The Complete Stories Of Evelyn Waugh

PORTRAIT OF YOUNG MAN WITH CAREER

Jeremy came into my room at half-past six, just as I was assembling my sponge and towels and dressing gown and things for a bath. I saw him as I came out of my bedroom, looking for something to write a message on. He was making straight for my portfolio of drawing paper. I called and made myself known to him.

Jeremy was in my house at school; he has what would be known in North Oxford as a “personality.” That is to say he is rather stupid, thoroughly well satisfied with himself, and acutely ambitious. Jeremy purposes to be President of the Union.

I said to him, “Hullo, Jeremy, I am afraid you find me on the point of going to have a bath. I never miss a bath before dinner; I shall tonight if I do not go at once. The bathroom is shut at seven. But do stay and drink some sherry won’t you?”

“Thanks,” said Jeremy, and sat down.

I reached for the decanter and found it empty. There must have been nearly a bottle there that morning.

“Jeremy, that damned man of mine has finished the sherry. I am sorry.”

“Never mind. I’ll just smoke a cigarette and go.”

My cigarettes are particularly large and take at least a quarter of an hour to smoke. I banished all my dreams of white tiles and steam and took a cigarette myself.

“I haven’t anything particular to say,” said Jeremy, “I was just passing your College and thought I might as well drop in for a little. It is hard to know what to do before hall, isn’t it?”

“I generally have a bath.”

“Ah, our baths are not open at this hour.”

He propped his feet on the side of the fireplace. He was wearing that detestable sort of dark brown suede shoes that always looks wet.

“Oh, I know one thing I wanted to ask you. I want to meet Richard Pares. I feel he is a man to know.”

“An amiable rogue.”

“Well, will you introduce me to him.”

“You know, I hardly know him.”

It was quite true and, besides, I dislike introducing Jeremy to people; as a rule he begins by calling them by their Christian names.

“Nonsense, I’m always seeing you about together. I am not doing anything ’fore lunch on Tuesday. How about then? Or Friday I could manage, but I should prefer Tuesday.”

So it was arranged.

There was a pause; I looked at my watch; Jeremy took no notice; I looked again.

“What is the time,” he said, “Twenty-three to. Oh, good! — hours yet.”

“Before a fool’s opinion of himself the gods are silent—aye and envious too,” I thought.

“On Thursday I’m speaking ‘on the paper’.”

“Good.”

“About the Near East. Macedonia. Oil, you know.”

“Ah.”

“I think it ought to be rather a good speech.”

“Yes.”

“Evelyn, you aren’t listening; now seriously, what do you really think is wrong with my speaking. What I feel about the Union myself is…..”

A blind fury, a mist of fire. We struggled together on the carpet. He was surprisingly weak for his size. The first blow with the poker he dodged and took on his shoulder; the second and third caved his forehead in. I stood up, quivering, filled with a beastly curiosity to find what was inside his broken skull. Instead I restrained myself and put his handkerchief over his face.

Outside the door I met my scout. I forgot the sherry.

“Hunt”—I almost clung to him. “There is a gentleman in the room lying on the carpet.”

“Yes sir. Drunk, sir?”

I remembered the sherry. “No, as a matter of fact he’s dead.”

“Dead, sir?”

“Yes, I killed him.”

“You don’t say so, sir!”

“But Hunt, what are we to do about it?”

“Well, sir, if he’s dead, there doesn’t seem to be much we can do, does there? Now I remember a gentleman on this staircase once, who killed himself. Poison. It must have been ’93 I should think, or ’94. A nice quiet gentleman, too, when he was sober. I remember he said to me…..”

The voice droned on, “… I liked your speech, but I thought it was ‘a little heavy.’ What do you think Bagnall meant by that?”

It was the voice of Jeremy. My head cleared. We were still there on opposite sides of the fire. He was still talking.

“… Scaife said…..”

At seven o’clock Jeremy rose. “Well, I mustn’t keep you from your bath. Don’t forget about asking Richard to lunch on Tuesday, will you? Oh, and Evelyn, if you know the man who reports the Union for the Isis, you might ask him to give me a decent notice this time.”

I try to think that one day I shall be proud of having known Jeremy. Till then…..

ANTONY, WHO SOUGHT THINGS THAT WERE LOST

Revolution came late to St. Romeiro and suddenly. Cazarin, the journalist who had been educated in Paris, was said to have proclaimed it. Messengers came to him with the news that students at Vienna had driven out Prince Metternich and perhaps had murdered him; that all Lombardy was in revolt, that the Pope had fled and all his cardinals. And from the coast the fishermen brought other tales, of how the foreigners were torturing men and women at Venice and of things that were done in Naples; how when the Pope left Rome the pillars of St. Peter’s were shaken and many of the peasants affirmed that it was the Emperor Napoleon who had done these things, not knowing that he was dead.

Thus and thus revolution came to St. Romeiro and Cazarin and the people came out in the heat of the day and cried before the Duke’s palace; Cazarin crying for liberty and the people for the removal of the duty on olives. Then the news came that the Duke had fled and with him all his family. So the people broke down the iron gates which the Duke’s grandfather had brought from Milan and burst into the Palace. And they found only a very few, very young soldiers, and since these seemed ill inclined to resist, they killed them; and then feeling much enraged at their own valour, they sought what further they might do. And they cried, “To the Castle!” for there were the prisoners kept and each had some near relative who for some crime or foolishness was imprisoned.

And Cazarin remembered the Count Antony who had been shut up with his lady in the Castle ten years ago. But when the prison was broken open, they found many debtors and thieves and a poor mad woman who had thought herself to be the Queen of Heaven, but of the Count Antony they found nothing, nor of his lady.

Now this is the story of Antony, called by his friends, “Antony, who sought things that were lost.” Cazarin, who had been educated at Paris, learned it, in part from what he himself knew and in part from what the turnkey told him.

He was a tall man, this Count Antony, and very beautiful and he was born of a proud family. His fathers had been great men in Italy and had fought with the Spaniards against the French and had their origin, it was said, from no less a person than a Pope himself. And Count Antony had the estates of his fathers and their beauty, but there was that in the heart of Antony which none of his fathers had known. And for this cause Antony’s friends called him, “Antony, who sought things that were lost,” because he seemed always to be seeking in the future for what had gone before.

And Antony was betrothed to the Lady Elizabeth who was fair and gentle, and with his sad, wondering eyes he would watch her, for she moved graciously; and in the eyes of both of them was love greater than the fathers of Antony had known.

But there were whisperings at St. Romeiro at this time; behind high shutters men would sit long over their wine and talk of “Freedom” and “Unity” and many foolish words; and they would swear oaths together round the table and sign papers, being very young and somewhat kindled with wine. And these things seemed noble to the Count Antony.

But the whisperings were too loud and echoed in the Palace; and thus it was that one day, as he returned from visiting the Lady Elizabeth, he found men of the ducal guard waiting before his house; and they took him to the Castle. Then the Lady Elizabeth, full of love for him, cried to the Duke and prayed for Antony. And when her prayers for his liberty were of no avail she prayed that she might be locked up with him, for, she said, there would be no captivity where Antony was and no freedom where he was not; for she was still a maid and very full of love. And the Duke who, albeit a great lover in his time, was now sunken into a life of gluttony, was afraid of the love in the Lady Elizabeth’s eyes and so granted her wish; thus she was borne to the Castle, rejoicing.

These things Cazarin had seen with his own eyes before he went to Paris; what followed after to Antony and Elizabeth he learned from the turnkey, a lame and ugly man, before he was killed by the people of St. Romeiro.

They shut Antony and Elizabeth in a cell cut deeply in the grey stone; it was a dark place and water dripped monotonously from the damp roof to the damp floor and foul things crept about the damp walls. At the side of the cell furthest from the door was a broad step raised from the floor and covered with straw. And here the Lady Elizabeth sat and when the turnkey brought them their food, Antony knelt by her and served her. And after they had eaten thus, they wrapped their hands in each other’s and talked; and as they talked, they kissed. And they made a bed of straw on the step and thus among the foul and creeping things was their marriage made; and the turnkey envied them that were so happy in so foul a place.

So a week wore itself out and another; and the cheeks of the Lady Elizabeth became pale and her hair became dull and coarse and the brows of the Count Antony that had been white, were dirty and his beard was long; but ever in his smouldering eyes there was love and a seeking for things that were lost. But the turnkey, who had so envied them, saw that now there was in the eyes of the lady Elizabeth no love but only a great weariness.

Now when the turnkey brought them their food, Antony knelt to serve his lover as he had done before. And some of the bread which the turnkey brought was rotten and the Lady Elizabeth would tear out what was good with her dirty hands and eat it, and then sullenly roll herself over on the straw and stare at the wall; and Antony would eat what the Lady Elizabeth left. And after a short time these two, who had so loved each other, slept together in the straw no longer, but Antony slept on the wet stone; and by day they talked little to each other and never kissed; and the turnkey saw that in the eyes of Antony there was a wild and bewildered sorrow and a seeking for what was no more; but in the eyes of his lover there grew hate.

So the autumn grew into winter and a new year began. And the turnkey was lame and his face was scarred with pox and his mouth was drawn with laughing at the sorrow about him; and daily he came to the cell and no other man did the Lady Elizabeth see, except Antony who had been her lover. And as winter grew into spring and the hate increased in the eyes of Elizabeth, so there grew also desire for the love of that man that was lost to her. And Antony who slept on the wet stones and ate the rotten bread was agued and sick and too weak to move from his corner; only his eyes followed Elizabeth as she moved in the cell.

One day when the food had been set before her, the Lady Elizabeth said, “Turnkey, am I still beautiful?”

And the turnkey answered:

“Not with the beauty in which I first saw you, Lady Elizabeth; for your cheeks are grown pale and your hair dull and coarse, and all your fair skin is blotched and dirty. Yet are you still very beautiful.”

“I have not seen my image for many months. Let me look in your eyes and see if I am still beautiful.”

So the turnkey thrust his face which was pock-marked and drawn with derision near to the face of the Lady Elizabeth; and there was desire in their eyes. And she put her hands in his hair and she leaned her breast against his and so the Lady Elizabeth, who had known the white arms of Antony, loved this turnkey who was ugly and low born. And Antony made no sound but lay in his corner burdened with his ague and the great chain which he could barely move; but in his eyes there was pain as is seldom seen in men.

And the turnkey said, “I will go and bring wine and we will make a feast for this new love which we have found.” And they spoke of this new thing which had come to them, and how they would entertain it; and the turnkey promised that she should leave the cell and live with him in his lodgings, where there should be water for her to wash herself and clean food for her to eat and a small courtyard to walk in, whence could be seen the tops of trees. And she cried, “O my love, return to me soon.”

Thus was she left with Antony.

And Antony was weak and burdened with his chain but there was pain in him which raised him from his corner; and he spoke no word but crept to Elizabeth, who had been his lover, silently, as the foul things on the walls. And she rose in alarm and made to escape him, but he caught at her ankle and drew her to the floor. And between his hands was the heavy chain and he stretched it across her throat and knelt on the two ends between his wrists so that the great links pressed into her neck. And Elizabeth, who had been his lover, struggled with him, but the pain lent him strength and he prevailed; and the struggling of her hands ceased and thus the Lady Elizabeth died.

And so the turnkey found them when he returned; and he uttered a cry and the flask of wine slipped from his fingers and scattered itself on the wet floor. And he ran to where the Lady Elizabeth lay and laid his hand on her breast and knew that she was dead. And spoke no word but left her with Antony and shut the great door and locked it and threw the key into the Castle moat. And he never returned to the cell to tend the body of Elizabeth, for he had known love there.

These things he told Cazarin, who had been educated at Paris, before the people of St. Romeiro killed him.

EDWARD OF UNIQUE ACHIEVEMENT A TALE OF BLOOD AND ALCOHOL IN AN OXFORD COLLEGE

I have for a long time hesitated to tell this story of Edward. For six weeks past, since Edward late one evening interrupted my essay to grow expansive over my whiskey, I have done the manly thing and told no one—at least practically no one. But lately this wasting of “copy”—as all good journalists are wont to describe the misfortunes of their friends—has been for me a matter of increasing and intolerable regret; and now that I have learned from Anne “in a manner which it is not convenient to record,” much of which Edward and Poxe are ignorant, I find it wholly impossible to remain silent. I have obscured the identities of the chief actors so far as it has been in my power to do so. Edward at any rate I feel should be safe from detection.

The more I consider the nature of Edward the more incredible it all seems. He is to all outward showing the most wholly and over-masteringly ordinary undergraduate. Every afternoon, nearly, he may be heard ordering his tea down the Carlton Club telephone, “China tea, dry toast and butter and white cake, for one, please.” He is clothed in tweeds or flannels and usually wears an old Wykamist tie. No proctor would hesitate to recognize him as a member of the University.

Yet in this is Edward alone among all the other young men in Old Wykamist ties and the Carlton Club. Some few weeks ago he murdered his tutor, a Mr. Curtis. So very few people out of College were aware of Mr. Curtis’s existence that his sudden death was received without consternation. He was just no more seen, as undistinguished dons do disappear in large Colleges. After all it was to everyone’s interest to keep things quiet—Mr. Curtis’s sole relative, a brother with a large practice at Pangbourne, quite realized this when the Warden explained things to him. The police, I think, never heard of it; if they did it was quite soon forgotten. It was said by Poxe—though with how much truth I would not venture to judge—that pressure was brought on Cockburn to keep the affair out of the Isis (there was some doubt about his degree—the Dean of Edward’s College was examining it—but, as I say, I will not make myself responsible for anything Poxe says).

I do not know why Edward hated Mr. Curtis so much. I never had the privilege of meeting him but as I used to watch him moving about the quad, usually alone or with Anne, who is married to the Warden, I thought that he seemed, considering that he was a history tutor, a pleasant young man enough. But, however that may be, Edward hated him with an absorbing and unmeasurable hatred, so that at last he became convinced that Mr. Curtis’s existence was not compatible with his own. This was a state of mind into which any undergraduate might have slipped; where Edward showed himself essentially different from the other young men in Old Wykamist ties in the Carlton Club, was in his immediate perception that the more convenient solution was not suicide but murder. Most undergraduates would kill themselves sooner or later if they stayed up long enough, very few would kill anyone else.

Once decided upon, the murder was accomplished with the straightforward efficiency which one would expect from a student of the cinematograph and one who, until his second failure in History previous (through his inability to draw maps) had been a senior History scholar.

Mr. Curtis’s room was on the first floor just above the side gate. The side gate was closed at nine and the key kept in the porter’s lodge. The other key was kept in the Bursary. Edward knew that this was the key which he would have to take. He went into the Bursary at lunch time and found the Bursar there. The keys were hung on a nail by his desk. The Bursar sat at the desk. Edward began a story of a burned carpet; the Bursar became angry but did not move. He included the sofa; the Bursar stood up but remained at his desk. Edward threw a chair into the conflagration and then described how the three mini-max extinguishers which he had promised were all empty, “perhaps during the Bump Supper; you know, sir.” It was enough; the Bursar strode up and down thoroughly moved; Edward secured the key and hurrying to his room burned the carpet and the sofa and the chair and emptied the extinguishers in case the Bursar should come to investigate. His scout thought him drunk.

Edward then hurried to Mr. Curtis and secured an interview for ten that evening; he sent a note to the President of the Union desiring to speak that evening, it was on Thursday that these things occurred—and then feeling that he had accomplished a good work, lunched very quietly at the Carlton Club.

After lunch Edward set out on his bicycle and rode through much dust to Abingdon. There not at the first antique shop but at the smaller one on the other side of the square, he bought a dagger; at Radley he bought a stone and sitting under a hedge, he sharpened it. Returning with this in his pocket, he lay for a long time in a very hot bath. It was with considerable contentment that he sat down to eat dinner alone at the George—there were still several details to be thought out.

The Union that evening was fuller than usual; some politician from London of enormous distinction was speaking. Edward, in private business, asked questions of force and ingenuity about the despatch boxes, the clock, the gas burners in the roof and the busts of the Prime Ministers: he was observed by all. At five to ten he slipped out saying to the Teller as he went that he was coming back; others were about him who were making for the coffee room while drinks could still be obtained. Edward’s bicycle was among the others at the St. Michael Street gate, clustering about the notice which forbade their presence. In eight minutes he was back again in his place, reviewing with complete satisfaction his evening’s achievement; almost immediately he was called upon to speak. His speech was, perhaps, more successful as an alibi than as a piece of oratory, but few were there to hear it. As he walked home that evening there was singing in his heart. It had been an admirable murder. Everything had happened perfectly. He had gone in at the side gate, unobserved, and reached Mr. Curtis’s room. His tutor had that habit, more fitting for a house master than a don, of continuing to read or write some few words after his visitors entered, in order to emphasize his superiority. It was while he was finishing his sentence that Edward killed him and the sentence was merged into a pool of blood. On his way back, Edward had gone down George Street as far as the canal and there had sunk the dagger. It had been a good evening, Edward thought.

Hastings, the night porter at Edward’s College, always liked to delay people and talk to them in the porch. It was a habit which many resented, but Edward tonight was so overflowing with good nature that he actually started the conversation.

“A dull debate at the Union tonight, Hastings.”

“Indeed, sir; and did you speak?”

“I tried to.”

“Ah, well, sir; if you wanted excitement you should have stayed in College tonight. Most unusual happenings, sir. I don’t think I ever remember anything quite like it happening before, not since I’ve been at the College.”

“Why, what’s happened, Hastings?”

“You may well ask, sir. I knew his Lordship would come to a bad end.”

“Do tell me what has happened, Hastings.”

“Well, sir, you knows what Lord Poxe is when he gets drunk, sir. There’s no stopping him. Well, he come in tonight, sir, oh, very drunk. He never see me when I opened the door—just ran straight in and fell down on the grass. Then he gets up and starts swearing something wicked—said the dons hadn’t no right to put grass there for a gentleman to fall over. Said he was going to go and murder the lot of them.”

“Well, Hastings?”

“Well, he’s done it, sir.”

“What! all of them, Hastings?”

“No, sir, not all; but Mr. Curtis sir. The Dean went to find him to tell him to go to bed and found him asleep on the floor of Mr. Curtis’s room and Mr. Curtis,” with great glee, “dripping blood, sir. Quite slowly, pit-a-pat, as you might say.”

“Well, I’m damned!”

“Yes, indeed, sir. So was the Dean. He is with the Warden now, sir.”

The sky filled with chimes; it was twelve o’clock.

“Well, I must go to bed, Hastings. It’s a funny business.”

“Yes, sir, and good night, sir.”

“Good night, Hastings.”

So Edward went to bed with a grave disquiet. It was a pity that Poxe should have done this; it was really a very great pity. But as he grew sleepier the conviction grew that perhaps this was the best that could have happened. He thought of Poxe—a sad figure. His father had been forced to resign from the Diplomatic Corps after that disgraceful business with the Montenegrin minister’s younger daughter, and had then married his first cousin, begotten an heir and drunken himself to death at the age of forty-two. It was thought that Poxe would never beget an heir, and it was certain that he would not live to be forty-two. He was nearly always half-sober. And so Edward’s thoughts drifted to the decay of great families, to renaissance Italy, and then far away beyond St. Mary’s tower where it was just striking half past twelve. A good evening and sleep…..

Everyone in College had heard the story next morning. It reached me through my scout who called me with: “Half-past-seven sir, and Lord Poxe has murdered Mr. Curtis.” I met Poxe in the bathroom, very white and dejected. I asked him about the murder.

“Well, I suppose I’ve rather rotted things up this time. I can’t remember a thing about it except that I was furious about some grass, and that two people put me to bed. It’s a melancholy business. They can’t hang me, can they?”

I suggested inebriates’ asylum and had my bath. I was sincerely sorry about poor Poxe, but felt he would probably be better shut up. After all it was not safe to have a man who did that sort of thing about the College; it was not as though he was seldom drunk. I went to breakfast at the Old Oak tea rooms and found Edward there. He was in great form, and for this I disliked him that he should be in good form at breakfast; however, he was really rather amusing about the Poxe murder as it was already called.

Edward asked if he might work in my rooms—he knew I never used them—as he had had a fire in his. I said that I wanted them this morning and advised the Union. Then I went back.

At about eleven, I saw from my window the Warden’s side door open and Poxe come out, radiantly cheerful. I called him into my room, and he told me of what had happened. It must certainly have been a cheering interview for Poxe.

He had gone to see the Warden with all the trepidation that should befit a young nobleman suddenly confronted with the prospect of being hanged. The old man had been seated on one side of the table with the Dean next to him. Poxe had been asked to sit down. The Warden had begun:

“I have asked you to come and see me, Lord Poxe, in what for both of us, I think, and certainly for me, is a very bitter occasion. Last night, when in a state of intoxication, as you will perhaps have been informed, you entered the room of your tutor, Mr. Curtis, and stabbed him to death. I suppose that you do not deny this?”

Poxe was silent.

“It was a foolish act, Lord Poxe, an act of wanton foolishness, but I do not wish to be hard on you,” the Warden’s voice broke with emotion, “my poor boy, you are the fifteenth Lord Poxe and, as I have at different occasions reminded you, not unconnected with my own family. Lady Emily Crane, your great aunt, you will remember, married a Mr. Arthur Thorn, my grandfather. I feel that the College owes it to your position to treat this matter as discreetly as possible.”

Poxe nodded enthusiastically. Among tradesmen and dons he had always found his title of vast value.

“The Dean and I have discussed the matter at some length and have come to the conclusion that there is no reason why this matter should be referred to the ordinary State authorities at all; it has, as, of course, you are aware, always been a principle of University government so far as is possible to impede and nullify the workings of the ordinary courts of law. In this case it seems particularly advisable, as it is only too likely that the criminal courts would be unwilling to treat this matter with the clemency which we think desirable.

“Nor, indeed, is a precedent far to seek. In the fifteenth century a commoner of this College struck off the head of the Bursar—true, that was in open fight and not before the young man had received severe injuries; but things, of course, were far rougher then. On that occasion the distinguished scholar, who held the position it is my privilege unworthily to occupy, inflicted upon the delinquent the fine of twopence to be paid to the Bursar’s relatives.”

Poxe brightened.

“Of course, the value of the penny has, since that time, markedly decreased, but calculating it as nearly as one can in days of rather haphazard accountancy, the Dean and I decided that the fine must have valued about thirteen shillings.

“I need hardly say, Lord Poxe, that this whole matter has been acutely distressing to the Dean and myself. We hope and trust that it will not occur again. It is probable that in the event of a second offence, the College would find itself unable to treat the matter with the same generosity. Thank you, Lord Poxe.”

And thus the interview closed and Poxe went out, elated, to celebrate his escape in the manner which most immediately suggested itself to him; and Edward, in his fire-blackened room, felt that everything was turning out well.

Without difficulty, an aged and dissolute doctor was unearthed in St. Ebbs, where he lodged in squalor with one of the College servants, and earned an irregular livelihood by performing operations in North Oxford; this sorry man was persuaded to write a certificate of death from natural causes. The funeral was brief and ill attended. The Warden toiled for three days in the composition of a Greek epitaph and on the third evening persuaded the Dean to write one in Latin. And so for Poxe and Edward the matter ended.

One thing I feel should be added. It is merely an incident that may be of no significance but which may explain much that seems improbable. I was told it in an intimate moment by Anne, who is married to the Warden, and of whom many stories are told. This is what she said, that on the night when Mr. Curtis died, she ran in a high state of emotion to her husband, the Warden, and cried, “Oh why, why did you kill him? I never really loved him.”

She stopped, seeing the Dean there also. He, a gentleman, rose to go, but the Warden detained him. And then Anne, falling on her knees, pounded out a tale of the most monstrous and unsuspected transactions between herself and Mr. Curtis.

“Supposing there were a trial,” asked the Warden, “could this be kept a secret?”

The Dean doubted gravely whether this would be possible.

And then came to the Warden the full realization of the imperishable obligations of precedent, the memory of the head of the Bursar, the appreciation of the greatness of families not unconnected with his own.

“At least, I think it must have been then,” Anne said as she turned up the light.

FRAGMENTS: THEY DINE WITH THE PAST

Almost the first thing which Toby said to me when we met was, “Imogen is in London again.”

Even to Toby to whom this could never mean as much as to the rest of us, it seemed the only thing of immediate importance; to me, more than as pleasure or pain, though, of course, it was both of these, it came as a breaking away of near memories.

For some moment of time the bar where we stood was frozen in space; the handles, the slopped wood, the pallid man beyond them lost perspective; “If you like our beer tell your friends; if you don’t tell us” stood as cut in stone, the ordainment of priest kings, immeasurably long ago; the three years or a little more that stood between now and that grim evening in April fell, unhonoured, into the remote past and there was no sound from the street.

Then, instantly almost, the machine fell to its work again and I said as though nothing had intervened between his voice and mine:

“Was she with him?”

For even now, after three years or more, I could not easily say his name; I spoke of him, as slatternly servants will speak of their master, impersonally. And indeed it was thus I thought of him; the name was an insignificant thing labelling an event. Toby understood something of this as anyone who had known Imogen, must have understood, even he; for he was associated with much that was wholly alien to him; he had been in Adelphi Terrace in that strange evening in April when Hauban had gazed out across the river for two, three hours, and scarcely a word spoken.

To my question, down such valleys of thought, his answer made a way; she had been with him; they in a taxi; Toby had seen it from the top of a bus in Regent Street.

And so, quite naturally, I went to find Hauban, whom I had not thought to seek when I had landed that morning—or was it three and a half years ago? Thus suddenly had I returned to the past. And when I found Hauban, he said:

“So you, also, are returned to England.”

Thus I knew that he too had seen Imogen and with his next words he invited me to dinner where I should meet many old friends, whom he would assemble to greet my return. But he and I and his guests knew that not for my welcome were we assembled, though no word was spoken of Imogen all the evening through.

And the thought of her was about and between us all; with such shy courtesy did we treat her, who had been Queen, for all who had loved her were gathered there and none dared speak even her name.

CONSPIRACY TO MURDER

During the first week of term, Guy first mentioned his neighbour to me. We were sitting on my window seat looking over the quad, when I noticed slinking out of the J.C.R. a strange shambling man of middle age. He was ill-dressed and rather dirty, and he peered forward as he walked.

“That strange man,” said Guy, “has got the room opposite me.”

We decided that this would be dull for Guy, for we had often seen these strange old men before and knew that they had no interest to offer, except the dull curiosity of asking why they had come to Oxford. And they were nearly always ready to tell their story of miserly saving and the thirst for knowledge. Therefore when, a fortnight later, Guy began to talk of him again, I was considerably surprised.

“You know, he leads an incredible life; my scout told me that he has never been out to a meal or had a single man in to see him. He doesn’t know one of the other freshers and can’t find his way about Oxford. He’s never heard of half the Colleges. I think I shall go in and talk to him one evening. Come up with me.”

So one evening at about half past ten, Guy and I went across to this strange man’s room. We knocked, and getting no answer, opened the door. The room was in darkness, and we were about to go, when Guy said: “Let’s have a look at his room.”

I turned on his light and then gave a gasp of astonishment. The little man was sitting in his arm chair with his hands in his lap looking straight at us. We began to apologize, but he interrupted us.

“What do you want? I do not wish to be disturbed.”

“Our names are Guy Legge and Barnes,” I said, “we just came in to see you, but if you’re busy —” I was strangely discomforted by this man and had not yet recovered from the shock of finding him sitting there in the dark.

“It was unnecessary to come and see me. I don’t want to know you Barnes, or you Legge, or anyone else.”

And outside the door I said, “Well I’m damned. Of all the abominable men —”

But Guy took me by the arm and said, “Dick, that man scared me.”

So it began.

A few nights later I was engrossed in an essay when I heard someone beating on my oak.

“Go away, I’m busy.”

“It’s I, Guy. May I come in?”

“Oh, it’s you. Well do you mind awfully if I work tonight? I’ve got to get this essay done by eleven tomorrow.”

“Let me in, Dick. I won’t disturb you. I only wanted to know if I could come in and read in here.”

So I opened the oak and when he came into the light I saw that he was looking pale and worried.

“Thanks awfully, Dick. I hope you don’t mind my coming in. I couldn’t work in my room.”

So I returned to my essay and in two hours it was finished. I turned round and saw that Guy was not working. He was just sitting gazing into my fire.

“Well,” I said, “I’ve finished this thing and I’m going to bed.”

He roused himself, “Well, I suppose I must get back,” and then at the door, “You know, Dick, that man next door haunts me. I’ve never met a man who hated me as he does. When we meet on the stairs, he shrinks away and snarls like a beast.”

And I, sleepily, laughed at him and went to bed.

And for the next week or so, Guy came to my room every evening until one Sunday night he said, “Dick, I don’t want to go back, I’m not sleepy. May I read in front of your fire all night?”

I told him not to be a fool; he was looking thoroughly tired. And then he said, “Dick, don’t you understand, I’m afraid of that man next door. He wants to kill me.”

“Guy,” I said, “go to bed and don’t be an ass. You have been working too hard.”

But a quarter of an hour later, I felt that I could not go to bed and leave Guy like this, so I went up to his room. As I passed the strange man’s door, I could not help a little qualm of fear. I knocked at Guy’s bedroom door and inside I heard a little cry of terror and the sound of bare feet. I turned the handle, but the door was locked and I could hear Guy’s breathing through the door; he must have been pressed against it on the other side.

“D’you always lock your bedder door?” I asked, and at the sound of my voice, I heard him sigh with relief.

“Hullo, Dick. You quite startled me. What do you want?”

So I went in and talked to him; he always slept with his door locked now, and his light on; he was very much scared but after a few minutes he became calmer and soon I went away, but behind me I heard him lock his door.

Next day he avoided me until evening; then he came in again and asked if he might work. I said:

“Look here, Guy, tell me what is the matter with you.” And almost immediately I wished that I had not asked him, because he poured out his answers so eagerly.

“Dick, you can’t think what I’ve been through in the last ten days. I’m living up there alone with only a door between me and a madman. He hates me, Dick, I know it. It is not imagination. Every night he comes and tries at my door and then shuffles off again. I can’t stand it. One night I shall forget and then God knows what that man will do to me.”

So it went on and one day I went up to Guy’s room in the morning. He was not there, but his scout was, and I found him in the act of taking the key from Guy’s bedroom door. I knew I had no right to ask him, but I said:

“Hullo, Ramsey, what are you doing with Mr. Legge’s key?”

Ramsey showed, as only a scout can show, that I had been guilty of a gross breach of good manners and answered me:

“The gentleman next door wanted it, sir. He has lost his and wanted to see if it would fit.”

“Did Mr. Legge say that you could take it?”

“No, sir. I did not think it necessary to ask him.”

“Then put it back at once and don’t touch things in his room whatever the gentleman next door says.”

I had no right to say this to Guy’s scout, but I was definitely frightened. A sudden realization had come to me that Guy might have some reason for his fear. That evening I went up to see him and we decided to work in his room. He did not mind if I were with him.

“But shut the oak, Dick,” he said.

We worked until eleven o’clock and then we both sat up listening; someone was fumbling against the oak; then he knocked quietly.

Guy had started up white and panting.

“You see, I haven’t been lying. He’s coming at me. Keep him off, Dick, for God’s sake.”

The knocking was repeated.

“Guy,” I said, “I’m going to open that oak. Brace up, man, we two can look after ourselves against anyone. Don’t you see? We’ve got to open that oak.”

“Dick, for God’s sake don’t. I can’t stand it,” but I went towards the door. I opened it and there was only the oak between us and the man beyond. Suddenly Guy’s face became twisted with hatred and his voice harsh. “So you’re in it, too. You’re going to betray me to that fiend. He’s bought you as he has bought Ramsey. There’s not a man in the College he hasn’t bought or bullied into it and I can’t fight the lot,” his voice suddenly fell to a tone of blind despair and he rushed into his bedroom, slamming the door. I hesitated between the two doors and then, picking up a heavy candlestick, opened the oak.

On the threshold, blinking in the light, was the strange man.

“So you’re here, too, Barnes,” he said slowly; “but that is excellent. What I wish to say is for you as well as Legge. I want to apologize for being so rude that evening when you two came up to see me. I was very nervous. But where is Legge?”

And from the bedroom came a sound of hysterical sobbing, the wild, hideous sobbing of a mad man.

UNACADEMIC EXERCISE: A NATURE STORY

After half an hour I said what I had been pondering ever since we started.

“Billy, this is a crazy business. I’m willing to call the bet off if you are.”

But he answered gravely.

“I’m sorry, my friend, but I’m not going to lose the opportunity of making a fiver.”

Then there was silence again until Anderson looked back from the wheel and said:

“Look here, Billy, let’s stop at this pub and then go home. I can lend you a fiver or more if you want it. You needn’t pay me until you want to.”

But Billy was resolute:

“No, Dick, I owe enough already. I should like to earn an honest meal for once.”

So Anderson drove on and soon we came into sight of the grim place which Craine had chosen for our experiment. I saw that Billy was beginning to lose his nerve for he was shivering in his big overcoat and his feet were very still, pressed down with all his might.

“Billy,” I said, “I don’t think we need go any further; we should only be wasting time. You’ve obviously won the bet.”

And I think he would have yielded—for he was rather a child—when Craine’s voice answered for him.

“What damned nonsense. The thing isn’t begun yet. Donne’s bet that he has the nerve to go through the whole werewolf ceremony. Just getting to the place is nothing. He doesn’t yet know what he has to do. I’ve got as far as this twice before—once in Nigeria with a man of forty, but he hadn’t the nerve to go through with it, and once in Wales with the bravest thing in the world, a devoted woman; but she couldn’t do it. Donne may, because he’s young and hasn’t seen enough to make him easily frightened.”

But Billy was frightened, badly, and so were Anderson and I and for this reason we let ourselves be overborne by Craine because he knew that we were; and he smiled triumphant as a stage Satan in the moonlight.

It was strange being beaten like this by Craine who in College was always regarded as a rather unsavoury joke. But then this whole expedition was strange and Craine was an old man—thirty-three—an age incalculable to the inexperience of twenty-one; and Billy was only just nineteen.

We had started off merrily enough down St. Aldate’s; Billy had said:

“I wonder what human flesh tastes like; what d’you suppose one should drink with it?” and when I had answered with utter futility, “Spirits, of course,” they had all laughed; which shows that we were in high good humour.

But once in Anderson’s car and under that vast moon, a deep unquiet had settled upon us and when Craine said in his sinister way:

“By the way, Donne, you ought to know in case you lose us; if you want to regain your manhood all you have to do is to draw some of your own blood and take off the girdle.”

Anderson and I shuddered. He said it with a slight sneer on “manhood” and we resented it that he should speak to Billy in this way, but more than this we were shocked at the way in which the joke was suddenly plunged into reality. This was the first time that evening on which I had felt fear and all through the drive it had grown more and more insistent, until on the heath, bleak and brilliantly moonlit, I was sickeningly afraid and said:

“Billy, for God’s sake let’s get back.”

But Craine said quietly:

“Are you ready, Donne? The first thing you have to do is to take off your clothes; yes, all of them.”

And Billy without looking at us, began with slightly trembling hands to undress. When he stood, white beside his heap of clothes under the moon, he shivered and said: “I hope I get a wolf skin soon; it’s damned cold.” But the pathetic little joke faltered and failed and left us all shivering; all except Craine who was pouring something out into the cup of his flask.

“You have to drink this—all right it isn’t poisonous. I brewed it myself out of roots and things.”

So the rites began. Billy was told to draw a circle about himself in the ground and he obeyed silently. Another potion was given to him.

“Put this on your hands, eyelids, navel and feet. Just a drop or two. That’s right.”

I was trembling unrestrainedly and I dared not look at Anderson because I knew that he was too. Craine went on evenly:

“And now comes a less pleasant part. I am afraid that you have to taste human blood,” and then to us, like a conjuror borrowing a watch, “will either of you two volunteer to lend some?”

Anderson and I started, thoroughly alarmed.

“Look here, Craine, this is beastly.”

“You can’t go on, Craine.”

But Craine said:

“Well, Donne, what are we going to do?” and Billy answered evenly, “Go on with it, Craine.”

It was the first time he had spoken since he drew the circle and he stood now quite calm and looking incredibly defenceless.

“Well, if neither of you two friends of his are willing, I suppose I must offer my blood.”

But by a sudden intuition, we both of us knew that this thing must be averted at all costs; I was conscious of the most immediate and overpowering danger and dreamlike stood unmoving; Anderson had started forward.

“If Billy wants to go on with this, he had better have mine.”

And Craine answered easily:

“As you like, my friend. Do not step inside the circle and cut deeply because he will need a good deal. That is all I ask you,” but he and Anderson and I knew that he had been in some strange way checked.

So Anderson rolled up his sleeve and cut his arm and Billy without hesitation put his lips to the wound. After a few moments, Craine said, “That should be enough”; so Anderson bound up his arm roughly with a handkerchief and Billy straightened himself; there was a small trickle of blood running down his chin. He was made to repeat some jumbled sentences in a foreign tongue and then Craine produced a strip of fur.

“The girdle,” he said, “put it on Donne.”

“And now you have to kneel down and say a paternoster backwards. You had better repeat it after me.”

And then there occurred something of which, I think, I shall never lose the memory. Billy did not kneel down; he crouched back on his haunches like an animal and threw his head right back; his fair hair stirred in the moonlight, but on his face there came a look of awakening and of savagery, his lips drawn back and showing his teeth. I stood there in wild horror and saw this happen.

“Amen, Saeculorum Saecula in gloria.”

And the Thing in the circle drew in its breath. I dare not now think what that sound might have been. I refuse resolutely to let myself consider the possibility that it might not have been Billy’s voice; that the Thing in the circle was not Billy, his face contorted by some trick of the moonlight. Even then, in that moment of terror, I would not let myself consider this but I knew by an animal apprehension of the Unknown that that sound must be stopped if we were to keep our sanity; that from the moment we heard it our lives must be wholly altered. Anderson knew this, too; and, always quicker to act than I, he was in the circle while I stood numb with horror. He was a strong man and he flung Billy across the scratched circumference, tearing the girdle from him; he fell in a heap and his elbow struck on a stone; a drop of blood oozed through the earth. Then he raised himself, and, holding his elbow said, “Dick, are you mad? Why on earth did you do that? You’ve hurt me damnably.” And then suddenly turning on to his face he burst into a fit of hysterical crying and lay there shaking from head to foot and we three watching him. Craine, of course, spoke first.*

*The rest omitted owing to blind stupidity of editor and printer.

THE NATIONAL GAME

My brother said to me at breakfast:

“When you last played cricket, how many runs did you make?” And I answered him, truthfully, “Fifty.”

I remembered the occasion well for this was what happened. At school, oh! many years ago now, I had had my sixth form privileges taken away for some unpunctuality or other trifling delinquency and the captain of cricket in my house, a youth with whom I had scarcely ever found myself in sympathy, took advantage of my degraduation to put me in charge of a game, called quite appropriately a “Remnants’ game.” I had resented this distinction grimly, but as a matter of fact the afternoon had been less oppressive than I had expected. Only twenty-one boys arrived so, there being none to oppose me, I elected to play for both while they were batting. I thus ensured my rest and for an hour or so read contentedly having gone in first and failed to survive the first over. When eventually by various means the whole of one side had been dismissed—the umpire was always the next batsman, and, eager for his innings, was usually ready to prove himself sympathetic with the most extravagant appeal—I buckled on the pair of pads which a new boy had brought, although they were hotly claimed by the wicket keeper, and went out to bat. This other side bowled less well and after missing the ball once or twice, I suddenly and to my intense surprise hit it with great force. Delighted by this I did it again and again. The fielding was half-hearted and runs accumulated. I asked the scorer how many I had made and was told: “Thirty-six.” Now and then I changed the bowlers, being still captain of the fielding side and denounced those who were ostentatiously slack in the field. Soon I saw a restiveness about both sides and much looking at watches. “This game shall not end,” I ordained, “until I have made fifty.” Almost immediately the cry came “Fifty” and with much clapping I allowed the stumps to be drawn.

Such is the history of my only athletic achievement. On hearing of it my brother said, “Well, you’d better play today. Anderson has just fallen through. I’m taking a side down to a village in Hertfordshire—I’ve forgotten the name.”

And I thought of how much I had heard of the glories of village cricket and of that life into which I had never entered and so most adventurously, I accepted.

“Our train leaves King’s Cross at nine-twenty. The taxi will be here in five minutes. You’d better get your things.”

At quarter past nine we were at the station and some time before eleven the last of our team arrived. We learned that the village we were to play was called Torbridge. At half past twelve, we were assembled with many bags on the Torbridge platform. Outside two Fords were for hire and I and the man who had turned up latest succeeded in discovering the drivers in the “Horse and Cart”; they were very largely sober; it seemed that now everything would be going well. My brother said,

“Drive us to the cricket ground.”

“There isn’t no cricket ground,” brutishly, “is there, Bill?”

“I have heard that they do play cricket on Beesley’s paddock.”

“Noa, that’s football they plays there.”

“Ah;” very craftily, “but that’s in the winter. Mebbe they plays cricket there in the summer.”

“I have heard that he’s got that field for hay this year.”

“Why, so ’e ’ave.”

“No, there ain’t no cricket ground, mister.” And then I noticed a sign post. On one limb was written “Lower Torbridge, Great Torbridge, Torbridge St. Swithin,” and on the other “Torbridge Heath, South Torbridge, Torbridge Village,” and on the third just “Torbridge Station,” this pointing towards me.

We tossed up and, contrary to the lot, decided to try Torbridge Village. We stopped at the public house and made enquiries. No, he had not heard of no match here. They did say there was some sort of festification at Torbridge St. Swithin, but maybe that was the flower show. We continued the pilgrimage and at each public house we each had half a pint. At last after three-quarters of an hour, we found at the “Pig and Hammer” Torbridge Heath, eleven disconsolate men. They were expecting a team to play them—“the Reverend Mr. Bundles.” Would they play against us instead? Another pint all round and the thing was arranged. It was past one; we decided to lunch at once. At quarter to three, very sleepily the opposing side straddled out into the field. At quarter past four, when we paused for tea, the score was thirty-one for seven, of these my brother had made twenty in two overs and had then been caught; I had made one and that ingloriously. I had hit the ball with great force on to my toe from which it had bounced into the middle of the pitch. “Yes, one,” cried the tall man at the other end; he wanted the bowling; with great difficulty I limped across; I was glad that the next ball bowled him. One man did all the work for the other side—a short man with very brown forearms and a bristling moustache.

At quarter to five we went out to field and at seven, when very wearily we went back to the pavilion, only one wicket had fallen for 120. The brown-armed man was still in. Even on the occasion of my triumph I had not fielded; this afternoon, still with a crushed toe, I did not do myself credit. After a time it became the habit of the bowler whenever a ball was hit near me, immediately to move me away and put someone else there; and for this I was grateful.

In the shed at the end of the field there was no way of washing. We all had to change in one little room each with his heap of clothes; we all lost socks, studs and even waistcoats; it was all very like school. And finally when we were changed and feeling thoroughly sticky and weary, we learned from the cheery captain with the brown arms that there were no taxis in Torbridge Heath and no telephone to summon one with. It was three miles to Torbridge Station and the last train left at half past eight. There would be no time for any dinner; we had heavy bags to carry.

One last sorrow came upon us when it would have seemed that all was finished, and just as we were coming into King’s Cross I found that somewhere in that turmoil of changing I had lost my return ticket. My poor brother had to pay, I having no money. When he had paid he discovered that he would have no money left for a taxi. We must go back by tube and walk. To travel by tube with a heavy bag is an uneasy business. And when I returned home, I reasoned thus with myself; today I have wearied myself utterly; I have seen nothing and no one of any interest; I have suffered discomfort of every sense and in every limb; I have suffered acute pain in my great toe; I have walked several miles; I have stood about for several hours; I have drunken several pints of indifferently good beer; I have spent nearly two pounds; I might have spent that sum in dining very well and going to a theatre; I might have made that sum by spending the morning, pleasantly, in writing or drawing.

But my brother maintained that it had been a great day. Village cricket, he said, was always like that.