Читать книгу The End of the Battle - Evelyn Waugh - Страница 11
CHAPTER IV
ОглавлениеGUY felt that he had been given a birthday present; the first for how many years? The card that had come popping out of the Electronic Personnel Selector bearing his name, like a “fortune” from a seaside slot-machine, like a fortune indeed in a more real sense—the luck of the draw in a lottery or sweepstake—brought an unfamiliar stir of exhilaration, such as he had felt in his first days in the Halberdiers, in his first minutes on enemy soil at Dakar; a sense of liberation such as he had felt when he had handed over Apthorpe’s legacy to Chatty Corner and when he broke his long silence in the hospital in Alexandria. These had been the memorable occasions of his army life; all had been during the first two years of war; of late he had ceased to look for a renewal. Now there was hope. There was still a place for him somewhere outside the futile routine of H.O.O. HQ.
He came off duty at six and, at the Transit Camp, on an impulse, did what he had seldom done lately, changed into blue patrols. He then took the tube railway, where the refugees were already making up their beds, to Green Park Station and walked under the arcade of the Ritz towards St. James’s Street and Bellamy’s. American soldiers leant against the walls every few paces hugging their drabs and an American soldier of another kind greeted him in the front hall of the club.
“Good evening, Loot.”
“Are you going to Everard Spruce’s party?”
“Haven’t been asked. Don’t know him really. I thought you were expected at the Glenobans?”
“I shall visit them later. First I am taking dinner with Ralph Brompton. But I thought I would look in on Everard on the way.”
He returned to his task of letter writing at the table opposite Job’s box, which Guy had never before seen used.
In the back hall Guy found Arthur Box-Bender.
“Just slipped away from the House for a breather. Everything is going merrily on the eastern front.”
“Merrily?”
“Wait for the nine o’clock news. You’ll hear something then. Uncle Joe’s fairly got them on the run. I shouldn’t much care to be one of his prisoners.”
By a natural connexion of thought Guy asked: “Have you heard from Tony?”
Gloom descended on Box-Bender. “Yes, as a matter of fact, last week. He’s still got that tomfool idea in his head about being a monk. He’ll snap out of it, I’m sure, as soon as he gets back to normal life, but it’s worrying. Angela doesn’t seem to mind awfully. She’s worried about your father.”
“So am I.”
“She’s at Matchet now. As you know, he’s stopped working at that school, which is something gained. He never ought to have taken it on at his age. He’s got this clot you know. It might become serious any moment.”
“I know. I saw him last month. He seemed all right then but he wrote to me afterwards.”
“There’s nothing one can do about it,” said Box-Bender. “Angela thought she should be handy in case anything happened.”
Guy went on to the bar where he found Ian Kilbannock talking to an elderly Grenadier.
“... You know how sharp the royal eye is for any detail of equipment,” he was saying. “The monarch sent for one of those daggers. That’s what set the royal mind brooding about cutlery.”
“It’s been a great success.”
“Yes, I claim a little indirect credit for it myself. ‘Evening Guy. Who do you think has just turned me out of my house?—Virginia.”
“How was she?”
“On the rocks. I only saw her for a second but she was palpably on the rocks. I’d heard some loose talk about her affairs before.”
“I’ll give you a drink,” said Guy. “It’s my birthday. Two glasses of wine, Parsons.”
Guy did not speak about the Electronic Selector but the thought of it warmed him as they talked of other things. When their glasses were empty the Grenadier said: “Did someone say it was his birthday? Three glasses of wine, Parsons.”
When it would have been Ian’s turn to order, he said: “They’ve put up the prices. Ten bob a glass for this champagne now and it’s not good. Why don’t you come to Everard Spruce’s and drink free?”
“Will he have champagne?”
“Sure to. He enjoys heavy official backing and tonight he’s got two distinguished foreigners to impress. It’s pleasant to get into a completely civilian circle once in a while. D’you read his paper?”
“No.”
“Nor do I. But it’s very highly thought of. Winston reads it.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, perhaps not personally. But a copy goes to the Cabinet Offices, I happen to know.”
“I hardly know Spruce. The Loot’s going.”
“Then anyone can. He’ll be able to get a cab. They always stop for Americans.”
Lieutenant Padfield was still at work on his correspondence; he wrote rather laboriously; the pen did not come readily to him; in youth he had typed; in earliest manhood dictated. Ian sent him up to Piccadilly and, sure enough, he returned in a quarter of an hour with a taxi.
“Glad to have you come with me,” he said. “I thought you were not acquainted with Spruce.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Survival is a very significant organ of opinion.”
“Signifying what, Loot?”
“The survival of values.”
“You think I need special coaching in that subject?”
“Pardon me.”
“You think I should read this paper?”
“You will find it very significant.”
It was nearly eight o’clock when they reached Cheyne Walk. Some of the party, including the neutral guests, had already sickened of Frankie’s cocktail and taken their leave.
“The party’s really over,” said one of the secretaries, not Frankie; she wore espadrilles and the hair through which she spoke was black. “I think Everard wants to go out.”
Lieutenant Padfield was engaged in over-paying the taxi; he still, after his long sojourn, found English currency confusing and the driver sought to confuse him further. On hearing these mumbled words he said: “My, is it that late? I ought to be in Ebury Street. If you don’t mind I’ll take the taxi on.”
Guy and Ian did not mind. The Lieutenant had fulfilled his manifest destiny in bringing them here.
Strengthened in her resolution by this defection the secretary, Coney by name, said: “I don’t believe there’s anything left to drink!”
“I was promised champagne,” said Guy.
“Champagne,” said Coney, taken aback, not knowing who he was, not knowing either of these uniformed figures looming out of the lightless mist, but knowing that Spruce had, in fact, a few bottles of that wine laid down. “I don’t know anything about champagne.”
“Well, we’ll come up and see,” said Ian.
Coney led them upstairs.
Though depleted the company was still numerous enough to provide a solid screen between the entrance and the far corner in which Ludovic was seated. For two minutes now he had been in enjoyment of what he had come for, the attention of his host.
“The arrangement is haphazard or planned?” Spruce was asking.
“Planned.”
“The plan is not immediately apparent. There are the more or less generalised aphorisms, there are the particular observations—which I thought, if I may say so, extremely acute and funny. I wondered: are they in any cases libelous? And besides these there seemed to me two poetic themes which occur again and again. There is the Drowned Sailor motif—an echo of the Waste Land perhaps? Had you Eliot consciously in mind?”
“Not Eliot,” said Ludovic. “I don’t think he was called Eliot.”
“Very interesting. And then there was the Cave image. You must have read a lot of Freudian psychology?”
“Not a lot. There was nothing psychological about the cave.”
“Very interesting—a spontaneous liberation of the unconscious.”
At this moment Coney infiltrated the throng and stood beside them.
“Everard, there are two men in uniform asking for champagne.”
“Good heavens, not the police?”
“One might be. He’s wearing a queer sort of blue uniform. The other’s an airman. I’ve never seen them before. They had an American with them but he ran away.”
“How very odd. You hadn’t given them champagne?”
“Oh no, Everard.”
“I’d better go and see who they are.”
At the door Ian had collided with the Smart Woman and kissed her warmly on each dusty cheek.
“Drinks have run out here,” she said, “and I am due at my Warden’s Post. Why don’t you two come there? It’s only round the corner and there’s always a bottle.”
Spruce greeted them.
“I’m afraid we’re a little late. I brought Guy. You remember him?”
“Yes, yes, I suppose so. Somewhere,” said Spruce. “Everything is over here. I was just having a few words with a very interesting New Writer. We always particularly welcome contributions from service men. It’s part of our policy.”
The central knot of guests opened and revealed Ludovic, his appetite for appreciation wetted but far from satisfied, gazing resentfully towards Spruce’s back.
“Ludovic,” said Guy.
“That is the man I was speaking of. You know him?”
“He saved my life,” said Guy.
“How very odd.”
“I’ve never had a chance to thank him.”
“Well, do so now. But don’t take him away. I was in the middle of a fascinating conversation.”
“I think I’ll go off with Per.”
“Yes, do.”
The gap had closed again. Guy pressed through and held out his hand to Ludovic who raised his oyster eyes with an expression of unmitigated horror. He took the hand limply and looked away.
“Ludovic, surely you remember me?”
“It is most unexpected.”
“Hookforce. Crete.”
“Oh yes, I remember.”
“I’ve always been hoping to run into you again. There’s so much to say. They told me you saved my life.” Ludovic mutely raised his hand to the ribbon of the M.M. It was as though he were beating his breast in penitence. “You don’t seem very pleased to see me.”
“It’s the shock,” said Ludovic, resuming his barrack-room speech, “not looking to find you here, not at Mr. Spruce’s. You of all people, here of all places.”
Guy took the chair where Spruce had sat.
“My memory’s awfully vague of those last days in Crete and in the boat.”
“Best forgotten,” said Ludovic. “Things happen that’s best forgotten.”
“Oh, come. Aren’t you rather overdoing the modest hero? Besides I’m curious. What happened to Major Hound?”
“I understand he was reported missing.”
“Not a prisoner?”
“Forgive me, Mr.—Captain Crouchback. I am not in Records.”
“And the sapper who got the boat going. I was awfully ill—so was he—delirious.”
“You were delirious too.”
“Yes. Did you rescue the sapper too?”
“I understand he was reported lost at sea.”
“Look,” said Guy, “are you doing anything for dinner?”
It was as though Banquo had turned host.
“No,” said Ludovic. “No”—and without an apology or a word of farewell to Guy or Spruce or Frankie, he made precipitately for the stairs, the front door and the sheltering blackout.
“What on earth happened to him?” asked Spruce. “He can’t have been drunk. What did you say to him?”
“Nothing. I asked about old times.”
“You knew him well?”
“Not exactly. We always thought him odd.”
“He has talent,” said Spruce. “Perhaps a hint of genius. It’s most annoying his disappearing like that. Well, the party’s over. Will you girls shoo the guests away and then clear up? I have to go.”
Guy spent the remaining hours of his fortieth birthday at Bellamy’s playing “slosh.” When he returned to his room at the Transit Camp his thoughts were less on the past than on the future.
Unheard in Bellamy’s the sirens sounded an alert at eleven o’clock and an All Clear before midnight.
Unheard too in Westminster Abbey, where the Sword of Stalingrad stood unattended. The doors were locked, the lights all extinguished. Next day the queue would form again in the street and the act of homage would be renewed.
Ludovic was not successful in the Time & Tide literary competition. His sonnet was not even commended. He studied the winning entry:
... Here lies the sword. Ah, but the work is rare,
Precious the symbol. Who has understood
How close the evil or how dread the good
Who scorns the vestures that the angels wear?
He could make no sense of it. Was the second “who” a relative pronoun with “good” as its antecedent? He compared his own lucid sonnet:
Stele of my past on which engravéd are
The pleadings of that long divorce of steel,
In which was stolen that directive star,
By which I sailed, expunged be. No spar,
No mast, no halyard, bowsprit, boom or keel
Survives my wreck ...
Perhaps, he reflected, the lines were not strictly appropriate to the occasion. He had failed to reflect the popular mood. It was too personal for Time & Tide. He would send it to Survival.
