Читать книгу Self Condemned - Wyndham Lewis - Страница 14

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'Are you a subscriber to a Press-Clipping Agency?' Janet Painter looked across the marble table at her brother. He shook his head. 'You did not read my story about you then, I expect.'

'What was that?' René was watching a girl at a neighbouring table who had been sketching him he thought. He had seen no sketching in the Café Royal for a long time. Habits were changing among the native artists. Spectacled girls were always the hottest: her specs were the big rimless ones that went with myopic, fat, red-lipped, provincial Sunday School sexiness. As greedy for it, as red-cheeked lads for jam. She turned towards him and smiled. He pointed his bearded lips and puffed a pencil of blue smoke.

'The little beast carts that sketch-book around with her as a means of getting off,' he ruminated. 'She sketches men into her fat little net. Probably been trodden by several hundred Yorkshire Tykes or Shropshire Lads. Now up in the capital, is swimming around with that protruding fish-mouth of hers below the short fat nose.' He removed his eyes from the coarse bit of sex-bait and caught Victor's eye, which had been covertly feasting upon the same abject morsel. Not for the first time did he find himself cruising in the same dirty waters as Victor. They had so few tastes in common that this one he found particularly startling.

'Idealism,' his sister was saying, 'was the caption for my story.'

'Idealism?' René repeated. 'The World as idea and as imagination. I see.'

'Yes, I say the most brilliant of our "young" professors, whose book, The Secret History of World War II, created such a sensation last year. After enumerating a few of his more glittering academic honours, I went on to describe how at last unable to bear the feeling of guilt, he had resigned his professorship. The sense of guilt had grown with his increasing sense of the evilness of the system his teaching was designed to support. Now, he, accompanied by his beautiful young wife, who with great bravery is following him into the wilderness, are booking a passage for Canada, where they are to start a new life. "Such idealism," my story concluded, "is not often met with outside the pages of a novel."'

'Oh, why didn't you tell me about this, Janet?' drawled Victor fruitily in his throat. 'How clever of you, darling!'

Mr. Victor Painter was Janet's husband, but his classily-barking patronage she took no more notice of than if he had been a familiar dog.

'Where has this story found a home,' René enquired, also ignoring the drawling noise.

'In the Ladies' Realm,' she told him. 'But I am slithering another one into the gossip of the Daily Telegram.'

Meanwhile Hester glowed appreciatively, actually blushing a little.

The four had just been dining within, in the smallish room where the orchestra performs.

The party consisted exclusively of René and his brother-in-law, Victor Painter, and their wives. This party had been proposed by René, with the purpose of passing an evening with Janet, his second sister: thirty-seven, eight years junior to Mary, and ten years younger than himself. She was dark and in some ways a slenderer version of Mary, and in character much less substantial too: Victor and Janet were a pointedly youthful thirty-seven. The ten years which separated René inflated by them to twenty. Across these twenty-odd, Victor addressed his brother-in-law as from a long way off. His learning and renown served to confer upon these inflated distances a proverbial likelihood. In Victor's manner, too, there was always something which implied that, as decade after decade passed, he automatically was destined to become the possessor of a similar learning and renown. If, at present, he was ignorant and quite unknown, this was merely owing to his youth (for the ten years he added to René's age, he took off his own); consequently it was in fact across no less than three decades, rather than two, that he addressed his wife's brother.

To such a harmless rearrangement of nature and adoption of a false position René would not have objected (his beard alone was a testimony to his indifference to the Zeitgeist), had it not been for his brother-in-law's general vulgarity and distinct proclivity to 'bound'.

Victor was a product of Liverpool, and the accent with which he had originally spoken was that peculiar to Lancashire: in no way inferior to B.B.C. English certainly, but that had not been Victor's view. He had come to London young, after a brief period as a wool clerk. It had been borne in upon him immediately that to speak as if an Old School Tie hung around his somewhat scraggy neck instead of a work-a-day necktie was essential for success. Giving proof of a certain histrionic endowment, he completely suppressed the locutions and tang of the Merseyside. He substituted the languid drawl of a Vaudeville toff.

As he strolled from one room to another of their little house, it was with so manifest an indifference to the lapse of time, that anyone could see he had been born in the top drawer, and that Time is Made for Slaves was his family motto.

His brother-in-law always listened to his throaty baying tones with boredom, and found it difficult to hide his contempt for this Ersatz gentleman. There had even been a moment in Victor Painter's life when his surname appeared to him a little compromising: and he had once considered changing it by deed poll. Did it not draw attention, quite unnecessarily, to how his ancestors had made their living? For painter signified, of course, a fellow on a ladder painting a front of a house. But it was not long before he learned that those privileged beings, the painters of easel-pictures, invariably referred to themselves as painters. So he was on good terms again with his name, and even a little proud of it. He thought of Lord Leighton and of Sir Alfred Munnings, and when asked what his name was by, say, a hotel clerk, he barked proudly, 'Painter.'

Victor by profession was the third on the notepaper of a not-very-prosperous Publicity business. In this Janet assisted, in a spasmodic way. Lastly, since the nature of his job brought him into contact with a number of actors and literary people, Victor regarded himself as an inhabitant of 'The Art World', a typical attendant at the annual Three Arts Club Ball, and the kind of person the casual visitor would expect to see at the Café Royal, which he persisted in regarding as a 'rendezvous of artists and models', though it had long ceased to be that. How on earth Janet had come to marry this squalid coxcomb René could not understand: except he was obliged ruefully to agree that ten years earlier this melancholy, baying countenance may have provided the female eye with material for mild romance.

This being Victor, it may be imagined that it was in no way to be in his society, René had arranged this party. On the other hand it would never have occurred to Victor that René's suggestion that they all four should meet at the Café Royal, could be for any other reason than to pass an evening with him: to secure his, Victor's, opinion upon the course he had taken, in resigning his professorship, and to give him the inner low-down regarding that resignation. It was, in consequence, a little puzzling to Victor that so far his opinion had not been sought, nor had any account been forthcoming of why (the real why) René had thrown up his job. 'René is a deep dog,' he reflected. 'He has got something up his sleeve!'

René's objection to discussing anything about his resignation with the shoddy, flashy Victor was absolute: and when he saw that personage leaning over confidentially towards him, he met the intruder with a dark scowl. However, Victor proceeded, quite undeterred, to address him in a hoarse, throaty, confidential, brother-in-lawish manner (as though to say 'in the family things can be told which it is perhaps undesirable to broadcast outside').

'What, René, was the real story,' Victor asked, 'behind your resignation—I mean the real motive? Did you have some bust-up or something?'

René stared at him for perhaps a minute, and then turned his back. Janet laughed. 'All Victor wants to know is was there any dirty business?'

At this René turned around with not very good grace. 'Oh, I beg your pardon,' he said to Victor. 'I thought, for some reason, that you were talking to yourself.'

'No, nooo,' Victor drawled, and as he drawled astonishment could be seen changing into anger. 'I am not accustomed to speak to myself.'

'No? You wish to know . . . ah yes. Nothing at all is concealed. The occurrence to which you referred has no esoteric inner story. My original statement is all there is to say.'

'I see,' Victor observed drily. He was extremely offended. He looked down his nose, hooding his eyes and hollowing his cheeks, as he was accustomed to do with anybody whom he regarded as nearer to the bottom-dog level than himself. He had been becoming acutely conscious, as they sat in this sacred hall of fame, that this man, of whom he had always been rather afraid and cringed to, at times, was no longer the person that he had been. His status had suffered, to his mind, a catastrophic decline. It had required a sizeable interval, and almost two hours had elapsed since they met in the restaurant, for him to realize the new situation. (Upon the level, of course, which was valid for him.) With questions of status Victor was very familiar. As a Publicity Agent, status was a cardinal factor in the very existence of such a trade as his. And when one of his two partners passed down to him some 'name' of a client on the down-grade, no longer worthy of their attention, he enjoyed saying, 'Now, Mr. X., let us face it squarely, you are no longer front-page stuff!'

So with these backgrounds, when it came to the great Professor Harding turning his back on him and even giving him a bit of lip—oh then, it was time that the true state of affairs should be emphasized. After all, René was now a man out of a job, and like any other man out of a job, he had to find a new one; and in all probability it would be considerably less good than the last. Hang it all, he, poor little Victor, had a job. It might not be a very good one, but there it was; any job is better than no job. So this fine brother-in-law of his had better get off his perch. He must be made to understand that (for whatever reason—and he, Victor, was not likely to swallow the Idealism stuff) he is no longer a professor of history, but just some vague free-lance person. He is not, even, a professor any longer. Mister Harding, if you please!

In his grandest manner, magnanimity in every line of his face, Victor addressed his brother-in-law, drawling drearily, 'I can quite understand how you feel, old man, I should be a little testy myself if I had just got the sack! . . . You haven't been fired, I know. You committed suicide, so to speak, fired yourself!' (and he ha-ha-ha'ed like the crowing of a rooster on a cracked gramophone record). 'You may even be in Queer Street for all I know. One does these things . . . in a passion. Then one regrets it ever afterwards. When it's a relative it comes home to one. . . . I am really awfully sorry; I sympathize with you most genuinely.' He sighed. 'What Canada is like I do not know. They say it is a tough place.' Then he said facetiously, with a broad smile, 'You may end up as a lumberjack! That would be rather fun.'

René had been looking at him with an expression of such concentrated contempt that it was a proof of how far he had sunk in Victor's estimation that that professional valuer of reputations did not quail. Janet had been listening only half believing her ears, when suddenly, at this point, she shouted, 'Victor! I wonder what you think you're talking about?'

'Me?' Victor enquired innocently.

'Victor, you are angry! I always know . . . your ears are sticking against your head. Apologize immediately for what you have just said.'

'Apologize! What on earth for?' drawled her husband in affected astonishment.

'Such a rat does not even know when he is being offensive!' René spoke to his sister. 'He is right. He has nothing to apologize for. If you marry a gutter-rat you should study a little the mentality of your . . . bed-fellow.'

'René!' Hester's consternation flung her forward upon the table and she clutched his arm in a foolish automatism. But now Victor's drawl came with a sharper note, as if it were difficult for him not to go a little quicker. He still used the back of his chair to hook his arm over, and addressed himself to his wife.

'Cads who insult their sisters . . .'

'Are you drunk? . . .' Janet screamed at him.

'No, no more than anybody else here. What I was saying was that cads who insult their sisters are certainly unfit to wear the academic regalia' (he drawled out 'regalia' with extraordinary unction). 'That they should resign is the best thing they could do.'

The two wives were white and motionless, both staring at René's face. As to signs that it registered the insulting epithet, the face in question showed nothing. All that the two women could see was a deeper red spreading where the beard did not cover it; and the eyes appeared to be growing more bloodshot every moment. Yet René was looking into the distance, and his head had an angle suggestive of the act of listening.

What René had actually been hearing was (a) the word 'Cad' and, at the same time, (b) the voices of two women behind him. They were carrying on the following conversation, not in a stage whisper, but in a loud undertone. First woman: 'I never had an orgasm with Fred not once, and we were married ten years. Ten years! Imagine!' Second woman: 'I don't believe I have had more than a half-dozen with Philip and we were married in '25 . . . or was it '26?' First woman: 'Heavens, what is the matter with these men. Philip looks as if he ought to do better than that. He is so athletic.' (She stopped.) 'Oh listen!' she hissed. 'A fight! A fight! I haven't seen a fight for ages!' Second woman: 'My money's on the Beard!'

The dialogue of the two women had already begun before the word 'Cad' reached René's ears, and that word had not sufficient authority to abolish the women's chatter. Cad held its place in the foreground of René's consciousness on equal terms with the inability of Fred to produce an orgasm.

As the two wives watched the inscrutable, angry and inquisitive listening face—that of the brother of one and the husband of the other—they each in their different ways considered what course to take should there be a sudden explosion: Janet had decided, when the storm broke, to fling herself in front of Victor. Hester decided to call upon the waiters to rescue Victor. If René were to injure his brother-in-law on top of the story of his resignation . . .! She dug her nails into her hand and tears came to her eyes. She heard the woman behind René cry, 'A fight! A fight!' and only just managed to hold down a scream. A waiter who, in passing, had heard the word 'Cad', and saw the furious bearded mask of the 'Cad', lingered to watch the explosion. As to Victor, his was the composure of a gentleman who has been called a 'rat' by a 'Cad'. He looked down his nose and delicately flicked the ash of his cigarette upon the café floor.

To this circle of watchers René's congested immobility looked as though it were turning to a state of chronic suspense. Meanwhile, inside the bearded head a battle raged. Many years of disciplining his choleric nature squashed the choler until it nearly split his head. The memory of his recent domestic explosion battled against his rising madness. And then Fred's ten-years-long orgasmless efforts grew and grew at the expense of the 'Cad', which shrank and shrank. After two or three seconds of this ever more violent expansion of the power of Fred, the 'Cad' collapsed. To the alarm and terror of everybody, Victor giving an involuntary jump, Hester clapping her hand over her mouth to repress her panic, René was convulsed with a deafening roar of laughter. He stamped and roared, amid the bewildered relaxation of the spectators.

'Can it be that he is yellow?' hissed one of the disappointed women in his rear.

Hester's face wore an almost maniacal distorted smile. Victor was far more angry than when he had been called a 'rat'. In his fit, René actually kicked Victor sharply on the shins, as he threw a foot out in a spasm of mad mirth. Victor withdrew his leg with dignity.

When his seizure was over, René looked at his watch, smiled at Janet and stood up. Hester, more gracefully, not to say languishingly, followed suit.

'We must go, Janet,' he said and moved away. 'Good-night, Victor,' Hester sang, as she passed the 'rat' of the party, contriving to look limp, and livid with rage, at the same time. 'Good-night, Essie my dear,' he sang back. 'You must be having an awful time. You have my sympathy.'

Janet accompanied her brother to the entrance hall.

'You don't seem as well as usual,' she said.

'Yes, Janet,' he replied at once. 'I am not worse than before. It is that preposterous little animal you wedded who requires a dose of castor-oil.'

*****

Victor beckoned imperiously to the waiter and ordered a double brandy. The waiter did not say, 'Yes, my lord Duke,' but Sicilian eyes veiled themselves with respect and Victor felt much the same as the Duke of Marlborough, or the Duke of Somerset, must feel when they order a double brandy. The curious thing was that England still swarmed with Dukes of this sort in 1939.

'It's no use, darling, but your brother is not a gentleman,' Victor told his wife, when she had returned.

'No, darling? He lacks breeding, I suppose it is that. But may I ask what caused you to be offensive to him? What has he done to you?'

'Oh, nothing,' he drawled, sticking his shoulders up and waving his hand. 'Turned his back on me, but what of that? I am only a rat, after all!'

'You are a very vain rat,' she retorted. 'So because he accidentally turned his back on you, you start being very offensive.'

'I like ac-ci-dent-ally!' He caressed the word, undulating witheringly over it.

They remained among their respective thoughts for awhile, then Victor sat up observing, 'There are one, or I should say three or four, things about Professor Harding; I give him his title, you notice, though that is just kindness.'

'What are these things you notice . . .?'

'Well'—he drew a noseful of smoke into his diminutive lungs and expelled some of it again, watching its reappearance along the sides of his nose, looking as if he were squinting—'to start with he is not a man, who, except for his beard, would impress one as out-of-the-ordinary at all, is he? I mean, I should never take him for a learned man. His conversation is upon a very pedestrian level. I have never heard him mention any historical event: except once he said Queen Elizabeth had a beard, like his, but that she shaved hers.'

Janet laughed. 'How amusing. Did he say that?'

'There you are!' exclaimed Victor, 'amusing. That is just it. Did you ever hear him talk about anything serious? Or do you ever remember him being in dead earnest?'

Janet laughed again. 'No, except when he called you a rat!'

'You are his sister, have known him all your life, and you say you have never known him to be serious about anything.'

'He worked like blazes at Oxford and got every sort of honour. I was only ten. But I was very impressed by the tall, solemn young man who was my brother, who was always reading in Latin . . . oh and German. No, I don't think you can say he is not serious. You don't understand him, that is all. If you were a learned man, we should all know about it, shouldn't we. René does not wear his learning on his sleeve.'

Victor's ears did tend to stick against his head when displeased, and now he lay back slumped very loftily in his chair, his arm hanging limply down behind it.

'I did not know him when I was ten,' Victor blandly protested. 'I can only speak of the present time, and I find him a common-place sort of fellow. . . . He even has rather low tastes.'

'That frightful tobacco, do you mean?'

'No,' drawled Victor with a particular anticipatory stress. 'No. Have you never noticed his eyes straying around, in rather . . . unexpected directions?'

'How do you mean?'

'Well'—-Victor blew some smoke up at the once resplendent ceiling—'I caught him tonight smiling and blowing smoke-rings at an extremely vulgar-looking girl . . . with a rather pronounced bust. She had a pig face and yellow curls.'

'Dear me!' Janet laughed. 'What a little monster! Did she stick out behind too?'

'She did!' Victor assured her. 'And old René was ogling this little horror.'

'Shameful! And he a married man too!'

'You don't understand what I mean, apparently. One would hardly expect this great Idealist to take any interest in the protruding bosoms of such cheap little minxes. You would expect his mind to be full of other, and very different, matters.'

'The breasts of the nymphs in the brakes!' she mocked. 'But stay! I have caught you, my little Victor, before now—covertly eyeing the protruding bottoms of nymphs in the brakes of the Strand. Once I caught you talking to one. Take back those words about my brother!'

Victor laughed hollowly and a little sheepishly.

'You are more observant, darling, than I thought you were. But I am only young Victor Painter, junior partner in a second-rate Publicity racket! Nobody calls me an Idealist! I am just a little nobody. It's natural that I should take an interest in typists' bosoms. I have nothing better to think about. No one expects a little Publicity man to have any intellect. But the great Professor René Harding, who is so high-minded an idealist . . .'

'All right, all right, you poor little rat!' she broke in with a laugh.

Victor subsided, sulkily. Then he began again in his indolent drawl,

'I do not believe a single word about his scruples, and his horror of war! He nearly landed me one in the eye just now. It was all he could manage to pass it off with a vulgar laugh . . . like some drunken pork-butcher. His fanaticism! How can a man like that be a fanatic? He takes nothing seriously, he makes a joke about everything! He does not believe in anything! He just likes guzzling down all the good food and good wine he can get, and running after girls half his age! A fanatic!'

Exhausted by his diatribe, Victor closed his eyes.

One of the women at the next table leant across towards Victor, who opened his eyes when he heard her voice. It was none other than Fred's luckless wife. 'I hope you will excuse me for this intrusion, but I could not help hearing what you were saying, and I thought you would like to know that when the bearded gentleman passed me on his way out he winked at me. I thought this fact had some bearing upon what you were saying.'

Victor was as gallant as it is possible to be in a world so unresponsive to 'the Graces'. Then 'The Ladies, God bless them, God bless them, the Ladies,' was a toast which would have been echoed with fervour by the susceptible Victor. He was stirred to gracious volubility, by the perfume which reached him from the neighbouring table. But Janet was less fervent, though a little ornate. She said, 'Thanks. When next I see my brother I shall tell him that his optical salute was duly appreciated.'