Читать книгу Vile Bodies - Evelyn Waugh - Страница 5

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Lottie Crump, proprietress of Shepheard’s Hotel, Dover Street, attended invariably by two Cairn terriers, is a happy reminder to us that the splendours of the Edwardian era were not entirely confined to Lady Anchorage or Mrs Blackwater. She is a fine figure of a woman, singularly unscathed by any sort of misfortune and superbly oblivious of those changes in the social order which agitate the more observant grandes dames of her period. When the war broke out she took down the signed photograph of the Kaiser and, with some solemnity, hung it in the men-servants’ lavatory; it was her one combative action; since then she has had her worries—income-tax forms and drink restrictions and young men whose fathers she used to know, who give her bad cheques, but these have been soon forgotten; one can go to Shepheard’s parched with modernity any day, if Lottie likes one’s face, and still draw up, cool and uncontaminated, great, healing draughts from the well of Edwardian certainty.

Shepheard’s has a plain, neatly pointed brick front and large, plain doorway. Inside it is like a country house. Lottie is a great one for sales, and likes, whenever one of the great houses of her day is being sold up, to take away something for old times’ sake. There is a good deal too much furniture at Shepheard’s, some of it rare, some of it hideous beyond description; there is plenty of red plush and red morocco and innumerable wedding presents of the ’eighties; in particular many of those massive, mechanical devices covered with crests and monograms, and associated in some way with cigars. It is the sort of house in which one expects to find croquet mallets and polo sticks in the bathroom, and children’s toys at the bottom of one’s chest of drawers, and an estate map and an archery target—exuding straw—and a bicycle and one of those walking-sticks which turn into saws, somewhere in passages, between baize doors, smelling of damp. (As a matter of fact, all you are likely to find in your room at Lottie’s is an empty champagne bottle or two and a crumpled camisole.)

The servants, like the furniture, are old and have seen aristocratic service. Doge, the head waiter, who is hard of hearing, partially blind, and tortured with gout, was once a Rothschild’s butler. He had, in fact, on more than one occasion in Father Rothschild’s youth, dandled him on his knee, when he came with his father (at one time the fifteenth richest man in the world) to visit his still richer cousins, but it would be unlike him to pretend that he ever really liked the embryo Jesuit who was ‘too clever by half’, given to asking extraordinary questions, and endowed with a penetrating acumen in the detection of falsehood and exaggeration.

Besides Doge, there are innumerable old housemaids always trotting about with cans of hot water and clean towels. There is also a young Italian who does most of the work and gets horribly insulted by Lottie, who once caught him powdering his nose, and will not let him forget it. Indeed, it is one of the few facts in Lottie’s recent experience that seems always accessible.

Lottie’s parlour, in which most of the life of Shepheard’s centres, contains a comprehensive collection of signed photographs. Most of the male members of the royal families of Europe are represented (except the ex-Emperor of Germany who has not been reinstated, although there was a distinct return of sentiment towards him on the occasion of his second marriage). There are photographs of young men on horses riding in steeple-chases, of elderly men leading in the winners of ‘classic’ races, of horses alone and of young men alone, dressed in tight, white collars or in the uniform of the Brigade of Guards. There are caricatures by ‘Spy’, and photographs cut from illustrated papers, many of them with brief obituary notices, ‘killed in action’. There are photographs of yachts in full sail and of elderly men in yachting caps; there are some funny pictures of the earliest kind of motor car. There are very few writers or painters and no actors, for Lottie is true to the sound old snobbery of pound sterling and strawberry leaves.

Lottie was standing in the hall abusing the Italian waiter when Adam arrived.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘you are a stranger. Come along in. We were just thinking about having a little drink. You’ll find a lot of your friends here.’

She led Adam into the parlour, where they found several men, none of whom Adam had ever seen before.

‘You all know Lord Thingummy, don’t you?’ said Lottie.

‘Mr Symes,’ said Adam.

‘Yes, dear, that’s what I said. Bless you, I knew you before you were born. How’s your father? Not dead, is he?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid he is.’

‘Well, I never. I could tell you some things about him. Now let me introduce you—that’s Mr What’s-his-name, you remember him, don’t you? And over there in the corner, that’s the Major, and there’s Mr What-d’you-call-him, and that’s an American, and there’s the King of Ruritania.’

‘Alas, no longer,’ said a sad, bearded man.

‘Poor chap,’ said Lottie Crump, who always had a weak spot for royalty, even when deposed. ‘It’s a shame. They gave him the boot after the war. Hasn’t got a penny. Not that he ever did have much. His wife’s locked up in a looney house, too.’

‘Poor Maria Christina. It is true how Mrs Crump says. Her brains, they are quite gone out. All the time she thinks everyone is a bomb.’

‘It’s perfectly true, poor old girl,’ said Lottie with relish. ‘I drove the King down Saturday to see her ... (I won’t have him travelling third class). It fair brought tears to my eyes. Kept skipping about all the time, she did, dodging. Thought they were throwing things at her.’

‘It is one strange thing, too,’ said the King. ‘All my family they have bombs thrown at them, but the Queen, never. My poor Uncle Joseph he blow all to bits one night at the opera, and my sister she find three bombs in her bed. But my wife, never. But one day her maid is brushing her hair before dinner, and she said, “Madam,” she said, “the cook has had lesson from the cook at the French Legation”—the food at my home was not what you call chic. One day it was mutton hot, then mutton cold, then the same mutton hot again, but less nicer, not chic, you understand me—“he has had lesson from the French cook,” the maid say, “and he has made one big bomb as a surprise for your dinner party to-night for the Swedish Minister.” Then the poor Queen say “Oh”, like so, and since then always her poor brains has was all no-how.’

The ex-King of Ruritania sighed heavily and lit a cigar.

‘Well,’ said Lottie, brushing aside a tear, ‘what about a little drink? Here, you over there, your Honour Judge What’s-your-name, how about a drink for the gentlemen?’

The American, who, like all the listeners, had been profoundly moved by the ex-King’s recitation, roused himself to bow and say, ‘I shall esteem it a great honour if His Majesty and yourself, Mrs Crump, and these other good gentlemen ...’

‘That’s the way,’ said Lottie. ‘Hi, there, where’s my Fairy Prince? Powdering hisself again, I suppose. Come here, Nancy, and put away the beauty cream.’

In came the waiter.

‘Bottle of wine,’ said Lottie, ‘with Judge Thingummy there.’ (Unless specified in detail, all drinks are champagne in Lottie’s parlour. There is also a mysterious game played with dice which always ends with someone giving a bottle of wine to every one in the room, but Lottie has an equitable soul and she generally sees to it, in making up the bills, that the richest people pay for everything.)

After the third or fourth bottle of wine Lottie said, ‘Who d’you think we’ve got dining upstairs to-night? Prime Minister.’

‘Me, I have never liked Prime Ministers. They talk and talk and then they talk more. “Sir, you must sign that.” “Sir, you must go here and there.” “Sir, you must do up that button before you give audience to the black plenipotentiary from Liberia.” Pah! After the war my people give me the bird, yes, but they throw my Prime Minister out of the window, bump right bang on the floor. Ha, ha.’

‘He ain’t alone either,’ said Lottie with a terrific wink.

‘What, Sir James Brown?’ said the Major, shocked in spite of himself. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘No, name of Outrage.’

‘He’s not Prime Minister.’

‘Yes, he is. I saw it in the paper.’

‘No, he’s not. He went out of office last week.’

‘Well I never. How they keep changing. I’ve no patience with it. Doge. Doge. What’s the Prime Minister’s name?’

‘Beg pardon, mum.’

‘What’s the name of the Prime Minister?

‘Not to-night, I don’t think, mum, not as I’ve been informed anyway.’

‘What’s the name of the Prime Minister, you stupid old man?’

‘Oh, I beg your pardon, mum. I didn’t quite hear you. Sir James Brown, mum, Bart. A very nice gentleman, so I’ve been told. Conservative, I’ve heard said. Gloucestershire they come from, I think.’

‘There, what did I say?’ said Lottie triumphantly.

‘It is one very extraordinary thing, your British Constitution,’ said the ex-King of Ruritania. ‘All the time when I was young they taught me nothing but British Constitution. My tutor had been a master at your Eton school. And now when I come to England always there is a different Prime Minister and no one knows which is which.’

‘Oh, sir,’ said the Major, ‘that’s because of the Liberal Party.’

‘Liberals? Yes. We, too, had Liberals. I tell you something now, I had a gold fountain-pen. My godfather, the good Archduke of Austria, give me one gold fountain-pen with eagles on him. I loved my gold fountain-pen.’ Tears stood in the King’s eyes. Champagne was a rare luxury to him now. ‘I loved very well my pen with the little eagles. And one day there was a Liberal Minister. A Count Tampen, one man, Mrs Crump, of exceedingly evilness. He come to talk to me and he stood at my little escritoire and he thump and talk too much about somethings I not understand, and when he go—where was my gold fountain-pen with eagles—gone too.’

‘Poor old King,’ said Lottie. ‘I tell you what. You have another drink.’

‘... Esteem it a great honour,’ said the American, ‘if your Majesty and these gentlemen and Mrs Crump ...’

‘Doge, tell my little love-bird to come hopping in ... you there, Judge wants another bottle of wine.’

‘... Should honour it a great esteem ... esteem it a great honour if Mrs Majesty and these gentlemen and His Crump ...’

‘That’s all right, Judge. Another bottle coming.’

‘... Should esteem it a great Crump if his honour and these Majesties and Mrs Gentlemen ...’

‘Yes, yes, that’s all right, Judge. Don’t let him fall down, boys. Bless me, how these Americans do drink.’

‘... I should Crump it a great Majesty if Mrs Esteem ...’

And his Honour Judge Skimp of the Federal High Court began to laugh rather a lot. (It must be remembered in all these people’s favour that none of them had yet dined.)

Now there was a very bland, natty, moustachioed young man sitting there who had been drinking away quietly in the corner without talking to anyone except for an occasional ‘Cheerio’ to Judge Skimp. Suddenly he got up and said:

‘Bet-you-can’t-do-this.’

He put three halfpennies on the table, moved them about very deliberately for a bit, and then looked up with an expression of pride. ‘Only touched each halfpenny five times, and changed their positions twice,’ he said. ‘Do-it-again if you like.’

‘Well, isn’t he a clever boy?’ said Lottie. ‘Wherever did they teach you that?’

‘Chap-in-a-train showed me,’ he said.

‘It didn’t look very hard,’ said Adam.

‘Just-you-try. Bet-you-anything-you-like you can’t do it.’

‘How much will you bet?’ Lottie loved this kind of thing.

‘Anything-you-like. Five hundred pounds.’

‘Go on,’ said Lottie. ‘You do it. He’s got lots of money.’

‘All right,’ said Adam.

He took the halfpennies and moved them about just as the young man had done. When he finished he said, ‘How’s that?’

‘Well I’m jiggered,’ said the young man. ‘Never saw anyone do it like that before. I’ve won a lot of money this week with that trick. Here you are.’ And he took out a note-case and gave Adam a five-hundred-pound note. Then he sat down in his corner again.

‘Well,’ said Lottie with approval, ‘that’s sporting. Give the boys a drink for that.’

So they all had another drink.

Presently the young man stood up again.

‘Toss you double-or-quits,’ he said. ‘Best-out-of-three.’

‘All right,’ said Adam.

They tossed twice and Adam won both times.

‘Well I’m jiggered,’ said the young man, handing over another note. ‘You’re a lucky chap.’

‘He’s got pots of money,’ said Lottie. ‘A thousand pounds is nothing to him.’

She liked to feel like that about all her guests. Actually in this young man’s case she was wrong. He happened to have all that money in his pocket because he had just sold out his few remaining securities to buy a new motor car. So next day he bought a second-hand motor bicycle instead.

Adam felt a little dizzy, so he had another drink.

‘D’you mind if I telephone?’ he said.

He rang up Nina Blount.

‘Is that Nina?’

‘Adam, dear, you’re tight already.’

‘How d’you know?’

‘I can hear it. What is it? I’m just going out to dinner.’

‘I just rang up to say that it’s all right about our getting married. I’ve got a thousand pounds.’

‘Oh good. How?’

‘I’ll tell you when we meet. Where are you dining?’

‘Ritz. Archie. Darling. I am glad about our getting married.’

‘So am I. But don’t let’s get intense about it.’

‘I wasn’t, and anyway you’re tight.’

He went back to the parlour. Miss Runcible had arrived and was standing in the hall very much dressed up.

‘Who’s that tart?’ asked Lottie.

‘That’s not a tart, Lottie, that’s Agatha Runcible.’

‘Looks like a tart. How do you do, my dear, come in. We’re just thinking of having a little drink. You know everyone here, of course, don’t you? That’s the King with the beard.... No, dearie, the King of Ruritania. You didn’t mind my taking you for a tart, did you, dear? You look so like one, got up like that. Of course, I can see you aren’t now.’

‘My dear,’ said Miss Runcible, ‘if you’d seen me this afternoon ...’ and she began to tell Lottie Crump about the Customs House.

‘What would you do if you suddenly got a thousand pounds?’ Adam asked.

‘A thousand pound,’ said the King, his eyes growing dreamy at this absurd vision. ‘Well, first I should buy a house and a motor car and a yacht and a new pair of gloves, and then I would start one little newspaper in my country to say that I must come back and be the King, and then I don’t know what I do, but I have such fun and grandness again.’

‘But you can’t do all that with a thousand pounds, you know, sir.’

‘No ... can’t I not? ... not with thousand pound.... Oh, well, then I think I buy a gold pen with eagles on him like the Liberals stole.’

‘I know what I’d do,’ said the Major. ‘I’d put it on a horse.’

‘What horse?’

‘I can tell you a likely outsider for the November Handicap. Horse named Indian Runner. It’s at twenty to one at present, and the odds are likely to lengthen. Now if you were to put a thousand on him to win and he won, why you’d be rich, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes, so I would. How marvellous. D’you know, I think I’ll do that. It’s a very good idea. How can I do it?’

‘Just you give me the thousand and I’ll arrange it.’

‘I say, that’s awfully nice of you.’

‘Not at all.’

‘No, really, I think that’s frightfully nice of you. Look, here’s the money. Have a drink, won’t you?’

‘No, you have one with me.’

‘I said it first.’

‘Let’s both have one, then.’

‘Wait a minute though, I must go and telephone about this.’

He rang up the Ritz and got on to Nina.

‘Darling, you do telephone a lot, don’t you?’

‘Nina, I’ve something very important to say.’

‘Yes, darling.’

‘Nina, have you heard of a horse called Indian Runner?’

‘Yes, I think so. Why?’

‘What sort of a horse is it?’

‘My dear, quite the worst sort of horse. Mary Mouse’s mother owns it.’

‘Not a good horse?’

‘No.’

‘Not likely to win the November Handicap, I mean.’

‘Quite sure not to. I don’t suppose it’ll run even. Why?’

‘I say, Nina, d’you know I don’t think we shall be able to get married after all.’

‘Why not, my sweet?’

‘You see, I’ve put my thousand pounds on Indian Runner.’

‘That was silly. Can’t you get it back?’

‘I gave it to a Major.’

‘What sort of a Major?’

‘Rather a drunk one. I don’t know his name.’

‘Well, I should try and catch him. I must go back and eat now. Good-bye.’

But when he got back to Lottie’s parlour the Major was gone.

‘What Major?’ said Lottie, when he asked about him. ‘I never saw a Major.’

‘The one you introduced me to in the corner.’

‘How d’you know he’s a Major?’

‘You said he was.’

‘My dear boy, I’ve never seen him before. Now I come to think of it, he did look like a Major, didn’t he? But this sweet little girlie here is telling me a story. Go on, my dear. I can hardly bear to hear it, it’s so wicked.’

While Miss Runcible finished her story (which began to sound each time she told it more and more like the most lubricious kind of anti-Turkish propaganda) the ex-King of Ruritania told Adam about a Major he had known, who had come from Prussia to reorganize the Ruritanian Army. He had disappeared south, taking with him all the mess plate of the Royal Guard, and the Lord Chamberlain’s wife, and a valuable pair of candlesticks from the Chapel Royal.

By the time Miss Runcible had finished, Lottie was in a high state of indignation.

‘The very idea of it,’ she said. ‘The dirty hounds. And I used to know your poor father, too, before you were born or thought of. I’ll talk to the Prime Minister about this,’ she said, taking up the telephone. ‘Give me Outrage,’ she said to the exchange boy. ‘He’s up in number twelve with a Japanese.’

‘Outrage isn’t Prime Minister, Lottie.’

‘Of course he is. Didn’t Doge say so.... Hullo, is that Outrage? This is Lottie. A fine chap you are, I don’t think. Tearing the clothes off the back of a poor innocent girl.’

Lottie prattled on.

Mr Outrage had finished dinner, and, as a matter of fact, the phrasing of this accusation was not wholly inappropriate to his mood. It was some minutes before he began to realize that all this talk was only about Miss Runcible. By that time Lottie’s flow of invective had come to an end, but she finished finely.

‘Outrage your name, and Outrage your nature,’ she said, banging down the receiver. ‘And that’s what I think of him. Now how about a little drink?’

But her party was breaking up. The Major was gone. Judge Skimp was sleeping, his fine white hair in an ash-tray. Adam and Miss Runcible were talking about where they would dine. Soon only the King remained. He gave her his arm with a grace he had acquired many years ago; far away in his sunny little palace, under a great chandelier which scattered with stars of light like stones from a broken necklace, a crimson carpet woven with a pattern of crowned ciphers.

So Lottie and the King went in to dinner together.

Upstairs in No. 12, which is a suite of notable grandeur, Mr Outrage was sliding back down the path of self-confidence he had so laboriously climbed. He really would have brought matters to a crisis if it had not been for that telephone, he told himself, but now the Baroness was saying she was sure he was busy, must be wanting her to go: would he order her car.

It was so difficult. For a European the implications of an invitation to dinner tête-à-tête in a private room at Shepheard’s were definitely clear. Her acceptance on the first night of his return to England had thrown him into a flutter of expectation. But all through dinner she had been so self-possessed, so supremely social. Yet, surely, just before the telephone rang, surely then, when they left the table and moved to the fire, there had been something in the atmosphere. But you never know with Orientals. He clutched his knees and said in a voice which sounded very extraordinary to him, must she go, it was lovely after a fortnight, and then, desperately, he had thought of her in Paris such a lot. (Oh, for words, words! That massed treasury of speech that was his to squander at will, to send bowling and spinning in golden pieces over the floor of the House of Commons; that glorious largesse of vocables he cast far and wide, in ringing handfuls about his constituency!)

The little Baroness Yoshiwara, her golden hands clasped in the lap of her golden Paquin frock, sat where she had been sent, more puzzled than Mr Outrage, waiting for orders. What did the clever Englishman want? If he was busy with his telephone, why did he not send her away; tell her another time to come: if he wanted to be loved, why did he not tell her to come over to him? Why did he not pick her out of her red plush chair and sit her on his knee? Was she, perhaps, looking ugly to-night? She had thought not. It was so hard to know what these Occidentals wanted.

Then the telephone rang again.

‘Will you hold on a minute? Father Rothschild wants to speak to you,’ said a voice. ‘... Is that you, Outrage? Will you be good enough to come round and see me as soon as you can? There are several things which I must discuss with you.’

‘Really, Rothschild ... I don’t see why I should. I have a guest.’

‘The baroness had better return immediately. The waiter who brought you your coffee has a brother at the Japanese Embassy.’

‘Good God, has he? But why don’t you go and worry Brown? He’s P.M., you know, not me.’

‘You will be in office to-morrow.... As soon as possible, please, at my usual address.’

‘Oh, all right.’

‘Why, of course.’