Читать книгу Twos and Threes - G. B. Stern - Страница 4

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“That’s a dangerous fellow, Stuart,” remarked Baldwin Carr, who had unperceived entered the library, and, over his nephew’s shoulder, read the title: “Thus Spake Zarathustra.”

Stuart Heron laid down the ponderous volume of Nietzsche, and smiled up lazily at his juvenile uncle-by-marriage: “Oh, we’re a depraved family! Not half an hour ago I caught Babs behind the drawing-room screen, reading Ella Wheeler Wilcox.”

Baldwin looked startled. “Isn’t that all right? I myself gave it to the child; the complete edition, bound in white vellum.”

“We’ll send old Nietzsche to be bound in white vellum, and rob him of his sting.”

“And this man is just as bad”; Baldwin ignored his nephew’s flippancy, and discontentedly flicked over the pages of Bernard Shaw’s “Getting Married,” which he had picked up from the floor beside the arm-chair. “They’re both mad, stark staring mad, master and disciple.”

“‘Enter Nietzsche mad in white satin, Bernard Shaw mad in white linen!’” misquoted Stuart; “yes, we must decidedly send them to the binder’s.”

Baldwin Carr had come that evening to Carlton House Terrace, to discuss a business problem with Stuart, who for three years had been a partner in the firm of Heron, Heron & Carr, Diamond Merchants. But, worried by the young man’s pernicious choice of literature, he determined to let diamonds stand over for the moment, and, instead, make an attempt to “talk Stuart out of Nietzsche.” In view of which intention, it was a pity that Babs had torn from her confession album the page on which Stuart had made shameful reply to the query: “Your Favourite Occupation?” with: “Pulling the leg of my youngest uncle.” A glimpse at this might have disillusioned Baldwin of his belief that, near to Stuart in years, he was also near in understanding.

“You see, my boy,” he began now, “these clever chaps, these would-be philosophers, they put ideas into your head.”

“Yes,” replied Stuart gently, “I think that is what they’re after, the rogues!”

“Well, but philosophy is all very well if you don’t take it seriously; just mug it up for Greats at Oxford, and so forth. But you seem inclined—you mustn’t be offended, Stuart; we’re talking as man to man, you know,—you seem inclined to apply it to everyday existence.”

“Quite.” Stuart offered the other a cigarette, and lit one himself; “I can’t conceive of a greater insult to philosophy than to accept its logic, and refuse its practical utility.”

“But, my dear lad, you surely wouldn’t dream of setting up Nietzsche, of all people, as a standard for your actions. Why, if a nation did that, we’d have the world in pieces.”

“I differ slightly from Nietzsche,” quoth Stuart Heron; “he advocates the ruthlessness of the Overman towards the mob; I agree with the Overman theory, but I consider that his supremest ruthlessness ought to be directed towards himself. Nietzsche misses the value of asceticism.”

Baldwin said after a pause: “You’ll get yourself, or other people, into a fine mess before you’ve done with all this. Why, wasn’t it something of the kind that you were spouting when it was a question of your career?”

Stuart laughed:

“Yes. Something of the kind....”

His uncle paced the room uneasily; he could not forget that he had grave responsibilities of guardianship to discharge towards this young son of Graham Heron. Graham Heron, whose death had occurred when Stuart was a boy of fifteen, had founded the great diamond business, on which had been built up the family’s immense fortune; had taken into partnership his elder and younger brothers, Derwent and Arthur, not so brilliant as himself; later, had admitted Baldwin Carr to the firm. Graham owned a personality which established him in general regard as head of the family, and his only son succeeded naturally to the same central position; more especially as Derwent’s progeny were all girls, and Arthur elected to remain a bachelor. And when school and college reported one brilliant success after another for Graham’s son, then Graham’s brothers and Graham’s widow foresaw a triumphant future in whatsoever public career the lad chose to follow up. Consideration of money there need never be; a steady flow of good luck continued to attend the firm of Heron and Carr; it seemed that the trio of diamond merchants could do no wrong. Stuart, struck by the Arabian-Nights’-like quality of their glittering trade, had nicknamed them: the Khalif, the Vizier, and the One-eyed Calendar; the last-named, unblessed by a sense of humour, was never clear why he should thus be linked to such eccentricities as almanacks and defective optics; but Stuart, even in his insolent schoolboy days, went idolized and uncensured.

When he finally came down from Oxford, three years previously, it was to find his future stretching before his feet, a veritable slope of roses. He had been reading for the Bar, and Mrs. Heron already visioned him as the Lord Chief Justice.

“But I’m going to chuck the law,” said Stuart.

His Uncle Derwent reminded him that strings had already been pulled, enabling him to devil for Sir Blair Tomlinson, foremost barrister of the day; and that a more promising start could be assured to no man.

“Quite so,” Stuart agreed. And: “I’m going to chuck the law.”

The next few weeks proved but repetitions of this incident, under various guises. Stuart had but to mention a profession—army, navy, political, diplomatic; and Uncle Derwent or Uncle Arthur or Uncle Baldwin was able speedily to procure such influence in that particular quarter, as to ensure their nephew a clear path to the very summit of ambition. And Uncle Derwent or Uncle Arthur or Uncle Baldwin had but to mention such influence procured, and Stuart speedily abandoned all idea of that particular career. The climax was reached when, by way of a test, the young man averred longings for stage laurels; and Uncle Baldwin, two evenings later, strolled into the billiard-room in Carlton House Terrace, with the triumphant tidings that London’s leading actor-manager, Sir Michael Forrest—“I used to know him very well”—had avowed himself delighted to give Mr. Stuart Heron a part in the next big autumn production, and the under-study of juvenile lead.

“I told him what they said about your Greek performance in the O.U.D.S.,” finished Baldwin Carr.

“Exactly.” Stuart paused in the act of pocketing off the red. “And if I wanted to be a sandwich-man, you, or one of you, would get me an introduction to the very person who owned the identical pitch I had set my heart on perambulating.” Changing his tactics, he pocketed the red, viciously.

“Well, but——” Uncle Baldwin liked to be literal, “what’s that got to do with it? You don’t want to be a sandwich-man, do you?” apprehensively.

“As much as anything else. Why not? It’s fatal to specialize.”

Derwent Heron laid his cue in the rack. “What’s amiss, my boy? Let us probe to the root of the matter, since we happen to be assembled in full force. Babs, my dear,” to his flapper daughter, marking for the players, “run away to your Aunt Elizabeth.”

Reluctantly Barbara obeyed, flinging Stuart a look of worship as she passed: “Lord, I am here an thou wantest me!” Youngest of a quartette, her sisters had carefully bred her in the Heron traditions.

He caught at her long russet plait: “Between ourselves, Babs,” in a whisper; “how much unearned increment have you been placing to my account?”

She flushed crimson: “Oh, Stuart, it isn’t cheating, is it? when it’s not for oneself.”

“I’ll consider the plea. How much?”

“Only ... seven.”

He laughed and released her. Then, strolling to the board, slid back his disc the requisite number. “Even in this,” he muttered.

“Out with it, Stuart,” from Uncle Arthur, erect on the hearthrug.

Arthur Heron, junior to the late Graham Heron, remained something of an enigma to the world at large, inasmuch as he very rarely spoke, but preferred to stand with his back to fireplaces; his head a little on one side, after the fashion of a benign canary; a huge cigar cocked from the left-hand corner of his mouth. When he occasionally did give vent to speech, his voice crackled thinly, like charred paper raked from the grate, so that strangers unfairly suspected him of laughing at them. In appearance he resembled a small-sized orange-pip that had lain too long in the sun, and burnt red instead of yellow.

Derwent Heron, eldest of three brothers, was best summed up by the adjective “elaborate.” Perhaps to that, one might add “punctilious.” His speech was elaborate, and so was his neck-gear; and he was punctilious in his appointments, and in his manners, and the discharge of obligations. His tastes were certainly elaborate, particularly in entrées. Born punctiliously, he would probably die elaborately. He was a fine-looking old gentleman, upright, white-haired, kind-eyed; distinctive by the small pointed imperial he elected to wear.

Remained Uncle Baldwin, who actually and in point of birth was not a Heron at all, and therefore far more Heron than the Herons ever aspired to be. He had, indeed, been continually obliged to remind them of their Herondom and all it entailed, since nine years before, he had entered the family by his marriage with Eunice, only sister of Derwent, Graham and Arthur, and very much their junior.

Eunice had died eleven months after; thus forming so slight a link between her husband and the Herons, that the latter family were left vaguely wondering how they had come to be nourishing in their bosom this well-bred personage with instincts as sleek and groomed as his own head; in short, how he had happened!

Baldwin dwelt at Sonning; hibernated from September to May; and during the summer months found his vocation in following up river regattas in the umpire’s boat; whence, with the aid of field-glasses, he adjudicated in a fashion sufficiently impartial to fill Pallas herself with envy. He felt occasional qualms of uneasiness respecting his young nephew’s ability to keep intact the prestige of the name. Deep down in the heart of Baldwin may have lain buried a conviction that safer on his head than on Stuart’s would have been poised the Heron crown; deeper still, perhaps, the unacknowledged and pardonable longing once and for all to kick the cub and put him in his proper place. But all of this, Baldwin was well aware, must be loyally suppressed.

“It seems to me, Stuart,” he remarked, wounded at the reception of his intercession with Sir Michael Forrest, “that you have some ambition of which you haven’t told us. If you were to own up, we would naturally give you all the assistance in our power.”

“I know you would,” Stuart interrupted, frowning heavily in the endeavour to express his meaning. “And that’s just it. You’ve got too much assistance in your power. I want to achieve—and you bring me the achievement upon a golden salver. Whatever I mention, it’s the same thing; influence, money, friends—and I’m lifted over all the rough places and deposited on the very summit of desire. What’s left to me after that? Khalif, what’s left?”

Derwent Heron made no reply to this direct appeal. He was looking over the double-sliding doors, at an arresting portrait of his brother Graham, to whom he owed everything; and who, strangely enough, had been wont to hold forth in just such an incomprehensible fashion. Was it not his, Derwent’s, business to do all he could for the advancement and prosperity of Graham’s son? unheeding any freaks and phases which the lad might have brought along from Oxford. He wished Arthur would speak. But then, Arthur never spoke. That came from being a bachelor, Derwent reflected unreasonably.

“Well,” suggested Baldwin, filling up the pause, “if you’re really keen on adventure, hardship, the philosophic-tramp business which is now the fashionable cult, there’s no harm that I can see if you roughed it for a year or two.”

—“Dressed in a suit of rags from Clarkson’s, along Broad Highways carefully laid with red carpet?” Stuart grinned. For a moment the leprechaun spirit bade him give up the attempt to lay bare the twists and turns of his mental asceticism; and instead, draw exquisite enjoyment from Baldwin’s conception of a Walt Whitman-esque existence. Then the metaphysician rejected this outlet as cheap and easy; argued that there must be means whereby three grown men of moderate intellect could be convinced of anything, if sufficient trouble be taken. The metaphysician was always inclined to be very severe with the leprechaun; but in this case the leprechaun had the last word, whispering that it would be a glorious stunt if Khalif, Vizier and One-eyed Calendar, could indeed be forced to understanding by dint of sheer brilliant reasoning. And since Stuart was above all things a Stuntorian, he forthwith tackled the task.

“Read Kipling, any of you?”

They had all read Kipling. That is to say, Uncle Arthur had chuckled in secret over “Stalky and Co.”; Uncle Derwent had seen and appreciated Forbes Robertson in the “Light that Failed,” and Uncle Baldwin remembered, at the time of the Boer war, giving a guinea to a pretty girl who had declaimed the “Absent-minded Beggar.”

“D’you know ‘Diego Valdez’? It’s in the ‘Five Nations.’”

“No,” from Derwent and Arthur. Baldwin, idly chalking cues for want of better employment, said that he might recognize it if he heard it.

Without preamble or apology, Stuart abruptly flung at them the bitter complaint of the Spanish Admiral:

“The God of fair beginnings

Hath prospered here my hand ...”

—Fair beginnings, indeed, for the son of the house of Heron. The oak-panelled walls, the expensive full-sized billiard-table, the scent of good cigars, the attentive faces of his three listeners, all seemed to shout this fact aloud.

“To me my king’s much honour,

To me my people’s love——”

The folding-doors slid open, admitting Mrs. Heron and Babs. Baldwin raised a quick hand of warning:

“Hush. Don’t make a noise. Stuart’s reciting.”

“Damn it, Baldwin!” roared his nephew; “do you take this for a board school prize-giving?”

Softly Mrs. Heron withdrew, gliding the doors behind her, with infinite precautions not to jar them in the contact.

Stuart went on; bent slightly forward from his careless seat on the edge of the billiard-table; hands clasped between his knees; the green-shaded quadrangle of strong lights just above, biting out his features with uncompromising clarity. His tones were low and tight with the infinity of pain that underlay the next verses: Valdez recalling his old adventure days, when unknown, unfettered, he sailed in happy comradeship on the South Seas:

“I dreamt to wait my pleasure

Unchanged my Spring would bide;

Wherefore, to wait my pleasure,

I put my Spring aside.

Till first in face of fortune,

And last in mazed disdain,

I made Diego Valdez

High Admiral of Spain.”

And a faint mockery twitched the young man’s lips, as if drawing some secret analogy with the curse of good fortune following the Spaniard’s every movement.

“Then walked no wind ’neath Heaven

Nor surge that did not aid——”

Baldwin flicked a fine powder of chalk from his coat-sleeve, and fixed Stuart with the super-concentrated glare of one whose attention has wandered. It was difficult to tell what was the effect of the poem on the other two men, standing with faces in deepest shadow, well above the zone of illumination.

“They wrought a deeper treason,

Led seas that served my needs;

They sold Diego Valdez

To bondage of great deeds.”

By a curious power he possessed of projection into the future, Stuart was able to glimpse himself, victim of a self-made great career, striving passionately to escape its easeful heaviness; regain the careless freedom, the stimulating longings of non-achievement. And he saw, too, with unerring clarity, how, step by step, he, even he, another Diego Valdez, might be spurred by inspiring eloquence, noble example, to such inevitable bondage.

“His will can loose ten thousand,

To seek their loves again—

But not Diego Valdez

High Admiral of Spain!”

Baldwin thought, relieved, that the ensuing pause marked the signal for opinions to be delivered:

“I must say, I don’t see that the fellow, Diego What’s-his-name, had much to grumble at.”

Stuart looked towards Derwent, who said, rather elaborately:

“It seems to me, my dear boy, that I detect an inconsistency, if I may be permitted to make the remark. With one breath you assure us that you desire to fight your battles without assistance to detract from the joy of victory; while in the verses you so—er—ah, yes, so effectively repeated, I take it that you were voicing a distaste for the responsibilities of high office consequent on victory?”

“It does sound as if there were a flaw,” Stuart admitted, overjoyed at having evoked a point sufficiently strong to put him on the defensive: “You might reconcile it this way, Khalif: I want to do; I don’t want to become.”

Derwent enquired: “Then what are your plans? It strikes me as somewhat preposterous that you should be let work out your destiny from the very bottom of the ladder, like so many millions who have no alternative.”

“It wouldn’t do, either.” Stuart sprang from the table; and hands plunged deep in his pockets, head bent, paced moodily the length of the room. “Without the actual necessity, that would simply label me as a freak: the eccentric young millionaire who elects to work with the masses. However far I wrenched myself from your powerful wealth and influence, the mere fact of it would still prevent my struggles from being genuine. They’d be theatrical, neither more nor less. I’m damnably placed, Khalif,—and I want to be a Commissioner of Oaths!”

This last for Baldwin’s benefit, remarking with concern that his youngest uncle’s immaculately trousered leg had remained for a full twenty minutes unpulled.

“A—what?” Baldwin responded instantly. “Really, Stuart!”

“I’ve never been told the exact duties of a Commissioner of Oaths, but the title is alluring in its possibilities, in the red robust rakish twang of it. Think of being forever surrounded by an atmosphere of oaths; thundering oaths, villainous oaths, subtle sanguinary oaths,” Stuart raised eyes of sky-exalted innocence to meet Baldwin’s uneasy glare. “Hellish oaths,” he finished, gently as a child.

“Really, Stuart——” Mr. Carr had much to do to remember his allegiance. And Derwent Heron, noting signs of disturbance, hastily broke in with the subject of his meditations, before it was as ripe as he could have wished it.

“If you will permit me,” without which preamble he rarely opened speech, “I have a suggestion to offer; one which I never before submitted to you, my boy, as I assumed you were set on gaining laurels in some profession. Your many triumphs at Oxford accounting for this mistake on my part. Since it is not to be, how do you view the idea of a partnership in the business?” Impressive pause. And then the old man resumed in faintly ironic voice: “It would give you plenty to do, nothing to become,—unless it be Lord Mayor of London. And that evil can be circumvented with a little discretion and a sufficient stinginess on charity lists.”

A flicker of surprised amusement in Stuart’s eyes. “A diamond merchant,” he murmured, ... “why not? Khalif, Vizier and One-eyed Calendar—and now behold Camaralzaman! A bit fantastic, that’s all there is against it.”

Derwent heard. “If I may venture to prognosticate, you won’t find much that is fantastic about the offices in Holborn. However, you needn’t decide all at once; think the matter over. I need hardly say,” with a glance that gathered in his partners, “that your father’s son will be more than welcome; though I, for one, am disappointed, yes, certainly disappointed, that you have renounced burdens of a more glorious nature.”

“After all,” quoth Baldwin, “if we all shirked responsibility in that fashion, where would the world be?”

To which Arthur Heron, speaking for the first time: “To every Admiral his Spain. Baldwin’s thinking of the regatta season.”

“Uncle Arthur,” Stuart cried exuberantly, “your scalp at least is mine, to nail at my belt!” with which expression of gratitude to the sole convert of his evening’s eloquence, he crashed asunder the doors, and made an effective exit.

Baldwin was thinking of this scene, in the silence following his vain effort to turn Stuart from a discipleship of Nietzsche. From recognition of the fact that, in spite of philosophy, his nephew had not, after all, made such a bad diamond merchant, he suddenly remembered the object of his visit that evening:

“Look here, Stuart, what do you think of this Antoine Gobert business?”

“I think Antoine Gobert is a clever fraud.”

“Sir Fergus Macpherson seems inclined to believe there may be something in it.”

“What—that this fellow can actually manufacture diamonds indistinguishable from the real stone?”

“He thinks there may be something in it.”

“A Scotchman has no right to believe in miracles,” said Stuart carelessly; but a hard line had crept between his eyes; he had been buying stock heavily of late; and if this upstart foreigner should prove after all to be genuine in his avowals—

“Derwent spoke to Grey, and to Rupert Rosenstein. There seems to be an idea of paying Gobert a lump sum to keep him quiet, and then finance his experiments.”

“Experiments! I tell you, Baldwin, the man’s a swindler.”

“Swindler or not, there’ll be a big drop in the market if rumours get about.”

“We can hold on.”

Baldwin Carr looked doubtful, as he rose to go:

“I’m dining with Derwent, and I’ll tell him what you say, but....”

Stuart accompanied him downstairs. The dinner-gong was drowning the house in sound, and the postman had just thundered at the door. The butler stepped forward with a letter on a salver. When Baldwin had gone, Stuart slit the envelope, and drew forth a dance invitation:

“‘Madame Marcel des Essarts’—Mother, who’s Madame Marcel des Essarts?” as Mrs. Heron, on the arm of her brother-in-law, Arthur Heron, came out of the drawing-room.

“Oh, don’t you remember, Stuart? She used to visit me quite often when you were a schoolboy; a white-haired aristocratic old lady. And once or twice she brought her little granddaughter; such a pretty child, and so beautifully dressed, like a French doll, black hair and red lips and a waxen face——”

“And she wasn’t allowed to play with the tortoise for fear it should get ferocious and spring at her! Yes, I remember. She’s evidently sufficiently grown-up for the ball-room now.”

“Merle des Essarts must be about twenty,” remarked Mrs. Heron, helping herself to olives; “she has been abroad a great deal, I believe. If she is half as lovely as she promised to be, she ought to make a brilliant match.”

Stuart smiled.

“What do you think of our wizard in diamonds, Arthur?”