The Great Automatic Grammatizator 17 страница
Nunc Dimittis
IT is nearly midnight, and I can see that if I don't make a start with writing this story now, I never shall. All evening I have been sitting here trying to force myself to begin, but the more I have thought about it, the more appalled and ashamed and distressed I have become by the whole thing.
My idea–and I believe it was a good one–was to try, by a process of confession and analysis, to discover a reason or at any rate some justification for my outrageous behaviour towards Janet de Pelagia. I wanted, essentially, to address myself to an imaginary and sympathetic listener, a kind of mythical you, someone gentle and understanding to whom I might tell unashamedly every detail of this unfortunate episode. I can only hope that I am not too upset to make a go of it.
If I am to be quite honest with myself, I suppose I shall have to admit that what is disturbing me most is not so much the sense of my own shame, or even the hurt that I have inflicted upon poor Janet; it is the knowledge that I have made a monstrous fool of myself and that all my friends–if I can still call them that–all those warm and lovable people who used to come so often to my house, must flow be regarding me as nothing but a vicious, vengeful old man. Yes, that surely hurts. When I say to you that my friends were my whole life–everything, absolutely everything in it–then perhaps you will begin to understand.
Will you? I doubt it unless I digress for a minute to tell you roughly the sort of person I am.
Well–let me see. Now that I come to think of it, I suppose I am, after all, a type; a rare one, mark you, but nevertheless a quite definite type–the wealthy, leisurely, middle‑aged man of culture, adored (I choose the word carefully) by his many friends for his charm, his money, his air of scholarship, his generosity, and I sincerely hope for himself also. You will find him (this type) only in the big capitals London , Paris , New York ; of that I am certain. The money he has was earned by his dead father whose memory he is inclined to despise. This is not his fault, for there is something in his make‑up that compels him secretly to look down upon all people who never had the wit to learn the difference between Rockingham and Spode, Waterford and Venetian, Sheraton and Chippendale, Monet and Manet, or even Pommard and Montrachet.
He is, therefore, a connoisseur, possessing above all things an exquisite taste. His Constables, Boningtons, Lautrecs, Redons, Vuillards, Matthew Smiths are as fine as anything in the Tate; and because they are so fabulous and beautiful they create an atmosphere of suspense around him in the home, something tantalizing, breathtaking, faintly frightening–frightening to think that he has the power and the right, if he feels inclined, to slash, tear, plunge his fist through a superb Dedham Vale, a Mont Saint‑Victoire, an Aries cornfield, a Tahiti maiden, a portrait of Madame Cezanne. And from the walls on which these wonders hang there issues a little golden glow of splendour, a subtle emanation of grandeur in which he lives and moves and entertains with a sly nonchalance that is not entirely unpractised.
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He is invariably a bachelor, yet he never appears to get entangled with the women who surround him, who love him so dearly. It is just possible–and this you may or may not have noticed–that there is a frustration, a discontent, a regret somewhere inside him. Even a slight aberration.
I don't think I need say any more. I have been very frank. You should know me well enough by now to judge me fairly–and dare I hope it?–to sympathize with me when you hear my story. You may even decide that much of the blame for what has happened should be placed, not upon me, but upon a lady called Gladys Ponsonby. After all, she was the one who started it. Had I not escorted Gladys Ponsonby back to her house that night nearly six months ago, and had she not spoken so freely to me about certain people, and certain things, then this tragic business could never have taken place.
It was last December, if I remember rightly, and I had been dining with the Ashendens in that lovely house of theirs that overlooks the southern fringe of Regent's park. There were a fair number of people there, but Gladys Ponsonby was the only one beside myself who had come alone. So when it was time for us to leave, I naturally offered to see her safely back to her house. She accepted and we left together in my car; but unfortunately, when we arrived at her place she insisted that I come in and have 'one for the road', as she put it. I didn't wish to seem stuffy, so I told the chauffeur to wait and followed her in.
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Gladys Ponsonby is an unusually short woman, certainly not more than four feet nine or ten, maybe even less than that–one of those tiny persons who gives me, when I am beside her, the comical, rather wobbly feeling that I am standing on a chair. She is a widow, a few years younger than me–maybe fifty‑three or four, and it is possible that thirty years ago she was quite a fetching little thing. But now the face is loose and puckered with nothing distinctive about it whatsoever. The individual features, the eyes, the nose, the mouth, the chin, are buried in the folds of fat around the puckered little face and one does not notice them. Except perhaps the mouth, which reminds me I cannot help it–of a salmon.
In the living‑room, as she gave me my brandy, I noticed that her hand was a trifle unsteady. The lady is tired, I told myself, so I mustn't stay long. We sat down together on the sofa and for a while discussed the Ashendens' party and the people who were there. Finally I got up to go.
"Sit down, Lionel," she said. "Have another brandy."
"No, really, I must go."
"Sit down and don't be so stuffy. I'm having another one, and the least you can do is keep me company while I drink it."
I watched her as she walked over to the sideboard, this tiny woman, faintly swaying, holding her glass out in front of her with both hands as though it were an offering; and the sight of her walking like that, so incredibly short and squat and stiff, suddenly gave me the ludicrous notion that she had no legs at all above the knees.
"Lionel, what are you chuckling about?" She half turned to look at me as she poured the drink, and some of it slopped over the side of the glass.
"Nothing, my dear. Nothing at all."
"Well, stop it, and tell me what you think of my new portrait." She indicated a large canvas hanging over the fireplace that I had been trying to avoid with my eye ever since I entered the room. It was a hideous thing, painted, as I well knew, by a man who was now all the rage in London , a very mediocre painter called John Royden. It was a full‑length portrait of Gladys, Lady Ponsonby, painted with a certain technical cunning that made her out to be a tall and quite alluring creature.
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"Charming," I said.
"Isn't it, though! I'm so glad you like it."
"Quite charming."
"I think John Royden is a genius. Don't you think he's a genius, Lionel?"
"Well–that might be going a bit far."
"You mean it's a little early to say for sure?"
"Exactly."
"But listen, Lionel and I think this will surprise you. John Royden is so sought after now that he won't even consider painting anyone for less than a thousand guineas!"
"Really?"
"Oh, yes! And everyone's queueing up, simply queueing up to get themselves done."
"Most interesting."
"Now take your Mr Cezanne or whatever his name is. I'll bet he never got that sort of money in his lifetime."
"Never."
"And you say he was a genius?"
"Sort of yes."
"Then so is Royden," she said, settling herself again on the sofa. "The money proves it."
She sat silent for a while, sipping her brandy, and I couldn't help noticing how the unsteadiness of her hand was causing the rim of the glass to jog against her lower lip. She knew I was watching her, and without turning her head she swivelled her eyes and glanced at me cautiously out of the corners of them. "A penny for your thoughts?"
Now, if there is one phrase in the world I cannot abide, it is this. It gives me an actual physical pain in the chest and I begin to cough.
"Come on, Lionel. A penny for them."
I shook my head, quite unable to answer. She turned away abruptly and placed the brandy glass on a small table to her left; and the manner in which she did this seemed to suggest–I don't know why–that she felt rebuffed and was now clearing the decks for action. I waited, rather uncomfortable in the silence that followed, and because I had no conversation left in me, I made a great play about smoking my cigar, studying the ash intently and blowing the smoke up slowly towards the ceiling. But she made no move. There was beginning to be something about this lady I did not much like, a mischievous brooding air that made me want to get up quickly and go away. When she looked around again, she was smiling at me slyly with those little buried eyes of hers, but the mouth–oh, just like a salmon's–was absolutely rigid.
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"Lionel, I think I'll tell you a secret."
"Really, Gladys, I simply must get home."
"Don't be frightened, Lionel. I won't embarrass you. You look so frightened all of a sudden."
"I'm not very good at secrets."
"I've been thinking," she said, "you're such a great expert on pictures, this ought to interest you." She sat quite still except for her fingers which were moving all the time. She kept them perpetually twisting and twisting around each other, and they were like a bunch of small white snakes wriggling in her lap.
"Don't you want to hear my secret, Lionel?"
"It isn't that, you know. It's just that it's so awfully late…
"This is probably the best‑kept secret in London . A woman's secret. I suppose it's known to about let me see–about thirty or forty women altogether. And not a single man. Except him, of course–John Royden."
I didn't wish to encourage her, so I said nothing.
"But first of all, promise–promise you won't tell a soul?"
"Dear me!"
"You promise, Lionel?"
"Yes, Gladys, all right, I promise."
"Good! Now listen." She reached for the brandy glass and settled back comfortably in the far corner of the sofa. "I suppose you know John Royden paints only women?"
"I didn't."
"And they're always full‑length portraits, either standing or sitting–like mine there. Now take a good look at it, Lionel. Do you see how beautifully the dress is painted?"
"Well… "Go over and look carefully, please."
I got up reluctantly and went over and examined the painting. To my surprise I noticed that the paint of the dress was laid on so heavily it was actually raised out from the rest of the picture. It was a trick, quite effective in its way, but neither difficult to do nor entirely original.
"You see?" she said. "It's thick, isn't it, where the dress is?"
"Yes."
"But there's a bit more to it than that, you know, Lionel. I think the best way is to describe what happened the very first time I went along for a sitting." Oh, what a bore this woman is, I thought, and how can I get away?
"That was about a year ago, and I remember how excited I was to be going into the studio of the great painter. I dressed myself up in a wonderful new thing I'd just got from Norman Hartnell, and a special little red hat, and off I went. Mr Royden met me at the door, and of course I was fascinated by him at once. He had a small pointed beard and thrilling blue eyes, and he wore a black velvet jacket. The studio was huge, with red velvet sofas and velvet chairs–he loves velvet–and velvet curtains and even a velvet carpet on the floor. He sat me down, gave me a drink and came straight to the point. He told me about how he painted quite differently from other artists. In his opinion, he said, there was only one method of attaining perfection when painting a woman's body and I mustn't be shocked when I heard what it was.
"I don't think I'll be shocked, Mr Royden,' I told him.
"I'm sure you won't either,' he said. He had the most marvellous white teeth and they sort of shone through his beard when he smiled. 'You see, it's like this,' he went on. 'You examine any painting you like of a woman–I don't care who it's by–and you'll see that although the dress may be well painted, there is an effect of artificiality, of flatness about the whole thing, as though the dress were draped over a log of wood. And you know why?'
"No, Mr Royden, I don't.'
"Because the painters themselves didn't really know what was underneath!"
Gladys Ponsonby paused to take a few more sips of brandy. "Don't look so startled, Lionel," she said to me. "There's nothing wrong about this. Keep quiet and let me finish. So then Mr Royden said, 'That's why I insist on painting my subjects first of all in the nude.'
"Good Heavens, Mr Royden!' I exclaimed.
"If you object to that, I don't mind making a slight concession, Lady Ponsonby,' he said. 'But I prefer it the other way.'
"Really, Mr Royden, I don't know.'
"And when I've done you like that,' he went on, 'we'll have to wait a few weeks for the paint to dry. Then you come back and I paint on your underclothing. And when that's dry, I paint on the dress. You see, it's quite simple."
"The man's an absolute bounder!" I cried.
"No, Lionel, no! You're quite wrong. If only you could have heard him, so charming about it all, so genuine and sincere. Anyone could see he really felt what he was saying."
"I tell you, Gladys, the man's a bounder!"
"Don't be so silly, Lionel. And anyway, let me finish. The first thing I told him was that my husband (who was alive then) would never agree.
"Your husband need never know,' he answered. 'Why trouble him. No one knows my secret except the women I've painted.'
"And when I protested a bit more, I remember he said, 'My dear Lady Ponsonby, there's nothing immoral about this. Art is only immoral when practised by amateurs. It's the same with medicine. You wouldn't refuse to undress before your doctor, would you?'
"I told him I would if I'd gone to him for ear‑ache. That made him laugh. But he kept on at me about it and I must say he was very convincing, so after a while I gave in and that was that. So now, Lionel, my sweet, you know the secret." She got up and went over to fetch herself some more brandy.
"Gladys, is this really true?"
"Of course it's true."
"You mean to say that's the way he paints all his subjects?"
"Yes. And the joke is the husbands never know anything about it. All they see is a nice fully clothed portrait of their wives. Of course, there's nothing wrong with being painted in the nude; artists do it all the time. But our silly husbands have a way of objecting to that sort of thing."
"By gad, the fellow's got a nerve!"
"I think he's a genius."
"I'll bet he got the idea from Goya."
"Nonsense, Lionel."
"Of course he did. But listen, Gladys, I want you to tell me something. Did you by any chance know about this… this peculiar technique of Royden's before you went to him?"
When I asked the question she was in the act of pouring the brandy, and she hesitated and turned her head to look at me, a little silky smile moving the corners of her mouth. "Damn you, Lionel," she said. "You're far too clever. You never let me get away with a single thing."
"So you knew?"
"Of course. Hermione Girdlestone told me."
"Exactly as I thought!"
"There's still nothing wrong."
"Nothing." I said. "Absolutely nothing." I could see it all quite clearly now. This Royden was indeed a bounder, practising as neat a piece of psychological trickery as ever I'd seen. The man knew only too well that there was a whole set of wealthy indolent women in the city who got up at noon and spent the rest of the day trying to relieve their boredom with bridge and canasta and shopping until the cocktail hour came along. All they craved was a little excitement, something out of the ordinary, and the more expensive the better. Why the news of an entertainment like this would spread through their ranks like smallpox. I could just see the great plump Hermione Girdlestone leaning over the canasta table and telling them about it 'But my dear, it's simp‑ly fascinating… I can't tell you how intriguing it is… much more fun than going to your doctor… "You won't tell anyone, Lionel, will you? You promised."
"No, of course not. But now I must go, Gladys, I really must."
"Don't be so silly. I'm just beginning to enjoy myself. Stay till I've finished this drink, anyway."
I sat patiently on the sofa while she went on with her interminable brandy sipping. The little buried eyes were still watching me out of their corners in that mischievous, canny way, and I had a strong feeling that the woman was now hatching out some further unpleasantness or scandal. There was the look of serpents in those eyes and a queer curl around the mouth; and in the air–although maybe I only imagined it–the faint smell of danger.
Then suddenly, so suddenly that I jumped, she said, "Lionel, what's this I hear about you and Janet de Pelagia?"
"Now. Gladys, please..
"Lionel, you're blushing!"
"Nonsense."
"Don't tell me the old bachelor has really taken a tumble at last?"
"Gladys, this is too absurd." I began making movements to go, but she put a hand on my knee and stopped me.
"Don't you know by now, Lionel, that there are no secrets?"
"Janet is a fine girl."
"You can hardly call her a girl." Gladys Ponsonby paused, staring down into the large brandy glass that she held cupped in both hands. "But of course, I agree with you, Lionel, she's a wonderful person in every way. Except," and now she spoke very slowly, "except that she does say some rather peculiar things occasionally."
"What sort of things?"
"Just things, you know–things about people. About you."
"What did she say about me?"
"Nothing at all, Lionel. It wouldn't interest you."
"What did she say about me?"
"It's not even worth repeating, honestly it isn't. It's only that it struck me as being rather odd at the time."
"Gladys–what did she say?" While I waited for her to answer, I could feel the sweat breaking out all over my body.
"Well now, let me see. Of course, she was only joking or I couldn't dream of telling you, but I suppose she did say how it was all a wee bit of a bore."
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