Westwood (31 page)

One evening towards the end of April Mr Challis and Hilda, having dined early, were sitting in
Hyde Park. Mr Challis did not like Hyde Park at any time, and now, full as it was of American soldiers and A.A. sites and tarnished pewter barrage balloons and scraps of paper and dust, it affronted his soul, but Hilda had suggested that they should go there and get a breath of fresh air before they went home, and he had agreed.

He was in a dreamy but exultant mood. In a few nights
Kattë
, in all her warm, pathetic, helpless loveliness would glow before the dazzled and desirous (that was how Mr Challis put it to himself) eyes of men, and when
Kattë’s
fate had been decided, he would take Hilda to Kew and tell her of his fame and how she had inspired the masterpiece that was moving all London even to tears, and that he loved her. Meanwhile, he felt a sudden longing for her to see the play.

He turned towards her. She was observing the couples strolling past and commenting upon the girls’ stockings.

‘Pardon!’ she smiled, turning her head.

‘I asked if you were free next Wednesday evening.’

‘Why?’ inquired Hilda cautiously.

‘If you are not free, it is of no importance,’ and he turned to watch a passing car.

‘Now don’t be haughty. What’s it all about? Tell Mum.’

Many of Hilda’s expressions simply passed over Mr Challis’s head as if she were speaking a foreign language, because he was so enslaved by his imaginative conception of her character that he did not try to interpret what she said, but only received a general impression of its meaning, which was given charm by the freshness of her voice.

‘It is of no consequence. A friend of mine has written a play and I wanted you to see it, and tell me what you thought of it, that was all!’

That was all
. Only his masterpiece, built about the character of the girl at his side and ready to be laid at her feet! He felt that the situation called for a faint smile.

‘Fancy,’ said Hilda, patting away a yawn. ‘Excuse me. How clever of him, but I suppose someone has to write them. Is it a thriller?’

‘Not in the accepted contemporary sense of that word, but I hope that it may give the true
frisson
of pity and terror that purges an audience.’

Many of Mr Challis’s remarks passed over Hilda’s head on the foreign language principle, too, and she only received the impression that he was ever so highbrow.

‘What’s it about, then? (Just give me an idea and then we ought to be buzzing; it’s getting late.)’

‘It is about – a girl.’

‘Oh, one of those musicals.’

‘There is music in it, I hope, but not of the sort that is played upon instruments. This girl is a victim of her own power to charm.’

At that moment there were no couples strolling past, and Hilda was able to give her full attention to what Mr Challis was saying. She slowly turned her head as he finished speaking, and looked at him. Her suit was as blue as her eyes and her blouse of fragile white frills gave an impression of delicious freshness, but the look on her face was so
utterly
non-comprehending that a faint tremor assailed Mr Challis. He had expected
some
glimmer of understanding, however slight; he had felt that as she had suggested so many of the traits in
Kattë’s
character, she
must
instinctively feel a little of
Kattë’s
tragedy, for she herself would one day be the victim of her own power to charm, even as
Kattë
had been. (It may here be said that Mr Challis anticipated a sticky end of some sort for Hilda, based on his theory that nothing delightful lasted for long.)

‘What on earth do you mean?’ asked Hilda.

‘I mean,’ said Mr Challis, suppressing slight impatience, ‘that she cannot help men falling in love with her, and when it – er – this fact causes pain, suffering, she finally comes to loathe her own power.’

‘Whatever for?’ said Hilda, turning to study a passing pair of stockings.

‘Because she makes men suffer,’ said Mr Challis sombrely, gazing at her, ‘even as you do.’

‘I don’t do anything of the sort!’ she exclaimed indignantly, turning round. ‘My boys are always ever so cheery.’

‘Perhaps they suffer without your knowledge.’

‘Well, I can’t help that, can I?’

Mr Challis shook his head. ‘No, you cannot help it. Neither could she. That was her tragedy.’

‘What happened to her in the end? (Look here, we must be getting a move on, it’s after eight and I’m cold.)’

‘She killed herself,’ announced Mr Challis with dreary relish.

‘Well, it does sound a nice cheerful play, I must say. What a
mind
your friend must have!’ She stood up and smoothed her jacket. He stood up too, his disappointment written on his face. Hilda, with one of her rare friendly gestures, slipped her arm in his.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s walk fast and get warm. The matter with you is, Marcus, you think too much. You ought to be on the Brains Trust. Come on!’

The pressure of her firm young arm was so comforting and kind that for an instant he had a glimpse of another world than his own; a world where feelings were simpler and life was accepted rather than dissected; it was one of those tantalizing momentary releases from the prison of personality which excessively self-conscious people sometimes experience; and it had gone in an instant.

‘I should have known better than to tell you,’ he said at last. ‘I should have known that you would not understand. And I am content that you should not. It gives the situation an ironical symmetry.’

‘That’s all right, then,’ said Hilda, looking from left to right as they crossed the road. ‘But I shan’t be able to see your boy friend’s play. I’ve just remembered. I’ve got to go out on Wednesday.’

‘That does not matter. Any other evening –’

‘Oh, I suppose he can always get you seats because he wrote it. Well, I may as well get it off my chest, Marcus. I’d rather not see it, so that’s that!’

Mr Challis actually stood still and gazed incredulously at her.

‘You mean – you won’t come at all? Never?’ he said at last.

‘That’s right,’ she said cheerfully, walking on. He followed, unable to believe what he had heard.

‘My friend will be very disappointed,’ he said at last in a low voice.

‘Too bad about him, but there’s enough misery in the world, ’specially nowadays, without writing stuff like that.’

Mr Challis had recovered sufficiently to laugh.

‘My dear child, how little you understand! The world needs the purging power of great drama as never before.’

‘Well, I don’t, so your friend’s got another guess coming. This our taxi? Aren’t we lucky!’

She was completely unruffled during their journey homewards, for by now she took old Marcus for granted, continuing to go out with him every three weeks or so because he seemed to
like it and she did not find it too bad; she was also amused by the slight oddness of their relationship, her not knowing his other name or the number of his flat at High View, and so on; and she was also more flattered by his attentions and her mother’s remarks about prosperous and elderly admirers who Meant Business than she realized.

Mr Challis concealed his bitter disappointment and annoyance beneath his usual dignity. He was trying to listen to the voice of hurt vanity, which told him that Hilda was a common little girl without imagination, and silence the voice of love, which told him that she was a darling and forced him to admit that he would give up all his dignity and all his fame to have her kindness and her kisses.

There was not an empty seat in the house. Margaret leant her arms upon the green velvet of the balustrade and gazed down through the brilliant air into the stalls, where the party that had a warm personal interest for her was just settling into its seats. There was Mrs Challis, laughing and looking over her shoulder at the dark American soldier whom Margaret had met at Hampstead, and next to her sat Hebe in a pink and white dress that suited her pale dairymaid’s looks, and next to Hebe was the other American, Earl, and Hebe was letting him have too many of her dimples, thought Margaret; and why was she not sitting next to her husband, whose figure (so different from his father-in-law’s) was betrayed by tails and a white tie? He was the last of the row and sat gazing good-naturedly about him like a self-sufficient small boy at a party.

I don’t mean a thing to any of them, thought Margaret. They’re all very kind to me (except Hebe) but they wouldn’t notice if they never saw Struggles again. Still, if anyone had told me a year ago that I should go in and out of Gerard Challis’s house as I pleased, I simply wouldn’t have believed it, and I mustn’t expect too much. What a pretty theatre this is.

The jade-green, cherry-red and silver in which the theatre was decorated had nothing in common with that confused dark gold which glows forth from theatre interiors on the canvases of Sickert; indeed, one of the older dramatic critics had already observed that this place always made him think of a ladies’ hairdressing saloon; nevertheless, the colours and light made a silvery background for dresses which the many lovely women present had evidently put on in honour of Gerard Challis. The scene had not, of course, the brilliance of a pre-war first night at which the Smarty and the Arty were both represented, but there was a feeling of anticipation in the air, an excitement that expressed itself through the collective voice of the audience in a thrilling hum, while piercing through this steady background of sound came the gay sweetness of Viennese waltzes played by a small and perfect string orchestra.

‘Der music iss goot,’ said Zita, who had been listening intently. ‘Und you hear how they play as if dey are a machine. Thot is clever. I think thot is
his
idea – Mr Challis.’

‘How?’ breathed Margaret, half turning.

‘Yes. I think he mean the music to say – this woman
Kattë
is like a Viennese waltz; she iss so gay and lovely, but she is a nothing.’

Margaret nodded, looking at her and thinking how the vividness of her own outlook upon life had increased since she had known Zita, and how impossible it would be for herself, for any
Englishwoman, to pare away all softness in her personal appearance until she had achieved the stinging smartness of Zita in her grey and orange striped dress, with her hair sleeked down like a wet black shell and an orange messenger-boy cap over one eye. An Englishwoman dressed like that would only look ugly or eccentric, Margaret thought, and it’s no use saying that men dislike that sort of smartness because there are four of them with their eyes glued on her at this moment.

Nevertheless, she herself preferred a softer type of attractiveness, and she turned again to the stalls, where there were many lovely or striking faces and where her own long-standing interest in ‘interesting people’ enabled her to recognize some of them from photographs in magazines and the press. But her eyes always returned to the little group which she knew, lingering with reluctant admiration upon Hebe’s childishly dressed brown curls and voluptuous form in the soft dress that suggested the sashed, high-waisted robes of Sir Joshua Reynolds’s day; she had a style which, while never looking eccentric or tiresomely artistic, was all her own.

What a bad wife and mother she was! Flirting over their shared programme with that boy and leaving her children at home in charge of the ailing Grantey, while she ran around the West End in the blackout with American soldiers!

Her rather heated thoughts were interrupted by a soft ‘Ach!’ from Zita. The lights were growing dim.

A moment later the immense green velvet curtains parted with an entrancing rustle, and the audience looked in upon the bedroom of a Viennese girl of thirty years ago; the lace, the ribbons, the roses of an unashamed and victorious femininity struck upon their eyes and senses like a perfume, and there was a murmur of admiration (mingled with the slight sound of programmes being turned as some of the less devout tried to see who might be responsible for this ravishing
décor
and found that it was Gower Parks) as Miss Schatter, wearing a white lawn nightgown and with her dark hair unbound, sat slowly up in bed, linked her arms round her knees, and burst into peals of laughter. Margaret, scarcely breathing, settled herself to watch and listen.

The story unfolded while the audience sat as if under a spell. Not a cough nor a murmur broke the reverent hush. The long sentences of dialogue were perfectly shaped and written in Mr Challis’s finest style, and there were many witty lines which brought that appreciative murmuring laughter which is sometimes the reward of subtlety in the theatre. The characters were firmly drawn yet complex; there was the piquancy of ironical contrast, as in the scene where Kattë and her friend, Trudi, compared the shape of their chests to win a bet for Trudi’s impecunious lover, who shot himself off-stage as soon as the bet was won, because he was in love with Kattë. The curtain fell on Kattë, sitting up in bed once more and wondering if her life were as happy as she had always supposed it to be, while her latest adorer broke into a bitter laugh. The audience relaxed with sighs and little movements. The lights went up, people began to make their way to the bar, and the orchestra started to play French military marches of the period.

‘Well, it iss beautiful. So true and fine,’ said Zita, with a long sigh, turning to Margaret. ‘Do you not think so?’