Читать книгу Tinker's Leave - Maurice Baring - Страница 5

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... “There! I knew he reminded me of some one. Comme le monde est petit! Pierre, chéri, don’t you remember ce charmant Monsieur Consterdine whom we knew à Madère, en soixante-treize? The old gentleman living on the hill, and his villa all covered with red flowers—what are they called in English—pointers-and-setters? And the dinner we had at his house, et ce merveilleux coucher de soleil! Mr. Consterdine, this is my husband, Mr. Dashkov, and my name is Elizaveta Sergeevna, only that is too difficult—so just call me Mrs. Dashkov, tout court!”

The old gentleman was once more on his feet, and shook hands with Miles, saying how glad he was to make his acquaintance. There was a mutual buzz of phrases, during which Miles made a mental note that he would never be able to call the old lady “Mrs. Dashkov” comfortably. It seemed to him like a joke.

“These,” the old lady went on, “are my daughter and my niece, Princess Kouragine. And this is her brother. We all call him Alyosha, and so does everybody else, for we are all very fond of him.”

A trifle had done it. Miles, in pressing the lever of the syphon, had spurted soda-water all over the old gentleman’s knees and frock-coat. Apologies had been offered and received, and the incident smothered in conversation. The elderly lady went on:

“This, Mr. Consterdine, is Mr. Lawrence, whom you certainly must have heard of. His suite was performed at the Palais de Cristal last winter. Mr. Lawrence is the best connoisseur of German music abroad. He has been studying at the Hochschule in Berlin, and he understands everything. Lamoureux never gives anything without asking his advice.”

Miles shook hands with every one.

They all sat down again, and instead of leaving the matter at that, went on with the conversation, and roped Miles into their talk, making him sit at their table. They asked him whether he had been to the Opera, and when he said he had been to the Théatre Français, the old man at once ejaculated: “There is a sensible man! What were they giving?”

Miles blushed scarlet, for he had forgotten, or rather he had never known the name of the play. He had not bought a programme, and he had looked at the wrong posters in the theatre. He couldn’t explain all that.

“It was historical,” he stammered.

The older lady, seeing his embarrassment, helped him out of the difficulty by saying:

“Yes, Pierre, of course; you know quite well. It was Hernani.”

The old man said “Hernani,” and nodded his head with quiet approval, and added that the revival in ’79—or was it ’80?—was “unforgettable.”

“How long did you say you were staying?” asked Madame Dashkov. “Only till to-morrow? That is impossible; you must stay at least till Monday ... because on Sunday afternoon there is a beautiful concert at the Cirque d’Été, and it would be a pity for some one so fond of music as you are” (she seemed to take it for granted, as if he had been to the Opera with them that night) “should miss such a treat. We are all going; perhaps you would like to come with us; we have room in our box.”

“The concert is not at the Cirque d’Été, maman,” the elder girl said.

“Well, at the Châtelet; it is almost the same, and I always mix them. But Mr. Constantine will come to déjeuner with us first.”

Miles stammered, blushed, and said he thought he ought to go home.

“But why?” asked the girl.

“It would mean staying three more days here,” said Miles.

“Why not?” said the younger girl.

“Why not?” thought Miles. There was indeed no possible reason why he should not stay a day, or even a week, longer in Paris if he wished to.

He said something about having to go back to his business.

“But you have holidays at Easter?” said the elder lady.

“Yes,” said Miles; “I do go away, as a rule, for a fortnight.”

“And how long did you say you had been away?”

“So far, only ten days,” said Miles.

“There, you see! Well, of course you must stay till Monday, or perhaps longer,” said the elder lady decisively. “It would be a crime for you to go just as we have made friends, and to miss that concert, wouldn’t it, Mr. Lawrence? They are playing the Charfreitag music and the Liebestod, a real treat, and Lamoureux is conducting. We have a large box. How strange and fortunate that I should have met your father in Madeira! He was very musical too, n’est-ce pas, Pierre? Tu te souviens de ce charmant Monsieur? And you shall have déjeuner with us before. We are staying at the Bristol. We are used to it. I wonder what your Imya and Otchestvo can be, because I find your name a bother. I mix it up with Constantine. I mean your Christian name and your father’s Christian name?”

“My Christian name is Miles, and my father’s Christian name was John,” said Miles; and before he was able to get any further, and as far as his surname, the lady interrupted him and said:

“That is perfect; we will call you Mihal Ivanytch.”

They then sent for the bill, and after saying good-night to Miles, they left the restaurant, leaving him gasping with astonishment.