looking maid enters
NEXT MORNING 8.30 A.M.The hero still asleep. The electric light is still burning. A disagreeable-looking maid enters, turns out the Abercrombie Fitch light and raises the blind. Adam wakes up. “Good morning, Parsons.” “Good morning, sir.” “Is the bathroom empty?” “I think Miss Jane’s just this minute stainless steel tube suppliers gone along there.” She picks up Adam’s evening clothes from the floor. Adam lies back and ponders the question of money detector whether he shall miss his bath or miss getting a place at the studio. Miss Jane in her bath. Adam deciding to get up. Tired out but with no inclination football shirts to sleep, Adam dresses. He goes down to breakfast. “It can’t be Society, Gladys, they louboutin on sale aren’t eating grape fruit.” “It’s such a small ’ouse too.” “And no butler.” “Look, there’s ’is little louboutin on sale old mother. She’ll lead ’im straight in the end. See if she don’t.” “Well, that dress isn’t at all what BREITLING fake I call fashionable, if you ask me.” “Well, if it isn’t funny and it isn’t murder and it isn’t Society, what is it?” “P’r’aps there’ll be a murder yet.” “Well, I calls it soft, that’s what I calls it.” “Look now, ’e’s got a invitation to a dance ripper dvd download from a Countess.” “I don’t understand this picture.” The Countess’s invitation. “Why, there isn’t even a coronet stainless flange on it, Ada.” The little old mother pours out tea for him and tells him about the death of a friend in the Times that morning; when he has drunk some tea and eaten some fish, she Buy jordans shoes bustles him out of the house. Adam walks to the corner of the road, where he slitting machine gets on to a bus. The neighbourhood is revealed as being Regent’s Park. THE CENTRE OF LONDON’S QUARTIER LATIN THE MALTBY SCHOOL OF ART. No trouble has been spared by the masai shoes producers to obtain the right atmosphere. The top studio at Maltby’s is already half full of young students when Adam enters. Work has not yet started, but the room is alive with busy preparation. A young woman in an overall—looking rather more like a chorus christian louboutin girl than a painter—is making herself very dirty cleaning her palette; another near by is setting up an easel; a third is sharpening a pencil; a fourth AIR MAX SHOES is smoking a cigarette in a long holder. A young man, also in an overall, is holding a drawing and appraising it at arm’s length, his head slightly on one side; a young man with untidy hair is disagreeing with him. Old Mr. Maltby, an inspiring figure in a shabby silk dressing gown, is telling a tearful student that if she misses another composition class, she will be asked to leave the school. Miss Philbrick, the secretary, interrupts the argument between the two young men to remind them that neither of them has paid his fee for the month. The girl who was setting up the easel is trying to borrow some “fixative”; the girl with the cigarette holder lends her some. Mr. Maltby is complaining of the grittiness of the charcoal Coach tote bag they make nowadays. Surely this is the Quartier Latin itself? The “set,” too, has been conscientiously planned. The walls are Ray ban aviator sunglasses hung with pots, pans and paintings—these last mainly a series of rather fleshly nudes which young Mr. Maltby has been unable to sell. A very brown skeleton hangs over the dais at the far end “I say, Gladys, do you think we shall see ’is models?” “Coo, Ada, you are a one.” Adam comes in and goes towards the board on which hangs a plan of the easel Cheap nike dunks places; the girl who was lending the “fixative” comes over to him, still smoking. “THERE’S A PLACE EMPTY NEXT TO ME, DOURE, DO COME THERE.” Close up of the girl. “She’s in love with ’im.” Close up of Adam. “’E’s not in love with ’er, though, is ’e, Ada?” The place the girl points out is an excellent one in the second Wholesale nike shox row; the only other one besides the very front and the very back is round at the side, next to the stove. Adam signs his initials opposite this place. “I’M SORRY—I’M AFRAID THAT I FIND THE LIGHT WORRIES ME FROM WHERE YOU ARE—ONE GETS SO FEW SHADOWS—DON’T YOU FIND?” The girl is not to be discouraged; she lights another cigarette. “I SAW YOU LAST NIGHT AT THE COCKATRICE—YOU DIDN’T SEE ME THOUGH.” “THE COCKATRICE—LAST NIGHT—OH YES—WHAT A PITY!” “WHO WERE ALL THOSE PEOPLE YOU WERE WITH?” “OH, I DON’T KNOW, JUST SOME PEOPLE, YOU Pandora jewelry KNOW.” He makes a movement as if to go away. “WHO WAS THAT GIRL YOU WERE DANCING WITH SO MUCH—THE PRETTY ONE WITH FAIR HAIR—IN BLACK?” “OH, DON’T YOU KNOW HER? YOU MUST MEET HER ONE DAY—I SAY, I’M AWFULLY football shirts SORRY, BUT I MUST GO DOWN AND GET SOME PAPER FROM MISS PHILBRICK.” “I CAN LEND YOU SOME.” But he is gone. Ada says, “Too much talk in this picture, eh, Gladys?” and the voice with shoulder bags the Cambridge accent is heard saying something about the “elimination of the caption.” ONE OF LIFE’S UNFORTUNATES. Enter a young woman huddled in a dressing-gown, preceded by young Cheap ed hardy clothes Mr. Maltby. “The model—coo—I say.” She has a slight cold and sniffles into a tiny ball of handkerchief; she mounts the dais and sits down ungracefully. Young Mr. Maltby nods good morning to those of the pupils who catch his eye; the ansi flange girl who was talking to Adam catches his eye; he smiles. “’E’s in love with ’er.” She returns his smile with warmth. Young Mr. Maltby rattles the stove, opens the skylight a little and then stainless steel ball valve turns to the model, who slips off her dressing gown and puts it over the back of the chair. “Coo—I say. Ada—my!” “Well I never.” The young man from Cambridge goes on talking about Matisse unfalteringly as laser engraving machine though he were well accustomed to this sort of thing. Actually he is much intrigued. She has disclosed a dull pink body with rather short legs and red elbows; like most professional models her toes are covered with bunions and malformed. Young Mr. Maltby sets her on the chair in an established Art School pose. The class settles to work. Adam returns with some sheets of paper and proceeds to arrange them on his board. Then he stands for some time glaring at the model without drawing a line. “’E’s in love with ’er.” But for once Ada’s explanation is wrong—and then begins sketching in the main lines of the pose. He works on for five or six minutes, during which time the heat of the stove becomes increasingly uncomfortable. Old Mr. Maltby, breathing smoke, comes up behind him. “Now have you placed it? What is your centre? Where is the foot going to come? Where is the top of the head coming?” Adam has not placed it; he rubs it out angrily and starts again. Meanwhile a vivid flirtation is in progress between young Mr. Maltby and the girl who was in love with Adam. He is leaning over and pointing out mistakes to her; his hand rests on her shoulder; she is wearing a low-necked jumper; his thumb strays over the skin of her neck; she wriggles appreciatively. He takes the charcoal from her and begins drawing in the corner of her paper; her hair touches his cheek; neither of them heed the least what he is drawing. “These Bo’emians don’t ’alf carry on, eh, Gladys?” In half an hour Adam has rubbed out his drawing three times. Whenever he is beginning to interest himself in some particular combination of shapes, the model raises her ball of handkerchief to her nose, and after each sniff relapses into a slightly different position. The anthracite stove glows with heat; he works on for another half hour. THE ELEVEN O’CLOCK REST. Most of the girls light cigarettes; the men, who have increased in number with many late arrivals, begin to congregate away from them in the corner. One of them is reading The Studio. Adam lights a pipe, and standing back, surveys his drawing with detestation. Close up; Adam’s drawing. It is not really at all bad. In fact it is by far the best in the room; there is one which will be better at the end of the week, but at present there is nothing of it except some measurements and geometrical figures. Its author is unaware that the model is resting; he is engaged in calculating the medial section of her height in the corner of the paper. Adam goes out on to the stairs, which are lined with women from the lower studio eating buns out of bags. He returns to the studio. The girl who has been instructed by young Mr. Maltby comes up to him and looks at his drawing. “Rather Monday morningish.” That was exactly what young Mr. Maltby had said about hers. The model resumes her pose with slight differences; the paper bags are put away, pipes are knocked out; the promising pupil is calculating the area of a rectangle. The scene changes to 158 PONT STREET. THE LONDON HOUSE OF MR. CHARLES AND LADY ROSEMARY QUEST. An interior is revealed in which the producers have at last made some attempt to satisfy the social expectations of Gladys and Ada. It is true that there is very little marble and no footmen in powder and breeches, but there is nevertheless an undoubted air of grandeur about the high rooms and Louis Seize furniture, and there is a footman. The young man from Cambridge estimates the household at six thousand a year, and though somewhat overgenerous, it is a reasonable guess. Lady Rosemary’s collection of Limoges can be seen in the background. Upstairs in her bedroom Imogen Quest is telephoning. “What a lovely Kimony, Ada.” Miss Philbrick comes into the upper studio at Maltby’s, where Adam is at last beginning to take some interest in his drawing. “MISS QUEST WANTS TO SPEAK TO YOU ON THE TELEPHONE, MR. DOURE. I told her that it was against the rules for students to use the telephone except in the luncheon hour” (there is always a pathetic game of make-believe at Maltby’s played endlessly by Miss Philbrick and old Mr. Maltby, in which they pretend that somewhere there is a code of rules which all must observe), “but she says that it is most important. I do wish you would ask your friends not to ring you up in the mornings.” Adam puts down his charcoal and follows her to the office. There over the telephone is poor Miss Philbrick’s notice written in the script writing she learned at night classes in Southampton Row. “Students are forbidden to use the telephone during working hours.” “Good morning, Imogen.” “Yes, quite safely—very tired though.” “I can’t, Imogen—for one thing I haven’t the money.” “No, you can’t afford it either. Anyway, I’m dining with Lady R. tonight. You can tell me then, surely?” “Why not?” “Who lives there?” “Not that awful Basil Hay?” “Well, perhaps he is.” “I used to meet him at Oxford sometimes.” “WELL, IF YOU’RE SURE YOU CAN PAY I’LL COME TO LUNCHEON WITH YOU.” “WHY THERE? IT’S FRIGHTFULLY EXPENSIVE.” “STEAK TARTARE—WHAT’S THAT?” The Cambridge voice explains, “Quite raw, you know, with olives and capers and vinegar and things.” “My dear, you’ll turn into a werewolf.” “I should love it if you did.” “Yes, I’m afraid I am getting a little morbid.” “One-ish. Please don’t be too late—I’ve only three-quarters of an hour.” “Good-bye, Imogen.” So much of the forbidden conversation is audible to Miss Philbrick. Adam returns to the studio and draws a few heavy and insensitive lines. He rubs at them but they still show up grubbily in the pores of the paper. He tears up his drawing; old Mr. Maltby remonstrates; young Mr. Maltby is explaining the construction of the foot and does not look up. Adam attempts another drawing. Close up of Adam’s drawing. “’E’s thinking of ’er.” Unerring Ada! “These films would be so much more convincing if they would only employ decent draughtsmen to do the hero’s drawings for him—don’t you think?” Bravo, the cultured bourgeoisie! TWELVE O’CLOCK. There is a repetition of all the excursions of eleven o’clock. The promising pupil is working out the ratio of two cubes. The girl who has been learning the construction of the foot comes over to him and looks over his shoulder; he starts violently and loses count. Adam takes his hat and stick and goes out. Adam on a bus. Adam studying Poussin at the National Gallery. Close up of Adam studying Poussin. “’E’s thinking of ’er.” The clock of St. Martin-in-the-Fields strikes one. Adam leaves the National Gallery. TEN MINUTES PAST ONE. THE DINING ROOM OF THE RESTAURANT DE LA TOUR DE FORCE. Enter Adam; he looks round but as he had expected, Imogen has not yet arrived. He sits down at a table laid for two and waits. Though not actually in Soho, the Tour de Force gives unmistakably an impression half cosmopolitan, half theatrical, which Ada would sum up in the word “Bo’emian.” The tables are well spaced and the wines are excellent though extremely costly. Adam orders some sherry and waits, dividing his attention between the door through which Imogen will enter and the contemplation of a middle-aged political lawyer of repute who at the next table is trying to keep amused a bored and exquisitely beautiful youth of eighteen. QUARTER TO TWO. Enter Imogen. The people at the other tables say, “Look, there’s Imogen Quest. I can’t see what people find in her, can you?” or else, “I wonder who that is. Isn’t she attractive?” “My dear, I’m terribly late. I am sorry. I’ve had the most awful morning shopping with Lady R.” She sits down at the table. “You haven’t got to rush back to your school, have you? Because I’m never going to see you again. The most awful thing has happened—you order lunch, Adam. I’m very hungry. I want to eat a steak tartare and I don’t want to drink anything.” Adam orders lunch. “LADY R. SAYS I’M SEEING TOO MUCH OF YOU. ISN’T IT TOO AWFUL?” Gladys at last is quite at home. The film has been classified. Young love is being thwarted by purse-proud parents. Imogen waves aside a wagon of hors d’oeuvre. “We had quite a scene. She came into my room before I was up and wanted to know all about last night. Apparently she heard me come in. And, oh Adam, I can’t tell you what dreadful things she’s been saying about you. My dear, what an odd luncheon—you’ve ordered everything I most detest.” Adam drinks soup. “THAT’S WHY I’M BEING SENT OFF TO THATCH THIS AFTERNOON. And Lady R. is going to talk to you seriously tonight. She’s put Mary and Andrew off so that she can get you alone. Adam, how can you expect me to eat all this? and you haven’t ordered yourself anything to drink.” Adam eats an omelette alone. Imogen crumbles bread and talks to him. “But, my dear, you mustn’t say anything against Basil because I simply adore him, and he’s got the loveliest, vulgarest mother—you’d simply love her.” The steak tartare is wheeled up and made before them. Close up; a dish of pulverized and bleeding meat: hands pouring in immoderate condiments. “Do you know, Adam, I don’t think I do want this after all. It reminds me so of Henry.” HALF PAST TWO. Adam has finished luncheon. “SO YOU SEE, DEAR, WE SHALL NEVER, NEVER MEET AGAIN—PROPERLY I MEAN. Isn’t it just too like Lady R. for words.” Imogen stretches out her hand across the table and touches Adam’s. Close up; Adam’s hand, a signet ring on the little finger and a smudge of paint on the inside of the thumb. Imogen’s hand—very white and manicured—moves across the screen and touches it. Gladys gives a slight sob. “YOU DON’T MIND TOO DREADFULLY—DO YOU, ADAM?” Adam does mind—very much indeed. He has eaten enough to be thoroughly sentimental. The Restaurant de la Tour de Force is nearly empty. The political barrister has gone his unregenerate way; the waiters stand about restlessly. Imogen pays the bill and they rise to go. “Adam, you must come to Euston and see me off. We can’t part just like this—for always, can we? Hodges is meeting me there with the luggage.” They get into a taxi. Imogen puts her hand in his and they sit like this for a few minutes without speaking. Then Adam leans towards her and they kiss. Close up: Adam and Imogen kissing. There is a tear (which finds a ready response in Ada and Gladys, who sob uncontrollably) in Adam’s eye; Imogen’s lips luxuriously disposed by the pressure. “Like the Bronzino Venus.” “IMOGEN, YOU NEVER REALLY CARED, DID YOU? IF YOU HAD YOU WOULDN’T GO AWAY LIKE THIS. IMOGEN, DID YOU EVER CARE—REALLY?” “HAVEN’T I GIVEN PROOF THAT I DID. Adam dear, why will you always ask such tiresome questions. Don’t you see how impossible it all is? We’ve only about five minutes before we reach Euston.” They kiss again. Adam says, “Damn Lady R.” They reach Euston. Hodges is waiting for them. She has seen about the luggage; she has seen about tickets; she has even bought magazines; there is nothing to be done. Adam stands beside Imogen waiting for the train to start; she looks at a weekly paper. “Do look at this picture of Sybil. Isn’t it odd? I wonder when she had it taken.” The train is about to start. She gets into the carriage and holds out her hand. “Good-bye, darling. You will come to mother’s dance in June, won’t you? I shall be miserable if you don’t. Perhaps we shall meet before then. Good-bye.” The train moves out of the station. Close up. Imogen in the carriage studying the odd photograph of Sybil. Adam on the platform watching the train disappear. Fade out. “Well, Ada, what d’you think of it?” “Fine.” “It is curious the way that they can never make their heroes and heroines talk like ladies and gentlemen—particularly in moments of emotion.” A QUARTER OF AN HOUR LATER. Adam is still at Euston, gazing aimlessly at a bookstall. The various prospects before him appear on the screen. Maltby’s. The anthracite stove, the model, the amorous student—(“the Vamp”), the mathematical student, his own drawing. Dinner at home. His father, his mother, Parsons, his sister with her stupid, pimply face and her dull jealousy of all Imogen said and did and wore. Dinner at Pont Street, head to head with Lady Rosemary. Dinner by himself at some very cheap restaurant in Soho. And always at the end of it, Solitude and the thought of Imogen. Close up: Adam registering despair gradually turning to resolution. Adam on a bus going to Hanover Gate. He walks to his home. Parsons. Parsons opens the door. Mrs. Doure is out; Miss Jane is out; no, Adam does not want any tea. Adam’s room. It is a rather charming one, high at the top of the house, looking over the trees. At full moon the animals in the Zoological Gardens can be heard from there. Adam comes in and locks the door. Gladys is there already. “Suicide, Ada.” “Yes, but she’ll come in time to stop ’im. See if she don’t.” “Don’t you be too sure. This is a queer picture, this is.” He goes to his desk and takes a small blue bottle from one of the pigeon holes. “What did I tell yer? Poison.” “The ease with which persons in films contrive to provide themselves with the instruments of death ...” He puts it down, and taking out a sheet of paper writes. “Last message to ’er. Gives ’er time to come and save ’im. You see.” “AVE IMPERATRIX IMMORTALIS, MORITURUS TE SALUTANT.” Exquisitely written. He folds it, puts it in an envelope and addresses it. Then he pauses, uncertain. A vision appears: The door of Adam’s room. Mrs. Doure, changed for dinner, comes up to it and knocks; she knocks repeatedly, and in dismay calls for her husband. Professor Doure tries the door and shakes it. Parsons arrives and Jane. After some time the door is forced open; all the time Professor Doure is struggling with it, Mrs. Doure’s agitation increases. Jane makes futile attempts to calm her. At last they all burst into the room. Adam is revealed lying dead on the floor. Scene of unspeakable vulgarity involving tears, hysteria, the telephone, the police. Fade out. Close up. Adam registering disgust. Another vision: A native village in Africa on the edge of the jungle; from one of the low thatch huts creeps a man naked and sick to death, his wives lamenting behind him. He drags himself into the jungle to die alone. “Lor, Gladys. Instruction.” Another vision: Rome in the time of Petronius. A young patrician reclines in the centre of his guests. The producers have spared no effort in creating an atmosphere of superb luxury. The hall, as if in some fevered imagining of Alma Tadema, is built of marble, richly illumined by burning Christians. From right and left barbarian slave boys bring in a course of roasted peacocks. In the centre of the room a slave girl dances to a puma. Exit several of the guests to the vomitorium. Unborn pigs stewed in honey and stuffed with truffles and nightingales’ tongues succeed the peacocks. The puma, inflamed to sudden passion, springs at the girl and bears her to the ground; he stands over her, one paw planted upon her breast from which ooze tiny drops of blood. She lies there on the Alma Tadema marble, her eyes fixed upon the host in terrified appeal. But he is toying with one of the serving boys and does not notice her. More guests depart to the vomitorium. The puma devours the girl. At length, when the feast is at its height, a basin of green marble is borne in. Water, steaming and scented, is poured into it. The host immerses his hand, and a Negro woman who, throughout the banquet has crouched like some angel of death beside his couch, draws a knife from her loin cloth and buries it deep in his wrist. The water becomes red in the green marble. The guests rise to go, and with grave courtesy, though without lifting himself from the couch, he bids them each farewell. Soon he is left alone. The slave boys huddle together in the corners, their bare shoulders pressed against each other. Moved by savage desire, the Negress begins suddenly to kiss and gnaw the deadening arm. He motions her listlessly aside. The martyrs burn lower until there is only a faint glimmer of light in the great hall. The smell of cooking drifts out into the terrace and is lost on the night air. The puma can just be discerned licking its paws in the gloom. Adam lights a pipe and taps restlessly with the corner of the envelope on the writing table. Then he puts the bottle in his pocket and unlocks the door. He turns and walks over to his bookshelves and looks through them. Adam’s bookshelves; it is rather a remarkable library for a man of his age and means. Most of the books have a certain rarity and many are elaborately bound; there are also old books of considerable value given him from time to time by his father. He makes a heap on the floor of the best of them. MR. MACASSOR’S BOOKSHOP. There is about Mr. Macassor’s bookshop the appearance of the private library of an ancient and unmethodical scholar. Books are everywhere, on walls, floor and furniture, as though laid down at some interruption and straightway forgotten. First editions and early illustrated books lie hidden among Sermons and Blue Books for the earnest adventurer to find. Mr. Macassor hides his treasures with care. An elderly man is at the moment engaged in investigating a heap of dusty volumes while Mr. Macassor bends longingly over the table engrossed in a treatise on Alchemy. Suddenly the adventurer’s back straightens; his search has been rewarded and he emerges into the light, bearing a tattered but unquestionably genuine copy of the first edition of “Hydrotaphia.” He asks Mr. Macassor the price. Mr. Macassor adjusts his spectacles and brushes some snuff from his waistcoat and, bearing the book to the door, examines it as if for the first time. “Ah, yes, a delightful work. Yes, yes, marvellous style,” and he turns the pages fondly, “‘The large stations of the dead,’ what a noble phrase.” He looks at the cover and wipes it with his sleeve. “Why, I had forgotten I had this copy. It used to belong to Horace Walpole, only someone has stolen the bookplate—the rascal. Still, it was only the Oxford one—the armorial one, you know. Well, well, sir, since you have found it I suppose you have the right to claim it. Five guineas, shall I say. But I hate to part with it.” The purchaser is a discerning man. Had he seen this same book baldly described in a catalogue he would not have paid half this price for it in its present condition, but the excitement of pursuit and the pride of discovery more even than the legends of Strawberry Hill have distorted his sense of values. One cannot haggle with Mr. Macassor as with some mere tradesman in Charing Cross Road. The purchaser pays and goes away triumphant. It is thus that Mr. Macassor’s son at Magdalen is able to keep his rooms full of flowers and, during the season, to hunt two days a week. Enter Adam from a taxi laden with books. Mr. Macassor offers him snuff from an old tortoiseshell box. “IT’S A SAD THING TO HAVE TO SELL BOOKS, MR. DOURE. Very sad. I remember as if it was yesterday, Mr. Stevenson coming in to me to sell his books, and will you believe it, Mr. Doure, when it came to the point, after we had arranged everything, his heart failed him and he took them all away again. A great book-lover, Mr. Stevenson.” Mr. Macassor adjusts his spectacles and examines, caressingly, but like some morbid lover fastening ghoulishly upon every imperfection. “Well, and how much were you expecting for these?” Adam hazards, “Seventeen pounds,” but Mr. Macassor shakes his head sadly. Five minutes later he leaves the shop with ten pounds and gets into his taxi. PADDINGTON STATION. Adam in the train to Oxford; smoking, his hands deep in his overcoat pockets. “’E’s thinking of ’er.” OXFORD. KNOW YOU HER SECRET NONE CAN UTTER; HERS OF THE BOOK, THE TRIPLE CROWN? Art title showing Book and Triple Crown; also Ox in ford. General prospect of Oxford from the train showing reservoir, gas works and part of the prison. It is raining. The station; two Indian students have lost their luggage. Resisting the romantic appeal of several hansom cabdrivers—even of one in a grey billycock hat, Adam gets into a Ford taxi. Queen Street, Carfax, the High Street, Radcliffe Camera in the distance. “Look, Ada, St. Paul’s Cathedral.” King Edward Street. The cab stops and Adam gets out. LORD BASINGSTOKE’S ROOMS. KING EDWARD STREET. Interior of Lord Basingstoke’s rooms. On the chimneypiece are photographs of Lord Basingstoke’s mother and two of Lord Basingstoke’s friends, wearing that peculiarly inane and serene smile only found during the last year at Eton and then only in photographs. Some massive glass paper weights and cards of invitation. On the walls are large coloured caricatures of Basil Hay drawn by himself at Eton, an early nineteenth-century engraving of Lord Basingstoke’s home; two unfinished drawings by Ernest Vaughan of the Rape of the Sabines and a wool picture of two dogs and a cat. Lord Basingstoke, contrary to all expectation, is neither drinking, gaming, nor struggling with his riding boots; he is engaged on writing a Collections Paper for his tutor. Lord Basingstoke’s paper in a pleasant, childish handwriting. “BRADLAUGH v. GOSSETT. THIS FAMOUS TEST CASE FINALLY ESTABLISHED THE DECISION THAT MARSHAL LAW IS UNKNOWN IN ENGLAND.” He crosses out “marshal” and puts “martial”; then sits biting his pen sadly. “Adam, how lovely; I had no idea you were in Oxford.” They talk for a little while. “RICHARD, CAN YOU DINE WITH ME TONIGHT. YOU MUST. I’M HAVING A FAREWELL BLIND.” Richard looks sadly at his Collections Paper and shakes his head. “My dear, I simply can’t. I’ve got to get this finished by tonight. I’m probably going to be sent down as it is.” Adam returns to his taxi. MR. SAYLE’S ROOMS IN MERTON. Flowers, Medici prints and Nonesuch Press editions. Mr. Sayle is playing “L’Après midi d’un Faun” on the gramophone to an American aunt. He cannot dine with Adam. MR. HENRY QUEST’S ROOMS IN THE UGLIER PART OF MAGDALEN. The furniture provided by the College has been little changed except for the addition of some rather repulsive cushions. There are photographs of Imogen, Lady Rosemary and Mr. Macassor’s son winning the Magdalen Grind. Mr. Henry Quest has just given tea to two freshmen; he is secretary of the J.C.R. His face, through the disability of the camera, looks nearly black, actually it forms a patriotic combination with his Bullingdon tie; he has a fair moustache. Adam enters and invites him to dinner. Henry Quest does not approve of his sister’s friends; Adam cannot stand Imogen’s brother; they are always scrupulously polite to each other. “I’M SORRY, ADAM, THERE’S A MEETING OF THE CHATHAM HERE TONIGHT. I SHOULD HAVE LOVED TO, OTHERWISE. Stay and have a cigarette, won’t you? Do you know Mr. Trehearne and Mr. Bickerton-Gibbs?” Adam cannot stop, he has a taxi waiting. Henry Quest excuses his intrusion to Messrs. Trehearne and Bickerton-Gibbs. MR. EGERTON-VERSCHOYLE’S ROOMS IN PECKWATER. Mr. Egerton-Verschoyle has been entertaining to luncheon. Adam stirs him with his foot; he turns over and says: “There’s another in the cupboard—corkscrew’s behind the thing, you know ...” and trails off into incoherence. MR. FURNESS’S ROOMS IN THE NEXT STAIRCASE. They are empty and dark. Mr. Furness has been sent down. MR. SWITHIN LANG’S ROOMS IN BEAUMONT STREET. Furnished in white and green. Water colours by Mr. Lang of Wembley, Mentone and Thatch. Some valuable china and a large number of magazines. A coloured and ornamented decanter of Cointreau on the chimneypiece and some gold-beaded glasses. The remains of a tea party are scattered about the room, and the air is heavy with cigarette smoke. Swithin, all in grey, is reading the Tatler. Enter Adam; effusive greetings. “Adam, do look at this photograph of Sybil Anderson. Isn’t it too funny?” Adam has seen it. They sit and talk for some time. “Swithin, you must come and dine with me tonight—please.” “Adam, I can’t. Gabriel’s giving a party in Balliol. Won’t you be there? Oh no, of course, you don’t know him, do you? He came up last term—such a dear, and so rich. I’m giving some people dinner first at the Crown. I’d ask you to join us, only I don’t honestly think you’d like them. It is a pity. What about tomorrow? Come over to dinner at Thame tomorrow.” Adam shakes his head. “I’m afraid I shan’t be here,” and goes out. AN HOUR LATER. Still alone, Adam is walking down the High Street. It has stopped raining and the lights shine on the wet road. His hand in his pocket fingers the bottle of poison. There appears again the vision of the African village and the lamenting wives. St. Mary’s clock strikes seven. Suddenly Adam’s step quickens as he is struck by an idea. MR. ERNEST VAUGHAN’S ROOMS. Adam leans against the side of the door watching him. Close up; Adam bears on his face the same expression of blind misery that he wore in the taxi the night before. LE VIN TRISTE. Ernest has asked the waitress from the Crown to dance with him. It is an ungainly performance; still sublimely contented he collides with several couples, misses his footing and, but for his partner, would have fallen. An M.C. in evening dress asks Adam to take him away. Broad stone steps. Several motors are drawn up outside the Town Hall. Ernest climbs into the first of them—a decrepit Ford—and starts the engine. Adam attempts to stop him. A policeman hurries up. There is a wrenching of gears and the car starts. The policeman blows his whistle. Halfway down St. Aldates the car runs into the kerb, mounts the pavement and runs into a shop window. The inhabitants of St. Aldates converge from all sides; heads appear at every window; policemen assemble. There is a movement in the crowd to make way for something being carried out. Adam turns and wanders aimlessly towards Carfax. St. Mary’s clock strikes twelve. It is raining again. Adam is alone. HALF AN HOUR LATER. AN HOTEL BEDROOM. Adam is lying on his face across the bed, fully clothed. He turns over and sits up. Again the vision of the native village; the savage has dragged himself very near to the edge of the jungle. His back glistens in the evening sun with his last exertion. He raises himself to his feet, and with quick unsteady steps reaches the first bushes; soon he is lost to view. Adam steadies himself at the foot of the bed and walks to the dressing table; he leans for a long time looking at himself in the glass. He walks to the window and looks out into the rain. Finally he takes the blue bottle from his pocket, uncorks it, smells it, and then without more ado drinks its contents. He makes a wry face at its bitterness and stands for a minute uncertain. Then moved by some odd instinct he turns out the light and curls himself up under the coverlet. At the foot of a low banyan tree the savage lies very still. A large fly settles on his shoulder; two birds of prey perch on the branch above him, waiting. The tropical sun begins to set, and in the brief twilight animals begin to prowl upon their obscene questings. Soon it is quite dark. A photograph of H.M. the King in naval uniform flashes out into the nigh GOD SAVE THE KING. The cinema quickly empties. The young man from Cambridge goes his way to drink a glass of Pilsen at Odenino’s. Ada and Gladys pass out through ranks of liveried attendants. For perhaps the fiftieth time in the course of the evening Gladys says, “Well, I do call it a soft film.” “Fancy ’er not coming in again.” There is quite a crowd outside, all waiting to go to Earls Court. Ada and Gladys fight manfully and secure places on the top of the bus. “Ere, ’oo are yer pushing? Mind out, can’t yer?” When they arrive home they will no doubt have some cocoa before going to bed, and perhaps some bread and bloater paste. It has been rather a disappointing evening on the whole. Still, as Ada says, with the pictures you has to take the bad with the good. Next week there may be something really funny. Larry Semon or Buster Keaton—who knows? “Well, I think it’s perfectly beastly of you all. But I will meet him all the same. I’ll get Adam to arrange it.” The table was ruined. “Edwards, I think it’s almost fine enough to have coffee outside.” |
