Return I Dare Not Read online

  “One feels one must go,” Adrian was saying.

  “East Prussia is a long way off,” Hugo pointed out. “Would you get there in time?”

  “I doubt it,” said Adrian quickly. “I doubt it. That’s the difficulty. I doubt if it’s possible.”

  Solange suddenly put her head over the banisters and said:

  “Oh, I think it is. If you start to-night, or very early to morrow morning. There’s a Continental Bradshaw in the library. I’ll look out the trains for you if you like.”

  Adrian started and blenched. He had not meant to commit himself to more than a pious hope of being able to stand beside Paul Wrench’s grave. The journey would be tiresome and expensive. If he had known that Solange was within hearing he would have been less definite. An expressed intention was quite enough for the world in general and would cost much less than a railway ticket. Many people would be sure to believe that he had, actually, gone. But not Solange. Not his family. They would know exactly whether he had been or not.

  “The funeral is on Wednesday,” she told them. “The paper says so. I’ll go and look up your trains.”

  She skipped into the library and found the Continental Bradshaw. Ford helped her to find the place.

  After a suspicious glance at Hugo, Adrian grew calmer. He doubted whether his discomfiture had been observed. The young man was in a brown study. His crossword puzzle had slipped to the floor and he looked as if he was listening to something.

  “What are you going to do this morning?” asked Adrian, changing the subject.

  Hugo ought to have spread the news that he was going to read his play to Aggie. But he had forgotten that. He was thinking that he had made enough money to live on for the rest of his life, and there was really no reason why he should not go and live in a coastguard’s cottage and write poetry? Except that he would hate to live in a coastguard’s cottage. The poetry, not the cottage, was the important part of it, and he could write that just as well in the Grosvenor Hotel, if he wrote it at all. What sort of poetry? he asked himself. And why did the memory of a tossed row of tamarisks make him want to write it? What magic lay in the scratch of sand on oilcloth? Because they belonged to the Other Life. The significance was not to be sought in the subject, but in himself.

  “It’s gone,” he thought gloomily. “It’s gone.”

  Still, he could write poetry if he liked. It was not very difficult. He believed that he could be a successful poet as well as a successful playwright, if it were not for those moments when the train, flashing out of the tunnel, upset him. In the one career he had already gone as far as anyone could go, and perhaps it was time that he should try his powers in some other direction. He turned round and said to Adrian:

  “There’s something that I very much want you to do for me, if it isn’t too much to ask. The fact is … I wish you’d read some things … some … some of my poems … and give me your candid opinion …”

  Adrian was charmed. He liked encouraging young poets better than anything in the world.

  Now I shall have to hurry up and write them, thought Hugo. He was for it now. It was strange how quickly these decisions were made. Now he was a poet, and his publicity was already prancing ahead of him.

  “But my dear young friend, I didn’t know that you … er …” Adrian made passes in the air, “perpetrated … these excesses …”

  Hugo did not explain that he had perpetrated nothing yet. When the first idea for a new play occurred to him, it was always his habit to outline it to a sympathetic friend, before ever he set pen to paper. He fell into his new rôle delightfully. He blushed and was diffident and seemed to forget that he had three plays running at once in West-End theatres. Between them they had dug the foundation of his new career before Solange put her head out of the library.

  “Is your passport visa’d for Germany?” she asked Adrian.

  Adrian said hopefully that he did not think it was.

  “Well then, you’ll have to get it done to-morrow morning. You can catch the later boat train. I’ll show you …”

  She vanished into the library again and Adrian thought it best to escape before she could show him. Muttering something about the golf links he hurried upstairs. The church bells of Ullmer burst into a clamorous peal for matins, and a car for the golfers came purring up to the front door.

  Presently Lady Geraldine came downstairs, putting on her gloves. Pausing in the hall, she slowly took them off and went up again. Alec came out of the drawing-room and went into the library. Adrian scuttled downstairs and got quickly into the car. Lady Geraldine reappeared unexpectedly from the baize service door carrying some string and brown paper. She went out on to the terrace and called for Marianne. Laura and Philomena came down the stairs and asked if there was to be a collection. Walter Bechstrader came out of the library and fell over one of the dogs. Corny rushed upstairs in a great hurry. Gibbie came and stood in the hall and tapped the barometer. The car in the drive turned off its engine. Adrian, tired of waiting, got out of it. The bells changed to another chime.

  From the library came the strains of a gramophone. Ford and Solange were putting on quartettes. Lady Geraldine came in from the garden to remark, without much perturbation, that every one was going to be late for church. At last Alec, Adrian and Gibbie, all meeting by chance in the hall, were induced to go out and get into the car, but they waited for a little while before they realised that nobody else was playing golf. The engine started again, and the noise of it died away down the drive. The bells changed to a single note.

  The telephone rang. Ford dashed out of the library. But it was a message for Bechstrader and he went back to Solange. Somebody from the village appeared uncertainly at the front door with a note, and all the dogs began to bark at her, until Marianne, bounding across the hall, put a stop to it. Hugo could hear her courteously reassuring the flurried lady and promising to give the note to her grandmother. The competence and kindness of her manner puzzled him, for he had got it written down that she was shy. He must find out more about her, and some time, when everything was quieter, he would think with pleasure of her singing last night, and how it had made him feel like a ship at anchor. Instead of reading his play to Aggie, it would have been nice perhaps to go for a little walk with Marianne on the downs, and pick cowslips. ‘Marianne,’ he would say, ‘do you still like me?’ And she would be very much surprised. But in spite of her scarlet embarrassment he would succeed in learning that she did still like him very much.

  The church bells had stopped. Three minutes later the party for matins had all assembled in the hall and were stepping casually out into the sunshine. The sound of their voices, their light laughter, Corny’s chirp, and Bechstrader’s gong, died away as the noise of the car had died away. Hugo was at last left to his crossword puzzle and the dawdling peace of a Sunday morning. On every side of him open doors and empty rooms gave promise of repose.

  Flinging aside his paper, he went and stood at the garden door, looking out into a light that was already hot and blue. It was going to be another scorching day. The hills were hazy and far away, and the sun struck up from the stone terrace at his feet. But it was still morning. The noon siesta had not begun and though the world was tranquil it was wide awake. Bees swam heavily about among the flowers and from behind the brick wall, where the fruit would soon hang ripening, came cheerful farmyard duckings. A sense of warmth, pleasure and well-being streamed up from the earth to Hugo, who was cold, sick and overtasked. He shut his eyes against the sunlight and felt the heat and dazzle beat against his eyelids. But it would not penetrate to the chilly core of his body. Something inside him remained frozen, even when he opened his eyes again, and saw Aggie coming downstairs.

  17. Beggar My Neighbour.

  After the first six pages all his doubts fell away from him. There was nothing the matter with his play. As he read he could see it staged down to the very pattern of those important divan cushions. He had achieved another winner. Aggie’s face gaped at him, and h
e could see in it a whole dim theatreful of women, all Aggies in their own imagination, all of them dressed like Aggie, scented like Aggie and talking like Aggie. They craned up from the stalls, they leant down from the gallery, an entire audience responding as one woman to his infinitely skilful manipulations. Never had he managed his crescendo better, so nicely placed his climax or smashed the crockery at a more telling moment. He could do it every time. His light-hearted, tragic Irma was turning, before his eyes, into that Common Denominator which should identify her with every woman in the theatre. Aggie on the drawing-room sofa was all the audience he ever wanted, because she was thinking what he meant her to think, and feeling what he meant her to feel.

  At the end of the first act she told him that it was terribly good, but that she feared it was going to be terribly tragic.

  “Shall I go on?”

  “Oh do.”

  The crockery-smashing in the second act was not quite as effective as it ought to be, because these things should be seen rather than described. But it held her. She had left off smoking and was leaning forward with her mouth slightly open. He went on without a pause to the third act.

  Marianne came in just when Irma was telling her great sacrificial lie. For the sake of the man she loved, this magnificent adumbration of Aggie was tarnishing a reputation which had remained spotless, in spite of all appearances, for an hour and a half. Aggie was nearly weeping. She knew she would have done just the same thing herself. In two more minutes she would have wept, had it not been for the incursion of Marianne.

  Hugo became aware, as he read, of a slight movement behind the screen which hid the door. Something was being done there, and he could see, reflected in one of the long glasses, a tawny head and sunburnt neck bent over a bowl of roses. She made so little noise that Aggie never knew she was there at all. But the fact of her presence remained. Hugo, ever acutely sensitive to Them, knew that he now had two listeners: that he was reading to a composite animal and not merely to Aggie. Instinctively he raised his voice a little. As he turned the page he had time to think what a pity it was that Marianne should have missed so much of the crescendo. But that could not be helped, so he must forget it. If she had heard the beginning she would not be fidgeting with those flowers. She would be staring at him with her mouth open. He lifted up his voice and proclaimed:

  “You’ve no right to ask me …”

  What was she doing behind that screen? Was she standing enthralled, or was she still fussing about with those roses? He wished that she would either come in or go out.

  “Is he your lover?”

  Aggie’s eyes were like blue saucers. She guessed that the Noble Lie was coming.

  “Does it matter so terribly?”

  Did it matter so terribly? Of course it did. It had to, or there would never have been any third act.

  “Do you want me to say that he is, Gerry? Do you want me to? I believe you … do.”

  “I want the truth.”

  “Oh, no, darling. You’ve never wanted that.”

  “I’ve no proof … no evidence … if you tell me he isn’t I suppose I must …”

  “Must what, Gerry?”

  “Put up with it!”

  “Put up? Oh my God. Oh … wait a minute … I shall be all right … in a minute … have you … have you got a match?”

  “Irma … for God’s sake …”

  “In a minute, darling. Just give me time.”

  “Time to invent something?”

  “Yes. Yes. It wouldn’t take a minute to tell the truth, would it? Only we don’t want the truth, do we, Gerry? It’s so ugly, isn’t it? Have you got a match?”

  “No.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Your mother thinks I smoke too much.”

  “Irma!”

  “All right. Don’t look so terrified. You’re not going to have to … to put up with it.”

  “Then you …”

  “Oh yes, Gerry. I’m his mistress.”

  “I knew it!”

  “Did you, darling?”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You swear it’s true?”

  “Need I? When you knew it? But I’ll say it again if you like. I’m his mistress.”

  But Marianne, behind the screen, would not know that this was a noble lie, because she had not heard the beginning. All the poignancy of it would be lost on her. In spite of himself he gave way to the temptation to drop her a hint. He broke off in order to explain:

  “Each time she says it she looks at him in an awestruck way, like a person repeating a spell and not quite expecting it to work. They both know that it isn’t true, and yet, it works. You see?”

  Aggie blinked and came out of her coma. She said that she saw.

  “Where was I? Oh yes. How-long-has-this-been-going-on?”

  At all costs he must not allow himself to read it in that tone of voice, as if it was absolute muck, dead as carrion. Marianne did not matter.

  “I’ll—divorce—you …”

  He shifted his chair a little so that he could see round the screen. But she was not there any more. She had finished her job with the roses and gone away. Perhaps she had even missed the little bit of explanation that had been aimed at her.

  And Aggie’s eyes were no longer like saucers. It had been a bad moment for an interruption. She was glancing furtively at the clock and then she sketched a barely stifled yawn. This sight was the last straw. Yawns are catching and Hugo had repressed his for just twenty-four hours too long. Like a tidal wave his fate overtook him. The words that he would have uttered were strangled in his throat. He had to give up, put down his manuscript, and keep Aggie waiting until the paroxysm was over. He yawned and yawned and yawned and yawned.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” he said at last.

  “Go on,” said Aggie coldly.

  He asked where he had got to, though he knew quite well. But he had to cover his embarrassment at beginning again.

  “I don’t know,” said Aggie. “Somebody was telephoning.”

  That had not happened since the beginning of the act. He found the place and was ill advised enough to apologise.

  “I hope this doesn’t bore you frightfully.”

  “Oh no,” said Aggie, with straying eyes.

  “I’ll divorce you …”

  “You’d got past there, I think,” said Aggie.

  He finished the play, but she never went into a coma again. Towards the end he felt that she only listened to one word in three. She fidgeted, she yawned, she lighted cigarettes, she looked out of the window to grimace at Corny who had just come back from church. When it was over she said that it was too marvellous and that she couldn’t tell him what she felt about it. But he knew that her report to the others would be damning. And the news would spread like wildfire through the house.

  “My dear, Hugo’s play is dull.”

  “It’s not true.”

  “The first two acts just possible, but it goes to pieces completely after that.”

  “Darling, I can’t tell you how bad it is.”

  “Corny says it won’t run a week.”

  “Well, that kind of success doesn’t last for ever, does it?”

  “I always did think he was dreadfully over-rated …”

  “… and conceited …”

  “… and after all, rather, rather …”

  Nor was Syranwood gossip the end of it. On the contrary it was only the beginning. On Monday they would all go back to London and spread the tale. Hugo’s play is dull. Hugo himself is getting to be a bit of a bore. He was asked down to Syranwood to meet Aggie and she wasn’t amused. He won’t be asked again.

  It was all Marianne’s fault. He could almost believe that she had done it on purpose.

  The golfers had not returned, but voices in the garden and on the stairs told him that the church people were back. It was so nearly time for another meal that every one was waiting about. Through the window he could see Aggie strolling
on the terrace with Corny. It had begun.

  Not daring to join them he crossed the hall and slipped out of the front door. A blast of chilly air came up at him from the unwarmed turf. All that side of the house was still in shadow though the noonday sun was creeping up the drive. He shivered and strode on across the lawn, past the swimming pool, to the edge of the Syranwood shrubberies where trees and bushes could hide him and his humiliation in their sombre thickets.

  After all, he was trying to remind himself, a failure here and there, an occasional rebuff, might do him a great deal of good in the long run. Unbroken success becomes monotonous, and he had to remember that cheerfulness in adversity was part of his public character. In the past it had indeed been so. He had enjoyed surmounting difficulties and his bouts of ill luck had been periods of great activity and stimulation. And he thought of his second play which ran for half a week. It had been so absolute a disaster that his agent had asked him if he really meant to write any more. And he had had great difficulty in getting anyone to look at the new one which came to him as he stood in the wings, that night, hearing a third act go to pieces and an audience get out of hand. His gallant cast, white-lipped and sweating, stood beside him, waiting for their entrances and avoiding his eye. Stoically they braced themselves to see it through, and he could do nothing to help them. He wanted to rush out himself upon the stage, to ring down the curtain, to do anything rather than see his helpless friends upon the rack. Their courage in the face of this common misfortune exalted him far beyond any petty sense of personal failure. He found himself excited, dominant, with all his powers awake and urgent. He had lived that moment intensely and in the weeks after, while he was writing his third, and best, play, he had been extraordinarily happy.

  But he was not happy now. He felt no thrill, no renewed call to action, only a stifling melancholy. He had conquered Them and he was more afraid of Them than ever.