“I don’t know them.”
“And so did your Uncle Peregrine—such an interesting man… You know I don’t really think this would go well in Ruby’s room.”
“Give it to the Glenobans.”
“Are they Liberals?”
“I daresay. Lots of Scotch are.”
At length the lieutenant departed on his work of mercy, leaving Guy to Survival.
This was the issue on which little Fido had gorged. It had gone to press long before Everard Spruce received Ludovic’s manuscript. Guy turned the pages without interest. It compared unfavorably in his opinion with the squadron leader’s “comic” particularly in the matter of draftsmanship. Everard Spruce, in the days when he courted the Marxists, dissembled a discreditable, personal preference for Fragonard above Léger by denying all interest in graphic art, affirming stoutly and correctly that the workers were solidly behind him in his indifference. “Look at Russia,” he would say. But the Ministry of Information in the early days of Survival, before the Russian alliance, had pointed out that since Hitler had proclaimed a taste for “figurative” painting, defense of the cosmopolitan avant garde had become a patriotic duty in England. Spruce submitted without demur and Survival accordingly displayed frequent “art supplements,” chosen by Coney and Frankie. There was one such in the current issue, ten shiny pages of squiggles. Guy turned from them to an essay by the pacific expatriate Parsnip, tracing the affinity of Kafka to Klee. Guy had not heard of either of these famous names.
His next caller was his uncle, Peregrine.
Uncle Peregrine, like the lieutenant, had ample leisure. He brought no gift, supposing his attendance was treat enough. He sat holding his umbrella and soft, shabby hat and looked at his nephew reproachfully.
“You should take more care of yourself,” he said, “now that you are the head of the family.”
He was five years younger than Guy’s father but he looked rather older; an imperfect and ill-kept cast from the same mold.
When the lieutenant spoke of Peregrine Crouchback as “interesting” he was making a unique judgment. A man of many interests certainly, well read, widely traveled, minutely informed in many recondite subjects, a discerning collector of bibelots; a man handsomely appareled and adorned when he did duty at the papal court; a man nevertheless assiduously avoided even by those who shared his interests. He exemplified the indefinable numbness which Guy recognized intermittently in himself; the saturnine strain which in Ivo had swollen to madness, terror of which haunted Box-Bender when he studied his son’s letters from prison camp.
In 1915 Uncle Peregrine contracted a complicated form of dysentery on his first day in the Dardanelles and was obliged to spend the rest of the war as A.D.C. to a colonial governor who repeatedly but vainly cabled for his recall. In the nineteen twenties he had hung about the diplomatic service as honorary attaché. Once Ralph Brompton, as first secretary, had been posted to the same embassy, and had sought to make him the chancery butt; unsuccessfully; his apathetic self-esteem was impervious to ridicule; no spark could be struck from that inert element. For the last decade, after the decline in the value of the pound, Uncle Peregrine had made his home in London, in an old-fashioned flat near Westminster Cathedral, at whose great functions he sometimes assisted in various liveries. Perhaps he was a legitimate object of interest to an inquiring foreigner like the lieutenant. He could have occurred nowhere else but in England and in no period but his own.
Uncle Peregrine quite enjoyed the war. He was quite without fear for his own safety when the bombs were falling. He rejoiced to see so many of his gloomier predictions of foreign policy fulfilled. Lately he had found congenial work. There was a “salvage drive” in progress in the course of which public-spirited citizens were exhorted to empty their shelves so that their books could be pulped to produce official forms and Survival. Many rare and beautiful volumes perished before it occurred to the ministry that they could more profitably be sold. A committee was then authorized to survey the spoils; male and female, the old buffers poked among the bindings, making their choice of what should be saved, priced, and put into the market. As in all matters, Uncle Peregrine was scrupulously honest; but he exercised the prerogative of pre-emption enjoyed by the stall-holders of charitable bazaars. He invariably asked a colleague to decide the price of anything he coveted; if it fell within his means, he paid and bore it off. Not more than twenty items had been added to his little library in this way, but every one was a bibliophile’s treasure. The prices were those which the old amateurs remembered to have prevailed in the lean last years of peace.
“A young American protégé of mine told me you were here,” he continued. “You may remember meeting him with me. It doesn’t seem much of a place,” he added critically surveying Guy’s room. “I don’t think I ever heard of it before.”
He inquired into the condition of Guy’s knee and into the treatment he was receiving. Who was his medical man? “Major Blenkinsop? Don’t think I’ve ever heard of him. Are you sure he understands the knee? Highly specialized things, knees.” He spoke of an injury he himself sustained many years before on a tennis lawn at Bordighera. “Fellow I had then didn’t understand knees. It’s never been quite the same since.”
He picked up Survival, glanced at the illustrations, remarked without hostility: “Ah, modern,” and then passed on to public affairs. “Shocking news from the eastern front. The Bolshevists are advancing again. Germans don’t seem able to stop them. I’d sooner see the Japanese in Europe—at least they have a king and some sort of religion. If one can believe the papers we are actually helping the Bolshevists. It’s a mad world, my masters.”
Finally he said: “I came with an invitation. Why don’t you move into my flat until you are fit? There’s plenty of room, I’ve still got Mrs. Corner; she does what she can with the rations. The lift works—which is more than a lot of people can claim. There’s a Dutch Dominican—not that I approve of Dominicans in the general way—giving a really interesting series of Advent conferences at the cathedral. You can see he doesn’t like the way the war’s going. You’d be better off than you are here. I’m at home most evenings,” he added as though that constituted an inestimable attraction.
It was the measure of Guy’s melancholy that he did not at once reject the offer; that in fact he accepted it.
Jumbo arranged for an ambulance to take him to his new address. The lift, as promised, bore him up to the large, dark, heavily furnished flat and Mrs. Corner, the housekeeper, received him as an honorably wounded soldier.
*
Not very far away Colonel Grace-Groundling-Marchpole was studying a list submitted to him for approval.
“Crouchback?” he said. “Haven’t we a file on him?”
“Yes. The Box-Bender case.”
“I remember. And the Scottish nationalists.”
“And the priest in Alexandria. There’s been nothing much on him since.”
“No. He may have lost contact with his headquarters. It’s just as well we didn’t pull him in at the time. If we let him go to Italy he may lead us into the neo-fascist network.”
“It won’t be easy keeping track of him there. The Eighth Army is not security conscious.”
“No. It’s a moot point. On the whole, perhaps, the noes have it.”
He wrote: This officer cannot be recommended for secret work in Italy, and turned to the name of de Souza.
“Communist party member of good standing,” he said. “Quite sound at the moment.”
*
The room in which Guy was to spend six weeks and make a momentous decision, had seldom been occupied during Uncle Peregrine’s tenancy. Its window opened on a brick wall. It was furnished with pieces from the dispersal of Broome. Guy lay in a large old bed ornamented with brass knobs. Here Major Blenkinsop paid him a cursory visit.
“Still pretty puffy, eh? Well, the only thing is to keep it up.”
During his first days at the flat he received several visitors,
Ian Kilbannock among them. After twenty minutes of desultory gossip he said: “You remember Ivor Claire?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“He’s joined the Chindits in Burma. Surprising, don’t you think?”
Guy thought of his first view of Ivor in the Borghese Gardens. “Not altogether.”
“The whispering campaign took some time to reach the Far East. Or perhaps he got bored with vice-regal circles.”
“Ivor doesn’t believe in sacrifice. Who does nowadays? But he had the will to win.”
“I can’t think of anything more sacrificial than plodding about in the jungle with those desperadoes. I don’t know what he thinks he’s going to win there.”
“There was a time I was very fond of Ivor.”
“Oh, I’m fond of him. Everyone is and everyone has forgotten his little faux pas in Crete. That’s what makes it so rum his, charging off to be a hero now.”
When Ian left, Guy brooded about the antithesis between the acceptance of sacrifice and the will to win. It seemed to have personal relevance, as yet undefined, to his own condition. He re-read the letter from his father which he carried always in his pocket-book. “The Mystical Body doesn’t strike attitudes or stand on its dignity. It accepts suffering and injustice… Quantitative judgments don’t apply.”
There was a congress at Teheran at the time entirely occupied with quantitative judgments.
*
At the end of the first week of that December, History records, Mr. Winston Churchill introduced Mr. Roosevelt to the Sphinx. Fortified by the assurances of their military advisers that the Germans would surrender that winter, the two puissant old gentlemen circumambulated the colossus and silently watched the shadows of evening obliterate its famous features. Some hours later that same sun set in London not in the harsh colors of the desert but fading into the rain where no lamps shone on the wet paving. At that hour, with something of the bland, vain speculation which had been expressed on the faces of the leaders of the Free World, Uncle Peregrine stood at his front door and regarded the woman who had rung his bell.
“I’ve come to see Guy Crouchback,” she said.
There was no light on the landing. The light in the hall was a mere glimmer. Uncle Peregrine found the black-out congenial and observed the regulations with exaggerated rigor.
“Does he expect you?”
“No. I’ve only just heard he was here. You don’t remember me, do you? Virginia.”
“Virginia?”
“Virginia Crouchback, when you knew me.”
“Oh,” he said. “You are, are you?” Uncle Peregrine was never really disconcerted but sometimes, when a new and strange fact was brought to his notice, he took a little time to assimilate it. “It is a terrible evening. I hope you did not get wet coming here.”
“I took a cab.”
“Good. You must forgive my failure to recognize you. Are you sure Guy will want to see you?”
“Pretty sure.”
Uncle Peregrine shut the front door and said: “I was at your wedding. Did we meet after that?”
“Once or twice.”
“You went to Africa. Then someone said you had gone to America. And now you want to see Guy?”
“Yes, please.”
He led Virginia into the drawing-room. “You’ll find plenty to interest you here,” he said as though presaging a long wait. “That is, if you’re interested in things.”
He shut the door behind him. He also shut Guy’s before he announced in a low tone: “There’s a young woman here who says she’s your wife.”
“Virginia?”
“So she claims.”
“Good. Send her in.”
“You wish to see her?”
“Very much.”
“If there’s any trouble, ring. Mrs. Corner is out, but I shall hear you.”
“What sort of trouble, Uncle Peregrine?”
“Any sort of trouble. You know what women are.”
“Do you, Uncle Peregrine?”
He considered this for a moment and then conceded: “Well, no. Perhaps I don’t.”
Then he went out, led Virginia back and left husband and wife together.
Virginia had taken trouble with her appearance. Kerstie was away, attending St. Nicholas’ Day festivities at her son’s prep school, and Virginia had borrowed some of the clothes she had lately sold her. She bore no visible signs of her pregnancy, or, in Guy’s eyes, of the many changes which had occurred in her since their last meeting. She came straight to his bed, kissed him, and said: “Darling. What a long time it’s been.”
“February 14th, 1940,” said Guy.
“As long as that? How can you remember?”
“It was a big day in my life, a bad day, a climacteric… I’ve heard news of you. You work in Ian’s office and live with him and Kerstie.”
“Did you hear something else, rather disgusting?”
“I heard rumors.”
“About Trimmer?”
“That was Ian’s story.”
“It was all quite true.” Virginia shuddered. “The things that happen to one! Anyway, that’s all over. I’ve had a dreary war so far. I almost wish I’d stayed in America. It all seemed such fun at first, but it didn’t last.”
“I found that,” said Guy. “Not perhaps in quite the same way. The last two years have been as dull as peace.”
“You might have come and seen me.”
“I made rather an ass of myself at our last meeting, if you remember.”
“Oh, that,” said Virginia. “If you only knew the asses I’ve seen people make of themselves. That’s all forgotten.”
“Not by me.”
“Ass,” said Virginia.
She drew a chair up, lit a cigarette and asked fondly about his injuries. “So brave,” she said. “You know you really are brave. Parachuting. I’m scared even sitting in an aeroplane, let alone jumping out.” Then she said: “I was awfully sorry to see your father’s death.”
“Yes. I had always expected him to live much longer—until the last few months.”
“I wish I’d seen him again. But I daresay he wouldn’t have wanted it.”
“He never came to London,” said Guy.
Virginia for the first time looked round the somber room. “Why are you here?” she asked. “Ian and Kerstie say you’re rich now.”
“Not now. The lawyers are still busy. But it looks as if I may be a bit better off eventually.”
“I’m dead broke,” said Virginia.
“That isn’t at all like you.”
“Oh, you’ll find I’ve changed in a lot of ways. What can I do to amuse you? We used to play piquet.”
“I haven’t for years. I don’t suppose there are any cards in the house.”
“I’ll bring some tomorrow, shall I?”
“If you’re coming tomorrow.”
“Oh, yes, I’ll come. If you’d like me to, that’s to say.”
Before Guy could answer the door opened and Uncle Peregrine entered.
“I just came to see you were all right,” he said.
What did he suspect? Assassination? Seduction? He stood studying the pair of them as the statesmen had studied the Sphinx, not really expecting an utterance, but dimly conscious of the existence of problems beyond his scope. Also, and more simply, he wanted to have another look at Virginia. He was unaccustomed to such visitors and she in particular had lurid associations for him. Well traveled, well read, well informed, he was a stranger in the world. He had understood few of the jokes which in bygone days Ralph Brompton used to devise at his expense. Virginia was a Scarlet Woman; the fatal woman who had brought about the fall of the house of Crouchback; and, what was more, to Uncle Peregrine she fully looked the part. Not for him to read the faint, indelible signature of failure, degradation and despair that was written plain for sharper eyes than his. In the minutes which had passed since he had shown her in to Guy, he had not attempted to resume his reading. He had stood by his gas-fire consi
dering what he had seen during his brief passage. He had returned to confirm his impression.
“I’m afraid I haven’t any cocktails,” he said.
“Good gracious no. I should think not.”
“Guy often has some gin, I believe.”
“All gone,” said Guy, “until Jumbo’s next visit.”
Uncle Peregrine was fascinated. He could not bring himself to leave. It was Virginia who made the move.
“I must be off,” she said, though in fact she had nowhere at all to go. “But I’ll come back now I know what you need. Cards and gin. You won’t mind having to pay for them, will you?”
Uncle Peregrine led her to the door; he followed her into the lift; he stood with her on the benighted steps and gazed with her into the rain.
“Will you be all right?” he asked. “You might find a cab at Victoria.”
“I’m only going to Eaton Terrace. I’ll walk.”
“It’s a long way. Shall I see you home?”
“Don’t be an ass,” said Virginia, stepping down into the rain. “See you tomorrow.”
It was, as Uncle Peregrine observed, a long way. Virginia strode out bravely, flickering her torch at the crossings. Even on that inclement evening every doorway held an embraced couple. The house, when she reached it, was quite empty. She hung up her coat to dry. She washed her underclothes. She went to the cupboard where she knew Ian kept a box of sleeping pills. Kerstie never needed such things. Virginia took two and lay unconscious while the sirens gave warning of a distant, inconsiderable “nuisance raid.”
At Carlisle Place Uncle Peregrine returned to Guy’s room.
“I suppose it’s quite usual nowadays,” he said, “divorced people meeting on friendly terms?”
“It has been so for a long time, I believe, in the United States.”
“Yes. And, of course, she has lived there a lot, hasn’t she? That would explain it. What’s her name?”
“Troy, I think. It was when I last saw her.”