This Was Tomorrow (11 page)

“Do you think you can do any better than Virginia can in Curzon Street?”

“Evadne and I are very close. We understand each other. I shall see much more of her than if I am living at home and she is in Curzon Street. Besides, when that lease is up she’ll go back to Farthingale and we shall be quite out of touch.”

“And you think you can fend Victor off?”

“I do, indeed,” said Hermione with confidence.

“Well, maybe,” said Jeff. “But I don’t think much of it as a scheme, all the same.”

“I’m perfectly certain her only interest in Victor so far is that she wants to change him,” said Hermione. “He’s good-looking, of course, and he’s making a dead set at her. On the other hand, he can be very useful if we handle it right. And if we should go to Germany—”

“
No
,” said Jeff. “Not that. You’ll go to Germany over my dead body.”

“The Olympics start this winter,” Hermione went on, unmoved. “At Garmisch-Partenkirchen. We thought that would be a good time to begin. And meanwhile we mean to brush up our German. Victor says he will help with that. But you can depend on it”—her small white teeth showed—“I shall keep him in his place. I don’t intend to lose Evadne now to the first man who proposes to her.”

“Mm-hm,” said Jeff thoughtfully. “And of course Mark might have something to say to that too.”

“Mark is no exception,” said Hermione. “She doesn’t want to marry Mark, and she isn’t going to.”

“Oh,” said Jeff, and gave her a long, speculative look.

“I suppose you will do just as you like about putting in a word for us in the matter of the flat, but I would thank you not to interfere, at least. For some reason your opinion always seems to have a good deal of weight with the family. Shall we go in now, and hear what happened at Cleeve?”

They moved slowly towards the house, Mab lagging behind, feeling forgotten, her precious time with Jeff quite spoilt. She and Jeff had hardly begun to talk, when Hermione came up to them. Sylvia had sent some more books and pictures, and there was a map of the streets of Williamsburg, like a bird’s-eye view, with trees and houses showing—the old houses and the ones the Rockefeller people had restored with loving care. Mab had half-hypnotized herself with it, poring over each separate legend and number, and she wanted to discuss with Jeff the
strange, creepy feeling, which anyone else might laugh at, a feeling that she could
remember
things as though she had been there—that things had been left out of the map which might have been included, that she already knew inside herself like a memory how the Palace Green lay in the sun between two rows of
trees with the wrought-iron gates beyond, and how a little lane, not drawn on the map, must have led away to the left of the Capitol Building to—what? Why did it seem that if you walked the length of the Duke of Gloucester Street to where it ended at the Capitol—did it end? Why did you want to go on? What lay
behind,
and to the left? A river—deep, tall trees—damp ground—a railing—steps going down to water—as though she had dreamed it. There was something
beyond.
And back of the Raleigh Tavern, rebuilt on its original site, the book said—was there a green lawn?—was it a garden?—what did you see if you went out the side door of the Tavern?—if you went where the map was blank…. She had perpetually a groping past the edges of the map. There was
more.
And the longing to go there and see it for herself was growing. She wanted it more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. Jeff understood about that, somehow. Jeff would always listen, and try to answer questions. Sometimes he asked her why she asked this or that, and she never knew. Sometimes he looked at her rather a long time before he spoke. Sometimes it was rather as though he was—sorry for her. Why? And now this chance to talk to him was gone, because of Hermione.

And Jeff, pacing beside Hermione with the blue delphiniums brushing his sleeve, was turning over a new worry in his mind. Wouldn’t it be very bad for Evadne, overstrung and emotional already, to share a flat with anyone as moody and domineering and possessive as Hermione, however Changed Hermione was supposed to be? Virginia said there were lapses, as he himself had seen. He would have to speak to Virginia. But Evadne was twenty-one, and Hermione had her own money. There was no way to stop them. There was no way, either, to prevent them from going to Garmisch for the Winter
Games. Of course, he could probably manage to turn up there himself and keep an eye on them. Hermione’s hateful phrase. And it was not an inviting prospect, to chaperon two headstrong girl cousins in Nazi Germany.

D
EAR
S
YLVIE
,

Tomorrow I am joining Bracken in Geneva, to learn about sanctions in this Abyssinian war. So much for Stresa and all the other pacts. Even now a little firmness and forcefulness on our part might put on the brakes, might make them think twice. But when Italy walked out of the League it left Aloisi’s empty chair beside the empty chair which was Germany’s. The line has been drawn, with Mussolini on the other side of it. We expect to be back in London for the General Election in November. It will be Baldwin, of course, MacDonald is through. Baldwin is a bit of a granny, but Eden may stiffen him up.

So it is just a year ago that I was in Williamsburg, when we got the news about Alexander and Barthou. Maybe you think I have forgotten the rest of the things that happened in Williamsburg during those few days I spent there. Well, you’re wrong. I suppose you will spend this Christmas in New York, doubtless playing a matinée. Dear Sylvie, I ramble on like this, saying futile, impersonal, cold-blooded things on paper, but don’t you believe a word of it. I can still see you standing there in the doorway of Aunt Sue’s parlour—you laid fresh flowers across my hands and you said brides were prettier than me—a very bitter truth—and you kissed me. Your hands are cool and firm, and you are not easily dismayed. I would rather be with you this minute, wherever you are—let’s see, it must be about the end of the first act—than in heaven. And if the time ever comes when I can find my way to you
freely, without crossing an ocean or a continent, whenever I feel the way I do tonight, they can have heaven, I won’t need it.

You ask about little Mab. They talk of sending her to a girls’ school in Sussex, and she dreads it. I took my foot in my hand and spoke to her mother, who was polite and pretty impervious. She says all girls hate the idea of school and then like it once they get there, but I am unconvinced. Mab will go right on hating it, and Virginia agrees with me and is going to do what she can to keep Miss Sim on the job a little longer. A perfectly competent woman, I am told, for all her mousiness and that perpetual sniff. I’m always having to speak to somebody about something for somebody, I don’t see why I always qualify for that kind of thing. What’s more, I wasn’t able to head Evadne off from that flat in Bayswater either. She and Hermione are firmly established there until January, when the Adams woman returns to London to reclaim it. After which they still intend to go to Germany for the Winter Games, wearing shining armour, no doubt, and riding white steeds ’midst snow and ice, under a banner with a strange device—
Excelsior!
(Longfellow.) And
I shall probably find it my duty to go along and Speak to them some more….

D
EAR
S
YLVIE
,

Well, it’s a great show, I’ll say that for it. Snowy Alps—illuminations—rosy girls in becoming ski costumes—bob-sled races, very risky—Sonja Henie’s skating, very beautiful—polite friendly Germans everywhere. The
Jews-
Unwanted
signs have all been taken down in Garmisch to spare the feelings of the visitors. All the best accommodations have been reserved for the Nazi officials, and the Press has been relegated to particularly uncomfortable
pensions.
When
Johnny commented on this, without exaggeration, he was bitterly denounced by the censorship. One highly intelligent American newspaper man has remarked on the interesting fact that there seems to be no Opposition to the present régime! The Opposition is at Dachau, which is a concentration camp not far away. No visitors at Dachau.

Victor was allowed—perhaps I should say assigned—to be present with our party, and has behaved remarkably well, considering, and of course does himself proud on skis, etc. Evadne is pretty enchanted with him, and has persuaded him to attend several of their meetings in London, though he hasn’t surrendered—yet. Of course the Cause will never get going here, as it recognizes a Power higher than Hitler’s, which will never be a popular idea to entertain in Nazi Germany. The main danger is that its earnest and Absolutely Honest sponsors (mostly crusading English, like our Evadne) will be made use of, duped, and played up, merely to drag a red herring across the mounting evidence of Germany’s plans for aggression. And if the members ever really did control England’s policy, which they won’t, but if they
did,
the whole country would sit there, starry-eyed and talkative, while the German army marched in. Moreover, if the Germans are allowed or encouraged to convince themselves (as they would like to) that all England thinks the same way, they are much more likely to try something than if they saw England rearming as though it meant business.

We can’t but hope that now with a young King on the English throne and a new Government we may see a general stiffening of policy—though, mind you, there were no flies on George V, whatever his ministers might have to answer for, and which is going to be quite a lot, if the present trend continues. Here I go again, at the wailing wall. But I have just heard—unofficially—that Ribbentrop will be the next German ambassador to London, and I’m feeling a little queasy.

The relatively simple family affairs can wait till you get to London now. We will have a long day together and talk them out endwise. Mab has escaped school for another year, anyway,
and will go on as she is, with Miss Sim. I would hate to see her wearing a school tunic and hat-band and carrying a hockey-stick, somehow. Hermione’s conversion to the Absolute This-and-Thats didn’t really take, though her conversation is studded with its maddening idiom. She goes in for all the showy parts—doing elaborate favours for people and making sure they notice it, owning up handsomely to complicated peccadilloes no one had thought twice about, etc. But the she-leopard has not changed her spots. She would still like to see me hanging from a lamp-post, especially as she knows I don’t consider her any sort of good to Evadne. What she calls keeping an eye on things is no more than the most cannibalistic interference with Evadne’s life in every way.

As their lease on Miss Adams’ flat was up in January, before they left England they arranged to take another, on the floor above, and have settled in there for an apparently indefinite period of time. The family disapproved, but Evadne got one of her obstinate streaks and passionately defended Hermione from a hostile world in all directions. She is the only person who has ever been able to stick Hermione at all, and that’s mostly because she has this noble idea of loving everybody in spite of themselves and seeing good in everything—(“D’ya see good in the dark?”—forgive me, but I can always get a laugh out of that one)—and the result is that Hermione, who has done nothing to earn such fanatic devotion, has fastened on to it like a leech. It’s all very well for her to act as dragon chaperon between Evadne and people like Victor—if there are any more like him—but if she keeps on she will prevent the poor girl from having any jolly little love affairs with ordinary harmless young men, or even any other female companionship. So far Evadne doesn’t seem to mind, or to notice that Hermione’s possessiveness puts people off. But the time will come, or ought to, when she will realize that she’s missing something. Or else someone will have to tell her.
Not
me.

The minute you know your sailing date cable Bracken’s office in London. I shall fly—probably quite literally—to meet you at Southampton….

ARRIVING SOUTHAMPTON AQUITANIA MARCH SEVENTH STOP
STEVIE SAYS PLEASE HAVE INTERPRETER MEET US ON DOCK
STOP MYSELF WOULD PREFER JEFF STOP LOVE

SYLVIA
  

N
OT
ONLY
J
EFF
, but Bracken himself motored down to Southampton that grey March day. They went aboard with a pass and found Sylvia and Stephen hanging over the rail gazing sentimentally in entirely the wrong direction. Various other members of the company were also on board, and there was a great deal of excitement all round.

The main item of Sylvia’s luggage proved to be an elegant gladstone bag with a zippered closing which contained not jewellery but a small chromium cage with a fitted flannel cover, housing the canary named Midge which had been presented to her by an admirer on the night of the New York opening a year ago. Jeff and Bracken had of course heard about Midge, who was green with a yellow cap and tummy, but had not anticipated that he would accompany the show to London. Sylvia at once assured them that Midge went everywhere and was an excellent traveller—the only thing was, he must never be in a draught. The gladstone bag also carried his toiletries and provisions, and his large chromium cage, where he lived when not travelling, had a specially-made case of its own which accompanied Sylvia’s other luggage wherever it went. He didn’t sing loud, she explained, he was an alto Roller, very muted and sweet.

Bracken finally succeeded in detaching his cousins from their talkative fellow voyagers, expedited them through the customs, and handed them into a big black Daimler, chauffeur-driven, which waited at the end of the dock.

“Golly!” said Sylvia, round-eyed and impressed. “Now I know how it feels to be Royalty! Where’s the band?”

“Never satisfied,” said Stephen. “Now she wants
God
Save
the
Queen!”

Jeff sat silent in the folding seat facing Sylvia in her corner. His inner happiness was the cosiest thing he had ever known, and required no expression at present beyond the privilege of gazing at her. When she looked back at him their eyes clung, and hers were always the first to turn away, and a little smile, secret and content, deepened the corners of her mouth—a generous mouth, perfectly made up, with curving lips, the lower one fuller than the upper one, like his mother’s. Sylvia was his mother’s niece, he recalled, tracing the resemblance anew. It made them first cousins. Another Better-not. But it was good to see her again, serene and cherished and confident, as all the Sprague women were, so different from poor Hermione with her awkward heritage of inferiorities and jealousies and resentments, or from dear, foolish Evadne, youngest of Virginia’s vivid brood, still a baby when her father died in the war. Virginia had done all anyone could to bring her up intelligently, he was sure, but she was the child of upheaval and distress, always prone to dramatize, martyrize, and idolize, on the slightest provocation. Sylvia would be good for Evadne, Jeff was thinking. Much better than Hermione and the hectic atmosphere she seemed to engender wherever she went. If Evadne got a crush on Sylvia next, there might be some chance of pulling her together and making something of her. They must get her away from Hermione, that was the first thing. And from Victor, who was often at the flat, Jeff suspected. He decided to speak to Sylvia about Evadne at once. Here I go again, he thought ruefully. Always carrying the world on my shoulders. But Virginia is treed and admits it. A new interest for Evadne is indicated. She could learn a lot from Sylvia.
Maybe we could get her stage-struck, that would be a positive rest from what has been going on. And then, of course, there’s Mab, dying to know Sylvia too. Mab’s parents are so fascinated at having finally achieved a son, they’ve almost forgotten her, I’m afraid. That Miss Sim can’t be very cheerful company for a child like Mab, for all her worthiness. We must get Mab out more, take her to shows, take her for rides in the car, picnics, and so on—Sylvie will be good at that—it’s awkward Mab’s people living out at Sunningdale, involves such a lot of travel—perhaps they would ask Sylvia for a weekend at least, after the show settles down—but Virginia says they’re very self-absorbed, Irene and Ian—still in love with each other, that sort of thing—want to send Mab to school to get her out of the way, I shouldn’t wonder….

On the drive up to town Jeff and Bracken heard all about the new shoes. A fully rehearsed cast of principals had been brought over, to join a fully rehearsed chorus and a couple of new specialities. The theatre was ready, the scenery was built, they could whip into shape and open within a week or two. Bracken said that if nothing went wrong he would give them a first-night party. “Oh, Bracken, with
champagne?”
cried Sylvia, and Bracken said Certainly champagne, what kind of party did she think he meant. “But I’m afraid you will have to do without your tea now or we won’t get to Town in time for dinner,” he added. “Some of the family are coming tonight—those that are in London.”

He had got them rooms adjoining the suite that he and Dinah and Jeff occupied at the Savoy, which as their theatre was in the Strand would be handy, especially for late meals, a family weakness. If the show looked like running, he said, and nothing went wrong, they might look round for a flat or a small house in London to share during the coming summer.

“That’s the second time you’ve said that,” said Stephen. “What is likely to go wrong?”

“Hitler has reoccupied the Rhineland today,” said Bracken, and added into a rather blank silence, “His troops are marching into Cologne, and Mainz, and Düsseldorf this very minute.”

Sylvia sighed.

“I wish I wasn’t so ignorant,” she said. “I thought they were German towns.”

“The area along the Rhine was demilitarized by the Treaty of Versailles,” Bracken told her patiently. “The arrangement was confirmed at Locarno in ’25. We moved our troops out a few years ago, sooner than we were required by the treaty to do so—in the interests of goodwill. So now the German army has moved in. If France gets the wind-up they may start shooting.”

“What about England?”

“If the British Government has any sense at all, they will back up France. In fact, they will egg her on.”

“But that would mean—”

“War. Better a little war now than a big one later.
I
think Hitler would back down. Anyway, I’m flying to Paris tomorrow to see what Johnny knows.”

“Jeff too?” asked Sylvia in a small voice.

“I suppose you want me to leave Jeff here,” said Bracken with a grin. “All right—he’ll stay with Dinah. And I’ll try to get back for the first night if I can.”

“Thank you,” said Sylvia, and squeezed his arm.

Virginia had come up to Town especially to be on hand for their arrival, so she and Dinah were the first to greet them. Stephen saw his luggage into his room, heard Sylvia say there was just time for a bath before dinner, and then vanished. Later, when everyone had changed for dinner and gathered in Bracken’s sitting-room for cocktails, Stephen was still missing. Sylvia was not surprised.

“He’s gone round to look at the theatre,” she explained. “He always does that the first thing, in every new town. You never saw such a stage-struck boy.”

She was quite right, of course. Having inspected the theatre and the advance billing at the front of it from every angle, Stephen loitered back along the Strand, bought an evening paper, and digested the front-page news thoughtfully as he walked—
GERMAN TROOPS ENTER RHINELAND
—
Hurried
Talks
in
Paris
Follow
Breaking
of
Treaties—
and
re-entered the Savoy five minutes before the hour Bracken had set for dinner.

He approached the lifts with his leisurely amble, and as there was none waiting he pressed the bell and stepped back, consulting his paper again:
Hitler
today
smashed
the
Locarno
and
Versailles
treaties
by
sending
troops
into
the
demilitarized
zone
….
In
Berlin,
Hitler
handed
to
the
Ambassadors
of
Britain,
France,
Italy
and
Belgium,
the
guarantor
Powers,
a
note
which
said:
“The
Government
declare
themselves
liberated
from
the
obligations
imposed
upon
them
….”

There was a flurry of footsteps on his left, a waft of fresh perfume, and a very pretty girl in evening dress and something of a hurry pressed the lift bell and stood, the picture of impatience, watching the indicator as the car descended. Stephen surveyed her with interest and amusement. It was such an idiotic thing to do, pressing the bell, as though he would be standing there waiting for the lift, without having rung the bell himself. Women, God bless ’em. She was the prettiest girl he had seen in a long, long time. Carried herself. Knew where she was going. By the time the lift arrived he was sure she was the prettiest girl he would ever see in this life, and that it was essential to his peace of mind to know her name, to see her smile, to hear her speak—

The lift opened, with a clang of doors.

“Fourth floor, please,” said the girl, as she preceded Stephen into it.

It was Stephen’s floor too, so he said nothing. As the lift car rose she felt his eyes upon her and gave him a direct, cool look, and looked away. ’Scuse me for staring, Stephen thought. Well, I
was,
dammit, but this is special. This only happens once in a lifetime….

The car stopped at the fourth floor and the girl stepped out and turned to the right. Stephen followed and turned to the right, where Bracken’s rooms were. The girl stopped before one of the doors and raised her hand to knock.

“Allow me,” said Stephen, and laid hold of the knob,
trusting that the door would open before him, which it did—it was the door to Bracken’s sitting-room. The girl stood staring up at him, uncertain, a little suspicious, making no move to enter. “I’m Stephen. Which one of my cousins are you?” he grinned.

And then he did see her smile. It poured over him like sunshine, her eyes dazzled, her teeth shone, she radiated warmth and friendliness and delight. It left him more or less reeling against the door-post. From that moment Stephen was hopelessly, heedlessly, helplessly in love.

“I’m Evadne,” she said. “Welcome to London, Stephen.”

“Thank you,” he said, and kissed her parted, upturned lips. “London is wonderful,” he said.

Gradually the universe steadied under him and his presence of mind returned. Bracken put a drink into his hand, and he heard Evadne saying that Hermione had got a perfectly beastly cold and daren’t come out tonight.

“That’s a piece of luck,” said Jeff, and Evadne cried, “Jeff, how
can
you!” and explained that she would not have left Hermione, who really felt wretched, if Hermione had not urged her to come and find out what Bracken really thought about the news from the Rhineland.

About this time Sylvia suggested to Stephen that he go and put on a dinner-jacket like Bracken, and Stephen agreed that it would be a very good idea, and drifted away to his own room, carrying his second drink with him. During his actor’s quick change, things really began to come home to him. Evadne was the problem child, the pretty nitwit Jeff was always wanting to spank, the one who encouraged the Nazi attaché—Evadne was the girl who wrote those letters, the girl who referred to God on the most intimate terms. There must be some mistake. Not on his part, not on Evadne’s, of course. Everybody must be all wrong about her. He would prove that they were wrong, Evadne was the girl he was going to marry.

He sat a moment, holding one slim polished shoe, while it sank in. Marry. It was not a word to use lightly. It was not a word he had ever had occasion to use before. But yes, he meant to marry Evadne, or go maimed and empty all his days. It was like lightning striking. No argument. Not from him, anyway. But from Evadne? He tried hastily to recall the references to her in Jeff’s letters to Sylvia—she always read him the bits about family matters and politics aloud.

There had been quite a lot about Evadne, one way and another, he felt, but he hadn’t paid attention because he had had no inkling that it would ever matter. He retained an impression, however, that she was always in hot water, and that made him grin, as he briskly tied the shoe. All right, so he’d get her out of it. A pleasure. Anything she wanted from now on, there he was, ready, willing, and able. Anything, that is, that God overlooked, he, Stephen, was prepared to tackle. As for the Nazi, trot him out, let’s have a look at him. Could he do this? (The slim, polished shoes tapped a rude tattoo on a bit of bare floor between two rugs.) Or this? (He tossed a shiny collar-button into the air and caught it behind him with the other hand in a flourish.) Olympics, eh. Muscle stuff. Beefy, no doubt. But was he fast? (The fresh black tie jerked neatly into a perfect bow.) Well, here’s the new show against the Olympics, Fritzie boy. Nothing quite like a first night, after all. A successful first night. And Pop doesn’t write failures, he never learned how. Just give me till the end of the first act, fella, and then watch your skis, you’re on a downhill run with a tree in the way….

Moving with that ambling gait of his which was less a walk than a slouch on springs in time to a rhythmic beat which only Stephen heard, he returned cheerfully to the room where the family had assembled. And Evadne, watching his easy, effortless entrance into a roomful of people who, even if they were family, were mostly strangers to him, and noting the way his eyes found her at once among the others, thought how unlike an actor he was, except for something electric in his mere presence, and how plain he was, long-jawed and bony, until
he smiled, and reminded herself that theatre people kissed everybody, and after all they were related….

He was coming towards her, alight with his spreading grin.

“Dinah is a honey,” he said. “She’s given me you at dinner, and it’s just what I wanted.”