The Literary Lord Peter

 

CHAPTER XIX

 

Prickly Pear

 

 

This is the dead land

This is cactus land

Here the stone images

Are raised, here they receive

The supplication of a dead man's hand

Under the twinkle of a fading star....

Between the idea

And the reality

Between the motion

And the act

Falls the Shadow.

 

T. S. Eliot: The Hollow Men

 

 

"Peter, what were you dreaming about early this morning? It sounded pretty awful."

 

He looked vexed.

 

"Oh, my God, have I started that again? I thought I'd learnt to keep my dreams to myself. Did I say things? Tell me the worst."

 

"I couldn't make out what you said. But it sounded as though—to put it mildly—you had something on your mind."

 

"What an agreeable companion I must be," he said, bitterly. "I know. I've been told about it before. The perfect bedfellow—so long as I keep awake. I'd no business to risk it; but one always hopes one's going to come right again some time. In future I'll remove myself."

 

"Don't be an idiot, Peter. You stopped dreaming as soon as I got hold of you."

 

"So I did. It comes back to me now.... Fifteen of us, marching across a prickly desert, and we were all chained together. There was something I had forgotten—to do or tell somebody—but I couldn't stop, because of the chain.... Our mouths were full of sand, and there were flies and things.... We were in dark blue uniforms, and we had to go on...."

 

He broke off. "I don't know why blue uniforms—it's usually something to do with the War. And telling one's dreams is the last word in egotism."

 

"I want to hear it; it sounds perfectly foul."

 

"Well, it was, in a way.... Our boots were broken with the march.... When I looked down, I saw the bones of my own feet, and they were black, because we'd been hanged in chains a long time ago and were beginning to come to pieces."

 

"Mais priez dieu que tous nous veuille absoudre."

 

"Yes, that's it. Very like the Ballade des Pendus. Only it was hot, with a sky like brass—and we knew that the end of the journey would be worse than the beginning. And it was all my fault, because I'd forgotten—whatever it was."

 

"What was the end of it?"

 

"It didn't end. It changed when you touched me—something about rain and a bunch of chrysanthemums.... Oh, it was only the old responsibility-dream, and a mild one at that. The funny thing is that I know there is something I've forgotten. I woke up with it on the tip of my tongue—but it's gone."

 

"It'll come back if you don't worry it."

 

"I wish it would; and then I shouldn't feel so guilty about it.... Hullo, Bunter, what's that? The post? Heaven above, man, what have you got there?"

 

"Our silk hat, my lord."

 

"Silk hat? Don't be ridiculous, Bunter. We don't want that in the country."

 

"The funeral is this morning, my lord. I thought it possible your lordship might desire to attend it. The prayer-books are in the other parcel with the black suit."

 

"But surely to goodness I can go to a village funeral without a mourning suit and a top-hat!"

 

"The conventional marks of esteem are highly appreciated in rural communities, my lord. But it is as your lordship wishes. Two vans have arrived to take the furniture, my lord, and Superintendent Kirk is below with Mr. MacBride and Mr. Solomons. With your lordship's permission, I will suggest that I should take the car over to Broxford and order a few temporary necessities—such as a couple of camp-beds and a kettle."

 

"Peter," said Harriet, looking up from her correspondence, "there's a letter from your mother. She says she is going down to the Dower House this morning. The shooting-party at the Hall has broken up, and Gerald and Helen are going for the week-end to Lord Attenbury's. She wonders whether we should like to join her for a day or two. She thinks we may need rest and change—not from one another, she is careful to explain, but from what she calls housekeeping."

 

"My mother is a very remarkable woman. Her faculty for hitting the right nail on the head is almost miraculous—especially as all her blows have the air of being delivered at random. Housekeeping! The house is about all we're likely to keep, by the looks of it."

 

"What do you think of her idea?"

 

"It's rather for you to say. We've got to go somewhere or other, unless you really prefer the kettle and the camp-bedstead to which Bunter so feelingly alludes. But it is said to be unwise to introduce the mother-in-law complication too early on."

 

"There are mothers-in-law and mothers-in-law."

 

"True; and you wouldn't be bothered with the others-in-law, which makes a difference. We once talked about seeing the old place when we could do it on our own."

 

"I'd like to go, Peter."

 

"Very well, then, you shall. Bunter, send Her Grace a wire to say we're coming down to-night."

 

"Very good, my lord."

 

"Heartfelt satisfaction," said Peter, as Bunter left them. "He will be sorry to abandon the investigation, but the camp-beds and the kettle would break even Bunter's spirit. In a way I feel rather thankful to Mr. Solomons for precipitating matters. We haven't run away; we've received the order to retreat and can march out with all the honours of war."

 

"You really feel that?"

 

"I think so. Yes, I do."

 

Harriet looked at him and felt depressed, as one frequently does when one gets what one fancied one wanted.

 

"You'll never want to come back to this house again."

 

He shifted uneasily. "Oh, I don't know. I could be bounded in a nutshell ...were it not that I have bad dreams."

 

But he would always have bad dreams in that house while the shadow of failure lay on it.... He pushed the subject aside by asking:

 

"Any other news from the Mater?"

 

"Not news, exactly. Of course, she's awfully sorry we've been tr-r-roubled by all this. She thinks she has found us a very suitable pair of housemaids, to come in November. The chandelier is up, and every drop has been separately silenced so as not to jingle; she had the piano-tuner playing the piano at it for an hour on end, and it didn't let out a single ting-a-ling. Ahasuerus caught a mouse on Tuesday night and put it in Franklin's bedroom slipper. Your nephew Jerry had a little difference of opinion with a policeman, but explained that he had been marrying off his uncle and escaped with a fine and a caution. That's all. The rest is—well, it more or less amounts to saying she's glad I can give you a good chit and it may not be a bad thing to begin with a little adversity."

 

"Perhaps she's right. I'm thankful it was a good chit, anyhow. Meanwhile, here's a note for you from Uncle Pandarus—I mean, Uncle Paul—enclosed in a letter to me in which he has the impertinence to hope that my addiction of late years to what he calls 'intemperate orgies of virtue' have not left me too much out of practice for my métier d'époux. He recommends une vie réglée and begs I will not allow myself to become trop émotionné, since emotion tends to impair les forces vitales. I do not know anybody who can cram more cynical indelicacy into a letter of good advice than my Uncle Pandarus."

 

"Mine's good advice, too; but it isn't exactly cynical."

 

(Mr. Delagardie had, in fact, written:

 

"My dear Niece—I hope that my absurd, but on the whole agreeable nephew is contriving to fill your cup with the wine of life. May an old man who knows him well remind you that what is wine to you is bread to him. You are too sensible to be offended by cette franchise. My nephew is not sensible at all—il n'est que sensible et passablement sensuel. Il a plus besoin de vous que vous de lui; soyez généreuse—c'est une nature qu'on ne saurait gâter. Il sent le besoin de se donner—de s'épancher; vous ne lui refuserez certes pas ce modeste plaisir. La froideur, la coquetterie même, le tuent; il ne sait pas s'imposer; la lutte lui répugne. Tout cela, vous le savez déjà—Pardon! je vous trouve extrèmement sympathique, et je crois que son bien-être nous est cher à tous deux. Avec cela, il est marchand du bonheur à qui en veut; j'espère que vous trouverez en lui ce qui pourra vous plaire. Pour le rendre heureux, vous n'avez qu'à être heureuse; il supporte mal les souffrances d'autrui. Recevez, ma chère nièce, mes vœux les plus sincères.")

 

Peter grinned.

 

"I won't ask what it is. The least said about Uncle Paul's good advice, the soonest mended. He is a most regrettable old man, and his judgment is disgustingly sound. According to him I suffer from a romantic heart, which plays the cat-and-banjo with my realistic mind."

 

(Mr. Delagardie had, in fact, written:

 

"... Cette femme te sera un point d'appui. Elle n'a connu jusqu'ici que les chagrins de l'amour; tu lui en apprendra les délices. Elle trouvera en toi des délicatesses imprévues, et qu'elle saura apprécier. Mais surtout, mon ami, pas de faiblesse! Ce n'est pas une jeune fille niaise et étourdie; c'est une intelligence forte, qui aime à résoudre les problèmes par la tête. Il ne faut pas être trop soumis; elle ne t'en saura pas gré. Il faut encore moins l'enjôler; elle pourra se raviser. Il faut convaincre; je suis persuadé qu'elle se montrera magnanime. Tâche de comprimer les élans d'un cœur chaleureux—ou plutôt réserve-les pour ces moments d'intimité conjugale où ils ne seront pas déplacés et pourront te servir à quelque chose. Dans toutes les autres circonstances, fais valoir cet esprit raisonneur dont tu n'es pas entièrement dépourvu. A vos âges, il est nécessaire de préciser; on ne vient plus à bout d'une situation en se livrant à des étreintes effrénées et en poussant des cris déchirants. Raidis-toi, afin d'inspirer le respect à ta femme; en lui tenant tête tu lui fourniras le meilleur moyen de ne pas s'ennuyer....")

 

Peter folded this epistle away with a grimace, and inquired:

 

"Do you mean to go to the funeral?"

 

"I don't think so. I've got no black frock to do your top-hat credit, and I'd better stay here to keep an eye on the Solomons-MacBride outfit."

 

"Bunter can do that."

 

"Oh, no—he's panting to attend the obsequies. I've just seen him brushing his best bowler. Are you coming down?"

 

"Not for a moment. There's a letter from my agent I've simply got to attend to. I thought I'd cleared everything up nicely, but one of the tenants has chosen this moment to create a tiresomeness. And Jerry has got himself into a jam with a woman and is really frightfully sorry to bother me, but the husband has turned up with the light of blackmail in his eye and what on earth is he to do?"

 

"Great heavens! That boy again?"

 

"What I shall not do is to send him a cheque. As it happens, I know all about the lady and gentleman in question, and all that is required is a firm letter and the address of my solicitor, who knows all about them too. But I can't write downstairs, with Kirk oiling in and out of the windows and brokers' men wrangling over the what-not."

 

"Of course you can't. I'll go and see to things. Be busy and good.... And I used to think you were God's own idler, without a responsibility in the world!"

 

"Property won't run itself, worse luck! Nor yet nephews. Aha! Uncle Pandarus likes giving avuncular advice, does he? Trust me to distribute a little avuncular advice in the quarter where it will do most good. Every dog has his day.... C'est bien, embrasse-moi.... Ah, non! voyons, tu me dépeignes.... Allons, hop! il faut être sérieux."

 

 

Peter, having dealt with his correspondence and been persuaded, fretfully protesting, into a black suit and a stiff collar, came downstairs and found Superintendent Kirk about to take his leave, and Mr. MacBride just issuing victor from a heated three-cornered argument between himself, Mr. Solomons and a dusty-looking professional person who explained that he represented the executrix. What precise business arrangement had been come to, Peter did not ask and never discovered. The upshot seemed to be that the furniture was to go, Harriet (on Peter's behalf) having waived all claim to it on the grounds (a) that they had so far paid nothing for the use of it, (b) that they would not have it if it were given away with a pound of tea and (c) that they were going away for the week-end and (d) would be glad to have it out of the house as soon as possible to make room for their own goods.

 

This point having been settled, Mr. MacBride appealed to the Superintendent for leave to carry on. Kirk nodded gloomily.

 

"No luck?" asked Peter.

 

"Not a ha'porth," said Kirk. "It's as you said. Puffett and Bert Ruddle have left their marks all over the place upstairs, but there's no telling if some of them wasn't made last week. There's no dint on this floor, as there might be if a stone had been thrown down—but on the other 'and, this old oak is that 'ard, you couldn't make any impression on it if you heaved rocks at it for a week. I dunno, I'm sure. I never see such a case. There don't seem to be nothing you can lay your finger on, like."

 

"Have you tried squeezing Sellon through the window?"

 

"Joe Sellon?" Kirk snorted. "If you was to go down to the village, you'd see Joe Sellon. Coo! talk of a traffic jam! I never see nothing like it in all my born days. There's 'alf Pagford here and pretty well the 'ole of Broxford, and all them newspaper men from London, and the Broxford and Pagford Gazette and the North-Herts Advertiser and a chap with one of them moving-picture cameras, and cars that thick in front of the Crown nobody can't get in, and such a mob round the bar, they can't get served when they are in. Joe's got more'n he can do. I've left my sergeant down there to lend 'im a hand. And," said the Superintendent, indignantly, "jest as we'd got about twenty cars parked neat and tidy in the lane by Mr. Giddy's field, up comes a kid and squeaks, 'Oh, please, mister—can't you let me by? I've brought the cow to bull'—and we 'ad to move 'em all out again. Aggravating ain't the word. But there! It can't last for ever, that's a comfort; and I'll bring Joe up here when the funeral's over and out of the way."