Читать книгу Vile Bodies - Evelyn Waugh - Страница 4

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‘Have you anything to declare?’

‘Wings.’

‘Have you wore them?’

‘Sure.’

‘That’s all right, then.’

‘Divine Discontent gets all the smiles all the time,’ complained Fortitude to Prudence. ‘Golly, but it’s good to be on dry land.’

Unsteadily, but with renewed hope, the passengers had disembarked.

Father Rothschild fluttered a diplomatic laissez-passer and disappeared in the large car that had been sent to meet him. The others were jostling one another with their luggage, trying to attract the Customs officers and longing for a cup of tea.

‘I got half a dozen of the best stowed away,’ confided the journalist. ‘They’re generally pretty easy after a bad crossing.’ And sure enough he was soon settled in the corner of a first-class carriage (for the paper was, of course, paying his expenses) with his luggage safely chalked in the van.

It was some time before Adam could get attended to.

‘I’ve nothing but some very old clothes and some books,’ he said.

But here he showed himself deficient in tact, for the man’s casual air disappeared in a flash.

‘Books, eh?’ he said. ‘And what sort of books, may I ask?’

‘Look for yourself.’

‘Thank you, that’s what I mean to do. Books, indeed.’

Adam wearily unstrapped and unlocked his suitcase.

‘Yes,’ said the Customs officer menacingly, as though his worst suspicions had been confirmed, ‘I should just about say you had got some books.’

One by one he took the books out and piled them on the counter. A copy of Dante excited his especial disgust.

‘French, eh?’ he said. ‘I guessed as much, and pretty dirty, too, I shouldn’t wonder. Now just you wait while I look up these here books’—how he said it!—‘in my list. Particularly against books the Home Secretary is. If we can’t stamp out literature in the country, we can at least stop its being brought in from outside. That’s what he said the other day in Parliament, and I says “Hear, hear....” Hullo, hullo, what’s this, may I ask?’

Gingerly, as though it might at any moment explode, he produced and laid on the counter a large pile of type-script.

‘That’s a book too,’ said Adam. ‘One I’ve just written. It is my memoirs.’

‘Ho, it is, is it? Well, I’ll take that along, too, to the chief. You better come to.’

‘But I’ve got to catch the train.’

‘You come along. There’s worse things than missing trains,’ he hinted darkly.

They went together into an inner office, the walls of which were lined with contraband pornography and strange instruments, whose purpose Adam could not guess. From the next room came the shrieks and yells of poor Miss Runcible, who had been mistaken for a well-known jewel smuggler, and was being stripped to the skin by two terrific wardresses.

‘Now then, what’s this about books?’ said the chief.

With the help of a printed list (which began ‘Aristotle, Works of (Illustrated)’) they went through Adam’s books, laboriously, one at a time, spelling out the titles.

Miss Runcible came through the office, working hard with lipstick and compact.

‘Adam, darling, I never saw you on the boat,’ she said. ‘My dear, I can’t tell you the things that have been happening to me in there. The way they looked ... too, too shaming. Positively surgical, my dear, and such wicked old women, just like Dowagers, my dear. As soon as I get to London I shall ring up every Cabinet Minister and all the newspapers and give them all the most shy-making details.’

The chief was at this time engrossed in Adam’s memoirs, giving vent at intervals to a sinister chuckling sound that was partly triumphant and partly derisive, but in the main genuinely appreciative.

‘Coo, Bert,’ he said. ‘Look at this; that’s rich, ain’t it?’

Presently he collected the sheets, tied them together and put them on one side.

‘Well, see here,’ he said. ‘You can take these books on architecture and the dictionary, and I don’t mind stretching a point for once and letting you have the history books, too. But this book on Economics comes under Subversive Propaganda. That you leaves behind. And this here Purgatorio doesn’t look right to me, so that stays behind, pending inquiries. But as for this autobiography, that’s just downright dirt, and we burns that straight away, see.’

‘But, good heavens, there isn’t a word in the book—you must be misinterpreting it.’

‘Not so much of it. I knows dirt when I sees it or I shouldn’t be where I am to-day.’

‘But do you realize that my whole livelihood depends on this book?’

‘And my livelihood depends on stopping works like this coming into the country. Now ’ook it quick if you don’t want a police-court case.’

‘Adam, angel, don’t fuss or we shall miss the train.’

Miss Runcible took his arm and led him back to the station and told him all about a lovely party that was going to happen that night.

‘Queer, who felt queer?’

‘You did, Arthur.’

‘No I never ... just tired.’

‘It certainly was stuffy in there just for a bit.’

‘Wonderful how that old girl cheered things up. Got a meeting next week in the Albert Hall.’

‘Shouldn’t be surprised if I didn’t go. What do you say, Mr Henderson?’

‘She got a troupe of angels, so she said. All dressed up in white with wings, lovely. Not a bad-looker herself, if it comes to that.’

‘What did you put in the plate, Arthur?’

‘Half-crown.’

‘So did I. Funny thing, I ain’t never give a half-crown like that before. She kind of draws it out of you, damned if she doesn’t.’

‘You won’t get away from the Albert Hall not without putting your hand in your pocket.’

‘No, but I’d like to see those angels dressed up, eh, Mr Henderson?’

‘Fanny, surely that is Agatha Runcible, poor Viola Chasm’s daughter?’

‘I wonder Viola allows her to go about like that. If she were my daughter....’

‘Your daughter, Fanny....’

‘Kitty, that was not kind.’

‘My dear, I only meant ... have you, by the way, heard of her lately?’

‘The last we heard was worse than anything, Kitty. She has left Buenos Aires. I am afraid she has severed her connection with Lady Metroland altogether. They think that she is in some kind of touring company.’

‘Darling, I’m sorry. I should never have mentioned it, but whenever I see Agatha Runcible I can’t help thinking ... girls seem to know so much nowadays. We had to learn everything for ourselves, didn’t we, Fanny, and it took so long. If I’d had Agatha Runcible’s chances.... Who is the young man with her?’

‘I don’t know, and, frankly, I don’t think, do you? ... He has that self-contained look.’

‘He has very nice eyes. And he moves well.’

‘I dare say when it came to the point ... Still, as I say, if I had had Agatha Runcible’s advantages ...’

‘What are you looking for, darling?’

‘Why, darling, such an extraordinary thing. Here is the sal volatile next to my brushes all the time.’

‘Fanny, how awful of me, if I’d only known ...’

‘I dare say there must have been another bottle you saw on the dressing-table, sweetest. Perhaps the maid put it there. You never know at the Lotti, do you?’

‘Fanny, forgive me ...’

‘But, dearest, what is there to forgive? After all, you did see another bottle, didn’t you, Kitty darling?’

‘Why, look, there’s Miles.’

‘Miles?’

‘Your son, darling. My nephew, you know.’

‘Miles. Do you know, Kitty, I believe it is. He never comes to see me now, the naughty boy.’

‘My dear, he looks terribly tapette.’

‘Darling, I know. It is a great grief to me. Only I try not to think about it too much—he had so little chance with poor Throbbing what he was.’

‘The sins of the fathers, Fanny ...’

Somewhere not far from Maidstone Mr Outrage became fully conscious. Opposite him in the carriage the two detectives slept, their bowler hats jammed forwards on their foreheads, their mouths open, their huge red hands lying limply in their laps. Rain beat on the windows; the carriage was intensely cold and smelt of stale tobacco. Inside there were advertisements of horrible picturesque ruins; outside in the rain were hoardings advertising patent medicines and dog biscuits. ‘Every Molassine dog cake wags a tail,’ Mr Outrage read, and the train repeated over and over again, ‘Right Honourable gent, Right Honourable gent, Right Honourable gentleman, Right Honourable gent ...’

Adam got into the carriage with the Younger Set. They still looked a bit queer, but they cheered up wonderfully when they heard about Miss Runcible’s outrageous treatment at the hands of the Customs officers.

‘Well,’ they said, ‘Well! how too, too shaming, Agatha, darling,’ they said. ‘How devastating, how un-policeman-like, how goat-like, how sick-making, how too, too awful.’ And then they began talking about Archie Schwert’s party that night.

‘Who’s Archie Schwert?’ asked Adam.

‘Oh, he’s someone new since you went away. The most bogus man. Miles discovered him, and since then he’s been climbing and climbing and climbing, my dear, till he hardly knows us. He’s rather sweet, really, only too terribly common, poor darling. He lives at the Ritz, and I think that’s rather grand, don’t you?’

‘Is he giving his party there?’

‘My dear, of course not. In Edward Throbbing’s house. He’s Miles’ brother, you know, only he’s frightfully dim and political, and doesn’t know anybody. He got ill and went to Kenya or somewhere and left his perfectly sheepish house in Hertford Street, so we’ve all gone to live there. You’d better come, too. The caretakers didn’t like it a bit at first, but we gave them drinks and things, and now they’re simply thrilled to the marrow about it and spend all their time cutting out “bits”, my dear, from the papers about our goings on.

‘One awful thing is we haven’t got a car. Miles broke it, Edward’s, I mean, and we simply can’t afford to get it mended, so I think we shall have to move soon. Everything’s getting rather broken up, too, and dirty, if you know what I mean. Because, you see, there aren’t any servants, only the butler and his wife, and they are always tight now. So demoralising. Mary Mouse has been a perfect angel, and sent us great hampers of caviare and things.... She’s paying for Archie’s party to-night, of course.’

‘Do you know, I rather think I’m going to be sick again?’

‘Oh, Miles!’

(Oh, Bright Young People!)

Packed all together in a second-class carriage, the angels were late in recovering their good humour.

‘She’s taken Prudence off in her car again,’ said Divine Discontent, who once, for one delirious fortnight, had been Mrs Ape’s favourite girl. ‘Can’t see what she sees in her. What’s London like, Fortitude? I never been there but once.’

‘Just exactly heaven. Shops and all.’

‘What are the men like, Fortitude?’

‘Say, don’t you never think of nothing but men, Chastity?’

‘I should say I do. I was only asking.’

‘Well, they ain’t much to look at, not after the shops. But they has their uses.’

‘Say, did you hear that? You’re a cute one, Fortitude. Did you hear what Fortitude said? She said “they have their uses”.’

‘What, shops?’

‘No, silly, men.’

‘Men. That’s a good one, I should say.’

Presently the train arrived at Victoria, and all these passengers were scattered all over London.

Adam left his bag at Shepheard’s Hotel, and drove straight to Henrietta Street to see his publishers. It was nearly closing time, so that most of the staff had packed up and gone home, but by good fortune Mr Sam Benfleet, the junior director with whom Adam always did his business, was still in his room correcting proofs for one of his women novelists. He was a competent young man, with a restrained elegance of appearance (the stenographer always trembled slightly when she brought him his cup of tea).

‘No, she can’t print that,’ he kept saying, endorsing one after another of the printer’s protests. ‘No, damn it, she can’t print that. She’ll have us all in prison.’ For it was one of his most exacting duties to ‘ginger up’ the more reticent of the manuscripts submitted and ‘tone down’ the more ‘outspoken’ until he had reduced them all to the acceptable moral standard of his day.

He greeted Adam with the utmost cordiality.

‘Well, well, Adam, how are you? This is nice. Sit down. Have a cigarette. What a day to arrive in London. Did you have a good crossing?’

‘Not too good.’

‘I say, I am sorry. Nothing so beastly as a beastly crossing, is there? Why don’t you come round to dinner at Wimpole Street to-night? I’ve got some rather nice Americans coming. Where are you staying?’

‘At “Shepheard’s”—Lottie Crump’s.’

‘Well, that’s always fun. I’ve been trying to get an autobiography out of Lottie for ten years. And that reminds me. You’re bringing us your manuscript, aren’t you? Old Rampole was asking about it only the other day. It’s a week overdue, you know. I hope you’ll like the preliminary notices we’ve sent out. We’ve fixed the day of publication for the second week in December, so as to give it a fortnight’s run before Johnnie Hoop’s autobiography. That’s going to be a seller. Sails a bit near the wind in places. We had to cut out some things—you know what old Rampole is. Johnnie didn’t like it a bit. But I’m looking forward terribly to reading yours.’

‘Well, Sam, rather an awful thing happened about that ...’

‘I say, I hope you’re not going to say it’s not finished. The date on the contract, you know ...’

‘Oh, it’s finished all right. Burnt.’

‘Burnt?’

‘Burnt.’

‘What an awful thing. I hope you are insured.’

Adam explained the circumstances of the destruction of his autobiography. There was a longish pause while Sam Benfleet thought.

‘What worries me is how are we going to make that sound convincing to old Rampole.’

‘I should think it sounded convincing enough.’

‘You don’t know old Rampole. It’s sometimes very difficult for me, Adam, working under him. Now if I had my own way I’d say, “Take your own time. Start again. Don’t worry ...” But there’s old Rampole. He’s a devil for contracts, you know, and you did say, didn’t you ... ? It’s all very difficult. You know, I wish it hadn’t happened.’

‘So do I, oddly enough,’ said Adam.

‘There’s another difficulty. You’ve had an advance already, haven’t you? Fifty pounds, wasn’t it? Well, you know, that makes things very difficult. Old Rampole never likes big advances like that to young authors. You know I hate to say it, but I can’t help feeling that the best thing would be for you to repay the advance—plus interest, of course, old Rampole would insist on that—and cancel the contract. Then if you ever thought of re-writing the book, well, of course, we should be delighted to consider it. I suppose that—well, I mean, it would be quite convenient, and all that, to repay the advance?’

‘Not only inconvenient, but impossible,’ said Adam in no particular manner.

There was another pause.

‘Deuced awkward,’ said Sam Benfleet. ‘It’s a shame the way the Customs House officers are allowed to take the law into their own hands. Quite ignorant men, too. Liberty of the subject, I mean, and all that. I tell you what we’ll do. We’ll start a correspondence about it in the New Statesman. ... It is all so deuced awkward. But I think I can see a way out. I suppose you could get the book rewritten in time for the Spring List? Well, we’ll cancel the contract and forget all about the advance. No, no, my dear fellow, don’t thank me. If only I was alone here I’d be doing that kind of thing all day. Now instead we’ll have a new contract. It won’t be quite so good as the last, I’m afraid. Old Rampole wouldn’t stand for that. I’ll tell you what, we’ll give you our standard first-novel contract. I’ve got a printed form here. It won’t take a minute to fill up. Just sign here.’

‘May I just see the terms?’

‘Of course, my dear fellow. They look a bit hard at first, I know, but it’s our usual form. We made a very special case for you, you know. It’s very simple. No royalty on the first two thousand, then a royalty of two and a half per cent., rising to five per cent, on the tenth thousand. We retain serial, cinema, dramatic, American, Colonial and translation rights, of course. And, of course, an option on your next twelve books on the same terms. It’s a very straightforward arrangement really. Doesn’t leave room for any of the disputes which embitter the relations of author and publisher. Most of our authors are working on a contract like that.... Splendid. Now don’t you bother any more about that advance. I understand perfectly, and I’ll square old Rampole somehow, even if it comes out of my director’s fees.’

‘Square old Rampole,’ repeated Mr Benfleet thoughtfully as Adam went downstairs. It was fortunate, he reflected, that none of the authors ever came across the senior partner, that benign old gentleman, who once a week drove up to board meetings from the country, whose chief interest in the business was confined to the progress of a little book of his own about bee-keeping, which they had published twenty years ago and, though he did not know it, allowed long ago to drop out of print. He often wondered in his uneasy moments what he would find to say when Rampole died.

It was about now that Adam remembered that he was engaged to be married. The name of his young lady was Nina Blount. So he went into a tube station to a telephone-box, which smelt rather nasty, and rang her up.

‘Hullo.’

‘Hullo.’

‘May I speak to Miss Blount, please?’

‘I’ll just see if she’s in,’ said Miss Blount’s voice. ‘Who’s speaking, please?’ She was always rather snobbish about the fiction of having someone to answer the telephone.

‘Mr Fenwick-Symes.’

‘Oh.’

‘Adam, you know.... How are you, Nina?’

‘Well, I’ve got rather a pain just at present.’

‘Poor Nina, shall I come round and see you?’

‘No, don’t do that, darling, because I’m just going to have a bath. Why don’t we dine together?’

‘Well, I asked Agatha Runcible to dinner.’

‘Why?’

‘She’d just had all her clothes taken off by some sailors.’

‘Yes, I know, it’s all in the evening paper to-night.... Well, I’ll tell you what. Let’s meet at Archie Schwert’s party. Are you going?’

‘I rather said I would.’

‘That’s all right, then. Don’t dress up. No one will, except Archie.’

‘Oh, I say. Nina, there’s one thing—I don’t think I shall be able to marry you after all.’

‘Oh, Adam, you are a bore. Why not?’

‘They burnt my book.’

‘Beasts. Who did?’

‘I’ll tell you about it to-night.’

‘Yes, do. Good-bye, darling.’

‘Good-bye, my sweet.’

He hung up the receiver and left the telephone-box. People had crowded into the Underground station for shelter from the rain, and were shaking their umbrellas and reading their evening papers. Adam could see the headlines over their shoulders.

PEER’S DAUGHTER’S DOVER ORDEAL

SERIOUS ALLEGATIONS BY SOCIETY

BEAUTY

HON. A. RUNCIBLE SAYS ‘TOO

SHAMING’

‘Poor pretty,’ said an indignant old woman at his elbow. ‘Disgraceful, I calls it. And such a good sweet face. I see her picture in the papers only yesterday. Nasty prying minds. That’s what they got. And her poor father and all. Look, Jane, there’s a piece about him, too. “Interviewed at the Carlton Club this evening, Lord Chasm,” that’s her dad, “refused to make a definite statement. ‘The matter shall not be allowed to rest here,’ he said.” And quite right, too, I says. You know I feels about that girl just as though it was me own daughter. Seeing her picture so often and our Sarah having done the back stairs, Tuesdays, at them flats where her aunt used to live—the one as had that ’orrible divorce last year.’

Adam bought a paper. He had just ten shillings left in the world. It was too wet to walk, so he took a very crowded tube train to Dover Street and hurried across in the rain to Shepheard’s Hotel (which, for the purposes of the narrative, may be assumed to stand at the corner of Hay Hill).