wish he would. No woman should have to endure the attentions of a devoted husband after eleven years of matrimony.

lady c. Why don’t you go back to your own hair? It must have grown by now.

lady t. Oh, I could never endure to go through that every morning. (She indicates cripps’ administrations) If one must have measles one might as well get some advantage from it.

lady c. You would make a profit out of Satan. Why did you want to see me alone?

lady t. Because you are my best friend and I am in trouble. (She sounds not at all perturbed)

lady c. Bills, bile, or blackmail?

lady t. It’s Kilcrannock.

lady c. Kilcrannock! Why waste a May morning in London worrying about a Scottish county?

lady t. It is not the county; it’s the constituency. Didn’t you read any papers in Nice?

lady c. (only half-serious) Why should one? Nothing important happens in England when I am out of it.

lady t. You’d be surprised what can happen in Scotland!

lady c. The by-election, was it? What went wrong?

lady t. They have elected the Socialist creature!

lady c. But I thought young Whatshisname was all ready to step into old Brigham’s shoes when he died?

lady t. So did everyone else. That is what went wrong! Everyone was so sure that no one bothered to vote. So the Socialist creature sailed in.

lady c. (half-amused) Dear me! That must be a shock for a Tory stronghold like Kilcrannock.

lady t. The situation is quite appalling. Nothing like that has happened to the Tillicoultrys in all their hundreds of years in Scotland.

lady c. It serves you right for owning any part of the benighted country.

lady t. Is it my fault that Charles the Second had an evening off in Perth? Don’t be so detached, Millie. You must help me.

lady c. Help you?

lady t. One cannot allow oneself to be represented by someone so unpresentable.

lady c. What do you propose to do about it?

lady t. Now that the creature is here in town his habits can be judiciously—supervised.

lady c. Are you suggesting blackmail?

lady t. (indignant) Certainly not! The creature has never done a wrong thing in all his stupid life.

lady c. Then what do you suggest?

lady t. I thought that you might, so to speak, take the rough off him.

lady c. I!

lady t. You know: give him tips about ties, and weed the grosser misconceptions from his mind.

lady c. (drawling) My dear good Poppy! May I ask why you do not ‘take the rough off’ for yourself?

lady t. How can I? We are not on speaking terms. I shall have to bow, of course, when we meet on the same platform. When I open bazaars and things. But we cannot have any converse. He objects to us even more than we do to him.

lady c. (silkily) And you think he would not object to me?

lady t. Well, you are a Liberal, and therefore of no consequence politically. It would not, I mean, be ‘crossing the floor’ to accept your hospitality. And you are, after all, Millicent Charing.

lady c. Thank you, my dear.

lady t. Has anyone ever refused an invitation to Charing House?

lady c. Not that I can remember. So you think your wild man might put up with me? And can you tell me why I should be bored by having a piece of original conglomerate dumped in my drawing-room?

lady t. But you would not be bored. You like creatures. Even if someone found him there, no one would think it odd. Everyone expects you to be a little promiscuous.

lady c. My dear Poppy!

lady t. Socially speaking, of course.

[lady charing, her hair-dressing finished, steps out of her wrapper, and is assisted into her morning toilette by cripps.]

lady c. What is he called, your creature?

lady t. Neil Tummel.

lady c. (puzzled) Tumble as in fall?

lady t. No, as in the river. T-u-m-m-e-l.

lady c. (without emotion) Uncouth. I cannot do it.

lady t. Oh, please, Millie. Pretty please. I do not ask for miracles. Just a corner off here and there, and a new suit or so. (As this produces no immediate answer) I promise you he is no duller than that Theosophist woman. Or than that pianist boy you took up last season.

lady c. (defending her choice without heat) Stanislaus was a Pole, and amusing, and an artist. You ask me to put up with a Scot who is a politician and a reformer. It cannot be done. (After a pause filled with the exigencies of dressing) It’s that worthy streak in the Scots that makes them so unbearable. If they were utterly damnable like the Irish, everyone would begin finding excuses for them.

[A light tap at the door, and the door opens a little.]

lord c. (off) May I come in?

lady c. Oh, good morning, Gussie.

[lord charing comes in. He is a kind little man, considerably older than the wife he still adores. If he had married a plain little woman with negative tastes he might have had the energy to give up the social life which puzzles and tires him and to retire to the country existence which he loves. But having acquired as a partner one of the great beauties of the day, he has resigned himself, not unhappily, to being the tail of a comet.]

lord c. (crossing to his wife and kissing the proffered cheek) Good morning, my dear.

lady c. How is the lumbago?

lord c. Oh, gone, gone. Poppy, my dear. (He shakes hands with her) How nice to see you after all those months. How was the winter in Scotland?

lady t. Wintry and Scottish.

lord c. (gallantly) Better for the complexion than the Riviera, I dare say. How is Cosmo?

lady t. Having his catarrh. On the first Sunday in May every year Cosmo has catarrh.

lord c. Nothing if not a good Conservative. And the children? Well, I hope?

lady t. (making a little noise of qualificated assent) I doubt if we should have sent Marjorie to that school.

lord c. Not in trouble, is she?

lady t. Not exactly. Unpopular, I gather. She was asked to write an essay: Would she rather be beautiful or good? She said she would rather be beautiful and repent.

lord c. Dear Marjorie. Great favourite of mine. You have a nice family, Poppy.

lady t. I have done my duty. Two sons to be heirs, and two daughters to make alliances.

lord c. You don’t pull any wool over my eyes. You dote on your little brood—and rightly.

lady c. (continuing his thought, without malice, and without pausing in the details of her dressing) Now Millicent never remembers that she has a family.

lord c. (hastily disclaiming his subconscious thought, and unaware that he has had it) Oh, nonsense, Millie, my dear. I have never known you forget a birthday of either of them.

lady c. If I didn’t know you so well, Gussie, I might suspect you of irony. As it is, I will not have you burning incense under Poppy’s nose right in front of my eyes. There is no enormity of which the woman is not capable. Do you know what she came hot-foot to suggest? That I adopt her Kilcrannock socialist and shake the fleas out of him.

lord c. (amused) And you, of course, are going to.

lady c. (her attention caught) What makes you think that?

lord c. Am I wrong?

lady c. You overrate my amiability.

lord c. It was your curiosity I banked on, my dear.

lady c. (without heat) Don’t be absurd, Augustus. I am the least curious woman in London. Only last week some magazine said that I had ‘an almost masculine indifference to tattle’.

lord c. Oh, tattle—yes.

lady c. Well, then?

lord c. But you do like to discover (he looks for a phrase) what makes people tick.

lady c. (with the ghost of a snort) I know what makes Mr Neil Tummel tick. Ambition, vanity, and a Calvinistic love of interference. I see no reason to give him either tea or attention.

lady t. There’s me.

lady c. You?

lady t. Am I not a good reason?

lady c. It is no great hardship to share a platform with someone, even if he does look like the wrath of God.

lady t. But it is not only platforms; it’s Westminster; everything! The member for Kilcrannock. I shall die of shame.

lady c. I don’t expect you’ll die of anything. You’ll probably talk your way out of even that. I wouldn’t be surprised if St Peter sent you home in his own barouche.

lady t. Make her be sympathetic, Gussie.

lady c. The first time I met you, at the age of six, you got out of eating bread and butter by making your nannie heat the milk and pour it over the bread and butter so that it made a pudding, and you have been getting out of things ever since. It is time that you kissed the rod.

lady t. (in something approaching a wail) My dear, not when the rod is six feet of pepper-and-salt tweed, with a shocking accent, no manners, and the most alarming ideas!

lord c. (referring to the thing she has missed out) It would seem that his morals are above suspicion.

lady t. Above rubies, my dear Gussie, above rubies. A monument of God-fearing fearsomeness.

lord c. It might be interesting to meet Mr—— (As she supplies the name) Tummel, and find out exactly what he plans to do with us.

lady t. Do with us?

lord c. I take it he has plans for us. What I would like to know is whether the plan is capital—that is to say, a piece of rope and a lamp-post—or whether he would be content to see me working a small-holding. If he could really arrange that I spent the rest of my life in the country with my pigs, I would become his earnest disciple tomorrow.

lady t. I forgot to ask for the pigs.

lord c. Oh, they’re nicely, thank you, nicely. Teme Valley Irene is going to sweep the board at the Five Counties Show in June. (To his wife) It is the 25th, by the way, Millie. You will see that we have nothing that will need me at the top of the stairs about then?

lady c. The 25th. I shall remember.

lord c. If Mr Tummel insisted on small-holdings I would never have to stand at the top of those stairs again.

lady c. If he hanged you, you wouldn’t either. I have to stand at the top of the stairs too.

lord c. Yes, my dear, but you have a moral support that I lack.

lady c. Support?

lord c. No one says about me: Isn’t he looking radiantly lovely tonight!

lady c. (she casts him a smile for that) Why don’t you get Augustus to civilise your monster for you?

lady t. Oh, Gussie would be no use.

lady c. You don’t consider him a civilising influence?

lady t. Can you imagine Gussie telling the creature that his tie is all wrong?

lord c. If it is a question of Mr Tummel’s wearing apparel, I beg to be excused. I hold that it is the inalienable right of every free man to choose his own ties.

lady t. (with a lift of her palms) You see! No public spirit!

lady c. Ah, well. Even Crusader blood grows thin after twenty generations.

lord c. (with his usual gentle amiability) A damned interfering set of rascals.

lady t. (reproving) They had faith and zeal, my dear Gussie.

lord c. I sometimes think that all they had was high blood-pressure.

lady c. Or domestic trouble. (Coming to think of it) I may have been wrong about your Mr Tummel. It may not, after all, have been his Calvinistic blood that sent him on his socialist crusade. He may have a shrew of a wife.

lady t. He has neither wife nor an alibi.

lord c. Just a natural inclination to sin.

lady t. (tartly) Just a gift of the gab.

lord c. (preparing to go) The Commons are going to be entertained, it seems. I wish something like Mr Tummel would relieve the awful tedium of the House of Lords.

lady t. You may not have to suffer the tedium much longer. He is going to abolish you. He is going to abolish both of you.

lady c. (arrested in action like a pointer) Abolish me?

lady t. I take it you are ‘the bedizened society women who make charity a pretext for decking themselves with gauds and aping the manners of the playhouse, what time’—what was it?—‘what time men slave in pit and foundry to provide their finery, and their starving children cry in the gutters’.

lord c. (simply) Good gracious!

lady c. (slowly) My dear Poppy! I don’t believe it. Nobody talks like that nowadays. It went out with Knox.

lady t. There were better bits than that, but I remember that one because it was Cosmo’s favourite.

lady c. (still slowly) Dear me. It seems that Mr Tummel really does need educating, quite badly.

lady t. (aware of the nibble and playing the fish) It is sad that you won’t do anything about him; but then, of course, he might have refused to have anything to do with you, mightn’t he? (She makes it a statement, not a question)

lady c. You make me sound like an importunate parlour-maid.

lady t. I expect those gauds stick in his throat. I wish they would choke the creature. What is a gaud, exactly?

lady c. You think that if I invited the man to Charing House he would refuse my invitation? (Considering it) That would be a refreshing thing in my life.

lady t. (’daring’ her on to it) To be snubbed by a little Scotch nobody?

lady c. It would be no sensation to be snubbed by a King. I suppose I couldn’t use you as a reference?

lady t. (getting up to go; the fish practically on the grass) Not if you want to make an impression. Are you going my way, Gussie? I can give you a lift.

lord c. I am going round to the Club, but I think I had better walk, thank you. It is so easy to lose the use of one’s legs in Town.

lady c. (in the unaccented tones of one resuming a former subject) What was it you wanted done with Mr Tummel?

lady t. (matching the careless tone) Oh, just (she waves a hand for a phrase) the bristles made a little less stubbly.

lady c. (as one accepting an instruction) I see.

lady t. (going) There is a yellow suit he wears that is my particular bane.

lady c. (startled) Yellow?

lady t. Well, a sort-of-mustard tweed thing. If you could get rid of that you would be doing the country a service.

lady c. I shall make a note of it.

lady t. You seem to think that he will come.

lady c. I know he will.

lady t. What makes you so sure?

lady c. He will want to preach at me.

lady t. You will be careful, Millicent, won’t you?

lady c. Careful?

lord c. I don’t want you carrying a candle through the City clad in a shift.

lady c. If there is to be penance in this affair it is not Millicent Charing who will do it. (There is an edge to that that has not been apparent in her light exchanges about references)

lady t. Well, my dear, I go. Let me know if the creature accepts.

lady c. Are you lunching at home, Augustus?

lord c. No, with Archie. He has a man from India he wants me to meet; the man who did that irrigation scheme. Watered a whole province. Wonderful.

lady t. Au revoir, my dear. (Pausing for a last word) Oh, he has a frightful habit of saying Uh-huh. Perhaps you could do something about that.

lady c. You aren’t expecting me to make him into a Tory for you, are you?

lady t. No; I am hoping that you’ll make him a Liberal. Then he will be defeated at the first General Election.

lady c. Your wig is crooked.

[lady tillicoultry puts up her hands matter-of-factly to straighten it as she goes out with lord charing.]

lady c. Has Miss Mair come, do you know, Cripps?

cripps I expect so, my lady. It is half-past ten.

lady c. Send a message down that the first free tea-time in my engagement book is to be given to a Mr Neil Tummel. Tummel as in the river: T-u-m-m-e-l. (To herself) Did anyone ever hear anything so uncouth?

CURTAIN