Читать книгу The Short Stories of Warwick Deeping - Warwick Deeping - Страница 19

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No one could understand why—when there were at least a dozen hotels in Belleplage—he should have chosen to stay at the Hotel Victoria, for the “Victoria” was eminently and aggressively the English hotel, and though he registered himself as British he did not look English as the Hotel Victoria understood it. His name was Sabbine. He was of a quite extraordinary plainness, and the Hotel Victoria, having prejudices of its own, found his plainness repulsive. Everything about him was ugly: his jowl, his negroid mouth, his complexion suggesting hot moist veal, his large hands, his massive thighs, his feet. He had little dark eyes tucked away in bladders of fat. He had a tummy. Quite inevitably the Hotel Victoria referred to him as “That gross person.”

He appeared as a topical figure, symbol of the New Riches, and probably a profiteer. Obviously he was very well-to-do. He was occupying the best suite in the hotel, and he had a valet. In the dining-room Gustave, the head-waiter, had assigned to Mr. Sabbine the most special corner by the window, with its view of the sea. The Victorians were shocked at Gustave, that he should be so obviously servile and a sycophant in search of tips.

No one spoke to Mr. Sabbine. He wore brilliants in his dress-studs, and collected on his table an amazing array of bottles. He was most excellently served. He was smiled upon by the staff, and cold-shouldered by the guests.

Mrs. Horrocks, who had wintered for fifteen successive years at the Hotel Victoria, and who ran everything in Belleplage: the English church and the chaplain, and the library, and the Society for Salving Russian Refugees, disapproved instantly of Mr. Sabbine. Possibly his name suggested to her that most indecent incident in the history of Rome, and the vulgarities of Rubens. She spoke of him openly as “That gross person.”

Seated at her table, which happened to be too close to Mr. Sabbine, she surveyed him like a desiccated Britannia whose urge was to use her trident, and to pitchfork Mr. Sabbine out into the street.

“I can’t think what the man is doing here.”

Colonel Blenkinsop, to whom everything was either pukkah or pariah, and who managed to be extraordinarily like the French cartoonist’s idea of an Englishman, agreed with Mrs. Horrocks.

“Demned superfluous. A bottle-wallah with diamonds in his shirt-front! I must speak to Muller about it.”

Muller was the manager, and when Colonel Blenkinsop did speak about it, the shrewd Swiss asked to be instructed.

“But what is the objection to the gentleman, sir? He is very quiet.”

Quiet, indeed! Why the loudness of him screamed! But, of course, Muller could not be expected to distinguish such sounds emerging from the person of so profitable a client.

“Just freeze the fellah out.”

That he should arouse such hostility was a subtle challenge to the League of Nations and to all those who preach brotherly love, but Mr. Sabbine appeared unaffected by it. He waddled about with an air of aloof good humour, and refused to be frozen. No one spoke to him save the staff, and he spoke to no-one. And he conveyed to the world of the Hotel Victoria the impression that he was quite aware of the feeling of hostility he aroused, and was amused by it. Not only was he repulsive, but he was repulsively complacent. It was as though he gloried secretly in his grossness.

He sat on one of the green chairs in the garden and watched Belleplage playing tennis. He was there during the tournament when an Italian won the men’s singles, and a German girl defeated the English tigress. He was seen to applaud, to clap his fat hands together. It was a subtle offence, for though the English are a sporting people, the English abroad—or some of them—retain prejudices. Colonel Blenkinsop still referred to the whole Mediterranean race as dagos.

He included Mr. Sabbine in that category.

“Registered himself as British. Demned alien.”

Also, he was able to explain Mr. Sabbine’s presence in the hotel.

“A fellah like that usually has something tucked away. Keeps it round the corner, you know.”

Mrs. Horrocks looked shocked.

“You mean—a woman?”

“Precisely.”

The hotel was particularly offended when it saw the young English tigress of the tennis-court chatting to Mr. Sabbine in the ball-room. The Victoria danced twice a week. Someone impatiently expostulated with young England.

“What on earth made you speak to that man?”

“He spoke to me. Well, and why not? He’s a rather decent old thing.” For Mr. Sabbine had said—“May I congratulate you on losing as charmingly as you play.” Which was true. For Mr. Sabbine liked young England better in some respects than he liked old England. It might be noisier, but it was less tolerant of humbug.

During the last week in February the English Club gave its yearly dance, and as usual it gave it at the Hotel Victoria. It was an invitation dance. Mrs. Horrocks presided at the committee, and with bottle-bright blue eyes and trident at the slope, held the seas sacred. The Duke was expected. He accepted the invitation yearly, but his acceptance was rather an act of courtesy, and being a man of seventy and a semi-invalid, he had every excuse to send his equerry to represent him. The Duke was a very great gentleman.

On the night of the dance Mr. Sabbine strolled down the gallery to the ball-room. He had an air of innocence, but at the ball-room door he was stopped by young Lovelace who had been placed there by the committee. Young Lovelace was a nice lad. He spoke gently to Mr. Sabbine.

“Your card, sir, please.”

“I haven’t a card.”

“I’m awfully sorry, sir, but it’s an invitation dance.”

“I’m staying in the hotel.”

Mrs. Horrocks had her eyes on the doorway. It is possible that she suspected young Lovelace of too much niceness, for she sailed down and intervened.

“Can I help?”

Mrs. Horrocks’ offers to assist were ominous.

“This gentleman has no card.”

“Have you explained?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Horrocks spoke with stateliness to Mr. Sabbine.

“This—is an invitation dance. Quite so. I need not explain that an invitation is essential. You will appreciate the fact that the committee——”

Mr. Sabbine made her a little bow.

“I must apologize. Being an old man, and a resident here, I thought——”

“We can make no exceptions——”

“I quite understand, madam.”

He walked away, but later in the evening he heard Mrs. Horrocks’ voice in the lounge on the other side of one of the white pillars.

“What a pity the dear duke could not come. He has to be so very careful. Yes; did you see that vulgar person try to get past young Lovelace? I soon settled that.”

Mr. Sabbine did not pack up and go, for in spite of the unfriendliness of the residents he was very comfortable at the Victoria. His suite was comparatively quiet, and its windows were full of the unspoilt sea and sky. The hotel staff was very attentive. For some reason the staff liked Mr. Sabbine, for in those little dark eyes of his there was both sadness and laughter, an understanding of the why and the wherefore of life, humour and kindliness. He had carried about with him a preposterous and grotesque body, and yet had contrived to enjoy its very ugliness. It had provided him with mischievous provocations, delicate surprises, and at times it had made the obvious people look so shallow and foolish.

Placards appeared in Belleplage. They advertised a concert by Max Spindler the pianist, an artist better known in Berlin and Vienna than in London. The concert was to be given in the big salon of the Hotel Metropole, and Mr. Sabbine took a ticket. It was said that Spindler was going to play Debussy, and no other man could interpret Debussy with such delicacy and whimsicalness. A large part of the Hotel Victoria attended the concert, because it was the thing to do, and by some quite undeserved misfortune Mr. Sabbine found himself very much involved in that part of the audience. He had Colonel Blenkinsop behind him, and three chairs away on his right Mrs. Horrocks and Miss Blaber had matters to discuss.

Mr. Sabbine felt uneasy. On his left he had heard a big German in spectacles saying to a girl of fourteen: “This afternoon you will listen to a great and exquisite artist, a man unique in his rendering of certain masters. It is a great privilege to listen to such an artist.” Yes, the audience was cosmopolitan; it came to listen and to enjoy, but Mr. Sabbine knew by experience that the English of the Hotel Victoria were not musical. They could neither understand nor enjoy, and in the enjoyment efface themselves. They were apt to behave in the presence of a pianist like children at a pantomime remarking loudly upon the antics of a performing pig. It was distressing and exasperating. Moreover, Mr. Sabbine had exchanged a smile and a flutter of the programme with a certain little person in the audience who was intimately connected with the performer.

Colonel Blenkinsop kept clearing his throat. From the Horrocks and Blaber chairs, conversation floated.

“My dear, I don’t know why I came here. I’m afraid I’m going to be awfully bored, but our bridge party fell through.”

“Do you know anything about the man? What’s his name? Spindly?”

“Spindler? Never heard of him before.”

“It sounds German.”

“Or Austrian.”

“Well, that’s much the same, isn’t it. How they do overheat these places. I must get a window opened.”

Mr. Sabbine felt uneasy. How was it that these people could never keep quiet, and must advertise their little stupidities? He caught the gleam of the stout German’s spectacles—“Ach—these English, they will spoil everything.”

And then Max Spindler appeared on the platform, a strange, lumpy figure in a frock coat, and of an ugliness that almost equalled Mr. Sabbine’s. He seemed to have no chin, and his hair stood up uncouthly; his flaccid face was the colour of cream.

Most distinctly did Mr. Sabbine hear those words.

“My dear, he’s just like a pig!”

Quite a number of other people must have heard them, including the little person who had waved to Mr. Sabbine. And Mr. Sabbine felt hot. The Blaber woman was giggling—yes—actually giggling. “My dear—I—really—shall have to go out.”

Spindler looked at his audience for a moment, and his glance seemed to rest on the Horrocks—Blaber chairs. Then he began, and the little gentle sneer seemed to melt from his face. Someone was tittering into a handkerchief, and the fat German leant across and glared. Sabbine sat very still. Really, it was deplorable. He had sat in the cheap seats at Queen’s Hall in the midst of people who worked for a living, and he had felt their tense, exquisite silence. But these other English—!

But Spindler had forgotten the women. He was away in that other world, a queer, grotesque figure becoming mysterious and beautiful in a mystery of sound. The fat German nursed his corporation and dreamed. His face had a radiance.

The piece was over, and Colonel Blenkinsop became vocal.

“Can’t make head or tail of this new stuff. Sullivan’s good enough for me. This fellah——”

There were murmurings, for Spindler had struck the first notes of a thing of Debussy’s. It flickered and flaunted puckishly; it played in and out of the shadows and the sunlight. And Colonel Blenkinsop blew his nose, vigorously and at his leisure.

“These dem places always full of germs. My doctor man says——”

Mr. Sabbine turned on him and said softly: “Excuse me, sir, may I suggest that I have paid to listen to the music and not to your conversation?”

The fat German, understanding English, grunted ecstatically.

There was silence, save for one sniff from Blenkinsop. At the end of the piece he bent forward and touched Mr. Sabbine’s shoulder.

“I’ll trouble you, sir, not to address a stranger impertinently.”

Mr. Sabbine smiled, and said nothing. What he wanted to say was: “Please blow your nose and blow it now.”

Later, Max Spindler played something with an obvious tune to it, and Mr. Sabbine heard a buzzing behind him. Colonel Blenkinsop was humming. And in the hurry of applause at the end of the selection Mr. Sabbine heard him say: “Now—that was better. The fellah doesn’t play so badly. I remember a sub of mine at Buddlebooda who could sit down and give you the Mikado—yes, all of it—slap off. Not so much as a postage-stamp of music.”

Mr. Sabbine murmured:

“Quite so.”

When the concert was over and the audience drifted out into the lounge of the hotel, Mr. Sabbine remained behind. He knew that for one particular person the afternoon had been spoilt. She must have heard those words of the Horrocks’ woman, and as he made his way towards Max Spindler’s wife he wondered at the insensate vulgarity of the insular mind. Madame Spindler was fluttering her programme at him. She looked flushed.

“Oh, Sabbine, do I look murderous?”

She addressed him as Sabbine, and in the most English of voices, and with an impulsive and affectionate frankness. Mr. Sabbine raised her hand and kissed it. His little eyes twinkled.

“You did not know I was here. I am here. Max is better than ever.”

“Yes! isn’t he great. Where are you staying?”

Not for a moment would she confess that she had heard Mrs. Horrocks liken her husband to a pig. Her anger made her animated and pretty, like some inward glow, restrained and shaded.

“Where are you staying?”

“At the Victoria.”

“Oh, Sabbine, why? It is so—English.”

“And so are we, my dear, other English. Really, it amuses me. They think me a hideous and gross person, all greasy with the slime of war profits. It amuses me. You’ll come and dine?”

“There? Never!”

“Oh, yes, you will. We will amuse ourselves a little. Hallo, Max.”

The two ugly men shook hands.

“Better than ever, Max; better than ever.”

“Thanks to you.”

“Nonsense. I was telling Rose that you must dine with me. She says ‘never.’ ”

Spindler smiled at his wife.

“The applause did not satisfy her? Or the asides. You know, Sabbine, some of these people seem to think that the man at the piano is deaf. And I have such ears——”

He laughed and without bitterness.

“They present us with pig’s heads and bull’s heads.”

Sabbine patted his shoulder.

“You are a great artist, Max, and a master. He who can laugh at such people is—the master.”

They dined at the Victoria and the Victoria stared rather rudely. It was Blenkinsop who said: “Well, that’s a sight for the blind! The two ugliest fellahs in France. A couple of Calibans, what!” He chortled. “That Ike was rude to me. Tell him something? You bet I did. The woman with ’em ain’t so bad. Wonder she can feed with two such faces.” But not all the English were Horrocks—Blenkinsop. To a few Mr. Sabbine’s reputation had gained distinction.

Mr. Sabbine had an idea.

“Max, I want you to give a concert. My particular show.”

“I’ll play for you—always and anywhere.”

“In this hotel?”

The pianist looked surprised.

“If you wish it.”

“Good. It will be a concert—for three. By invitation. May I arrange?”

“I play for you always and anywhere.”

Mr. Sabbine inwardly chuckled, and next morning his car carried him up to the Villa Miramar, where a certain great gentleman lived. Mr. Sabbine sent in his card, and apparently the card was good value, for the man-servant returned to take Mr. Sabbine in charge.

“Will you come this way, sir, please.”

Mr. Sabbine was led into the garden, and along a pergola to a sunny space where a very tall man with a white head and a face the colour of old red brick was pottering about in his shirtsleeves. Mr. Sabbine stood with his hat off in the presence of this tall old man.

“Hallo, Sabbine. Glad to see you. Bought any more pictures lately?”

“A few, sir. A Goya, and one or two Dutch pieces.”

The great man put on his coat—a comfortable old coat. He was pleased to see Mr. Sabbine.

“Sit down. We are out of the wind here. Yes, there are some of the new irises I am trying. I have raised two rather charming hybrids of my own. I did not know you were here, Sabbine.”

“Why should you, sir?”

“Oh, well, some people are worth hearing about. I meant to have come down to Spindler’s concert yesterday, but I had a function. Were you there? But—of course—you would be there. How is Max?”

“Better than ever.”

“What did he play?”

Mr. Sabbine ran through the programme, and the great man smiled.

“I wish I had been there. Is he playing again here?”

“That is what I have come to see you about, sir. I am having an afternoon of my own. If you would do me the honour——”

“When is it?”

“To-morrow, sir, at the Victoria. Max has to be in Paris on Thursday.”

The great man gave Mr. Sabbine a droll frown. “The Victoria! But why? My dear Sabbine, the Victoria is so—so——”

“Exclusive, sir.”

“Those people distress me. At the Victoria I always feel covered with gold lace. But not a word.” Mr. Sabbine understood.

“The concert will be a private affair, sir. The audience will consist of three people. I am taking the ball-room because its sound effects are good. Max will play what you please.”

“Would he give me some Chopin?”

“You have only to express a wish, sir.”

“Splendid. What time, Sabbine?”

“Shall we say five o’clock, sir. Some tea in my suite—first. Max will give us an hour.”

“All to ourselves?”

“Yes; all to ourselves.”

“What a privilege!”

So Mr. Sabbine returned to the Hotel Victoria, and arranged with Monsieur Muller, the manager, for the hotel ball-room to be reserved from five o’clock till six-thirty on the afternoon of Wednesday. He said—“I think it would be as well, Mr. Muller, for you to keep the doors locked till five. Then—if you will place one of the porters on duty to see that no one without a card of invitation—intrudes. I hope you understand me?”

Monsieur Muller understood.

“It shall be arranged, sir. Will there be many people? I should wish to know the number of chairs.”

“Just three, Mr. Muller.”

“Three!”

“That number, exactly. I suggest arm-chairs. I am arranging to have a piano sent in.”

The Swiss put his heels together and bowed.

“Always at your service, Mr. Sabbine.”

But Mr. Sabbine, in staging his effect, perfected his atmosphere. He had a notice posted in the hall:

Mr. Max Spindler will give a piano recital in the hotel on the afternoon of Wednesday at five o’clock. Admission by ticket of invitation.

He bribed the head-porter and the maître d’hôtel, and gave them special instructions. The concert became gossip. It floated from table to table during dinner and lunch. Apparently it was to be a feeless affair—and exceptional.

Mrs. Horrocks thought of two or three acquaintances against whom she could wipe off an obligation. She called up the maître d’hôtel.

“Oh, Gustave, about this concert? Who is issuing the invitations?”

Gustave was bland and innocent.

“I do not know, madame. You had better apply to the head-porter.”

Mrs. Horrocks attacked the head-porter, who, equally and innocently ignorant, referred her to the hotel bureau. In the bureau they knew nothing—or nothing that was of any use to Mrs. Horrocks.

She pulled out Monsieur Muller.

“About this concert.”

“Yes, madame.”

“I want tickets.”

“It is by invitation, madame.”

“Yes, yes; but who is issuing the invitations?”

Monsieur Muller shrugged politely.

“It is a private affair. Doubtless madame will receive an invitation. I can say no more.”

Mrs. Horrocks felt opposition in the air, and inevitably she felt more and more determined to have her chair. With two or three friends she went down to the ball-room at a quarter to five, and found the glass doors locked, and a card with “Private,” affixed to them. The ball-room was empty.

She shook the doors.

“How impertinent! The management cannot exclude hotel residents. I shall go and see Muller.”

But Monsieur Muller had removed himself out of danger, and when Mrs. Horrocks and her party returned to the glass doors she found them still locked, and Gaston, the head-porter, on guard.

“About this concert——”

“Yes, madame?”

“I wish to know——”

Gaston was very polite.

“It is a private concert, madame. Only those——”

Mrs. Horrocks clicked her tongue, and peered through the glass doors.

“But—what’s this? Only three chairs!”

“Yes, madame. It is a very select concert.”

The Hotel Victoria was rather like a farmyard quickly infected by feathered agitation. There was nothing to get excited about, but that was just what the Hotel Victoria did get excited about. Mrs. Horrocks carried her grievance into the lounge where a great number of people were having tea, and selecting Colonel Blenkinsop, she addressed him publicly.

“I think it is a perfect scandal. Muller has locked us out of our ball-room because someone is giving a piano recital.”

Colonel Blenkinsop wiped his moustache.

“I thought it was a concert.”

“There are just three chairs. Perfectly disgraceful. If this German had been playing for charity, one would have said nothing. I shall complain to Muller. I think we ought to insist on being allowed to use that room.”

She gathered a party together and advanced once more upon Gaston and the glass doors of the ball-room. They heard the sound of a piano being played. Max Spindler had begun, for Mr. Sabbine’s party had gained the ball-room without passing through the lounge.

Mrs. Horrocks issued an order.

“Gaston, you will unlock that door.”

“It is not permitted, madame.”

“I insist!”

“Madame had better look.”

He stood aside, and Mrs. Horrocks and her supporters first saw a row of chairs at the far end of the ballroom, and on the chairs were seated a number of the hotel waiters, the valets, the chambermaids and some of the kitchen staff. A democratic affair! But not wholly so, for when Mrs. Horrocks turned her attention to the three arm-chairs that were placed in an alcove on the right of the pianist she saw Mr. Sabbine and the pianist’s wife, and a certain great gentleman.

Mrs. Horrocks’ lips moved, but no sound came from them. It was Colonel Blenkinsop who supplied the words.

“By George, the Duke! What the devil is he doin’ sittin’ with that fellah?”

Gaston, who was listening, dared to answer the question.

“It is a very select party, monsieur. Mr. Sabbine is a very great authority on art and music. He is intimate with His Highness.”

Colonel Blenkinsop made a sort of snarling noise in his throat.

“These Jews are the limit! What about a game before dinner?”

The amateur door-crashers returned to the lounge, where there was much conversation, a sibilant hissing, broken occasionally by shriller exclamations. Even the card-tables were conversational. A catastrophic thing happened. Mrs. Horrocks revoked. She was trying to explain away the catastrophe when somebody said: “Ssh!” and the lounge of the Hotel Victoria rose from its chairs. The Duke was passing through. He was walking with Mr. Sabbine, and he held Mr. Sabbine by the arm, and while acknowledging the salutes of the Hotel Victoria his shy and pleasant smile protested. “Oh, do, please, sit down. This sort of thing is not necessary. It is not a public occasion.” He stood talking to Mr. Sabbine in the vestibule, and the silent lounge listened.

“Yes—I know no pianist who has what I should call the mystic touch—as Max has it. That was a prophetic act of yours, Sabbine. Oh, yes, kindness. You collect more than pictures. You will come and dine with me to-morrow night?”

“It will be a great pleasure, sir.”

The Duke was helped on with his coat, and handed his scarf and hat. The doors were held open for him, and as he went out the lounge of the Hotel Victoria had a view of Mr. Sabbine’s fat back paying homage to a great gentleman.

Colonel Blenkinsop picked up the cards that had been left lying on the table.

He said:

“Well—I’m demned!”