Cluny Brown (16 page)

From one minute to the next, in the space of time it took to slit an envelope, the Professor became a wealthy man. He received a letter, forwarded by Maria Dillon, containing a draft for five hundred dollars on account of his American royalties. It seemed to surprise him very much.

“But didn't you expect it?” asked Andrew curiously. “I mean, wasn't it in your contract?”

“That is what I am trying to remember,” said Mr. Belinski. “I am not really unbusiness-like, but my contract is in Berlin. That is where all my papers are, at the Adlon. I left them all in my large suitcase, because I was coming back after I had been to Bonn, but when I had delivered my famous lecture I naturally did not return. So I suppose my contract is still in my suitcase at the Adlon, if that is where my suitcase is.” He sighed. “My American agent was there too.”

“Who's he?” asked Andrew.

“Not he, she. Miss Dunnett. In America women do everything.”

“Is she good?”

“Very,” said Mr. Belinski regretfully. “She would not even let me kiss her. And business-like! That is why I do not worry about my contract, I am quite certain all is safe in her hands. She had beautiful hands, indeed she was beautiful altogether, very slight but well-built, with dark hair and eyes. And dressed with great
chic
. You can imagine how sorry I was to leave my American agent at the Adlon!”

Andrew could imagine it very well, and felt great sympathy for the beautiful and business-like Miss Dunnett. Making an attempt to be business-like himself, he asked who was publishing the book in England.

“No one, because there is no manuscript. The other two copies besides the one in America were in my suitcase too. But it does not matter, because my publishers here are the Oxford University Press.”

“The Oxford University Press obviously want to publish anything you write,” objected Andrew.

“Not this time,” said Mr. Belinski firmly. “This time I am different. This time I am very, very popular. In eighty thousand words I tell you all about all European literature, also what Balzac paid for his shirts. What is important is that I can now buy some shirts for myself.”

So the following morning Andrew drove him into Carmel, and helped him to open a bank account, and also drove him to an Exeter shirt maker's. Here Belinski's behaviour was rather trying: against all advice he ordered pastel-shade silks, which Andrew privately considered caddish, to be made up with very pointed collars. Then he bought a really beautiful Chelsea china figure to give to Lady Carmel, a copy of
Gulliver's Travels,
and two pairs of silk stockings. Andrew could not help cocking an eye at these last, especially when, in the car going back, Belinski arranged them like book-marks in the
Gulliver,
the feet hanging out at one end and the tops at the other.

“Ha ha!” said Mr. Belinski.

It was extraordinary what a difference a hundred pounds had made to him: or so thought Andrew, not making allowance for several other factors, such as improved health due to regular living; for Mr. Belinski, in spite of his bitter complaint to Cluny, or rather as that complaint proved, had been accumulating a new fund of vitality which needed only just such an incident to release it. He was in a mood to start a newspaper. In Poland he and his friends frequently started newspapers, which were either suppressed or died a natural death after an average life of two months: they were like tadpoles, all head and tail.

“When do you suppose your book will come out?” enquired Andrew, who really took a great interest in it.

“Oh, quite soon,” replied Mr. Belinski confidently. “They have had the manuscript a long time. I dare say it is out now. Whether there will be any more money is of course a different matter. If I could sell the film rights—!”

Andrew did not see how this was possible, as one could hardly film literary criticism, and Belinski reluctantly agreed.

“But there could be a very good film about Balzac and the Countess Hanska,” he pointed out. “That is quite full of sex, which literary criticism, as you say, is not.” (Andrew had said nothing of the sort, but he took the point.) “And I could write such a book most easily,” went on Belinski, with growing enthusiasm. “It would also be a study of the Polish erotic temperament. In fact, if I cannot start a newspaper, I think that is what I will do next.”

His immediate act, however, while Andrew was still putting the car away, was to seek out Cluny Brown to present her with the copy of
Gulliver
(for the one he had hit her with) and the two pairs of stockings (for having hurt her feelings over her snood). He was in a mood of universal benevolence.

Cluny, on the other hand, was not. She was hanging out washing at the time, and at first would not even notice his approach.

“Miss Brown!” said Mr. Belinski winningly.

Cluny continued not to notice him.

“If any of my remarks have at any time offended you, I apologize. These small gifts are a peace-offering.”

“Thank you, I don't want them,” said Cluny.

“But what is wrong?” Mr. Belinski examined the stockings anxiously. “They are pure silk, and fully fashioned. Also they are both pairs the same colour, in case one ladders.”

“They're swell,” said Cluny, more kindly. “I can see you've had a lot of experience. But you can't give me stockings.”

“Will you tell me why not?”

Cluny picked up a traycloth, flicked it out, and pinned it very carefully on the line. There was a primness, almost a priggishness, about her movements which the Professor found both unusual and irritating.

“I suppose,” he said angrily, “Mrs. Maile would object?”

“I don't know. Very likely she would. But I wasn't thinking of Mrs. Maile.”

“Who are you thinking of, then?”

“If you must know,” said Cluny, “and I really don't know that it's your business, but let that pass—I'm thinking of Uncle Arn.”

Considerably nettled by this treatment, Belinski made his way to the library to put the
Gulliver
on the shelf beside its duplicate, and there was lucky enough to receive a little undeserved balm from Sir Henry. Sir Henry came in (from the midst of a letter to British Guiana) to look up the name of the Derby winner of 1904, and with his ready curiosity at once demanded to know what Belinski was doing. “I am repairing a damage,” explained the latter, holding up a book in each hand. “The leaves in your
Gulliver
are a little loose, since I had the misfortune to throw it out of a window.”

“Out of a window, my dear fellow?”

“At a cat,” said Mr. Belinski.

Sir Henry was much amused. (If Belinski had said, “At a dog,” he would of course have taken a different view.) He was also impressed by the Professor's keen sense of honour, and praised it very highly. They spent a pleasant five minutes in mutual compliments, and Belinski went off in search of Lady Carmel in a more cheerful mood. With her too he fared well; she was so charmed by the Chelsea figure, as also by the little speech he made as he presented it, that she took him all around the herbaceous borders explaining what was going to come up. But the two pairs of stockings still burnt a hole in the Professor's pocket; and he formed the audacious plan of presenting them to Mrs. Maile.

After tea, therefore, when Syrett came for the tray, Belinski followed him out and through the baize door into the domestic quarters. It was the first time he had ever entered the kitchen, and he was at once struck by its size. The room itself, the immense canopied range, the huge dressers, all seemed to have been designed for a race of giants; and this lent a curious charm to the small domestic group established by the fire. It consisted of three persons, Hilda, Cluny, and Mrs. Maile herself. Hilda and Mrs. Maile each held one end of an old sheet, which they were cutting into pudding-cloths; Cluny was peeling almonds. She sat very still, because of the bowl of water in her lap; her long neck was bent above it, and even the pony tail sticking out behind could not detract from the general impression of meekness. As Mr. Syrett came in their three heads turned; for a moment, at the sight of Belinski coming in after him, their three pairs of hands stopped working. Then the housekeeper laid aside her scissors and courteously rose.

“Yes, Professor?” she said enquiringly. “Can I do anything for you?”

But Belinski still had his eyes on the two girls. The black of their dresses, the white sheet and aprons, the band of blue on the white bowl, produced a very satisfying effect; as did Hilda's tawny head and round red cheeks in contrast with Cluny's etched profile. After that first instant Cluny had bent again over her almonds—meeker than ever, and very aloof. Mr. Syrett meanwhile deposited his tray on the table, and the housekeeper spared him an annoyed glance. If gentlemen wished to come into the kitchen, it was Syrett's duty to give her warning.…

“Yes, Professor?” repeated Mrs. Maile.

Belinski detached his gaze from Cluny Brown and unfurled the stockings.

“I wish you to accept these, as a small token of my esteem.”

Mrs. Maile stiffened. As she told Mr. Syrett afterwards, she could hardly believe her ears. Even for a foreigner, it didn't seem sensible. She looked at Belinski suspiciously.

“I'm sure it's very kind of you—”

“Not at all. It is you who have been kind to me.”

“—but I hardly think,” said Mrs. Maile—and paused. She really didn't know what she hardly thought, and the Professor's earnest stare was making her feel quite silly. He said firmly:—

“It is the custom, in Poland, to make gifts at Christmas time.”

“So it is here,” said Mrs. Maile, with more confidence. “Only it isn't Christmas.”

“But last Christmas,
I
was not here,” explained Mr. Belinski.

The housekeeper paused again. A woman of sense, this specious argument did not for a moment take her in, but she was increasingly aware not only of the Professor's eyes on her, but also of the eyes of Mr. Syrett and the girls. (Cluny as a matter of fact was not looking at Mrs. Maile at all, she was seizing the opportunity to eat a few almonds, but the housekeeper did not know.) If she felt silly, it was possible that she appeared silly—which was something no housekeeper could afford. At all costs the situation had to be ended; and as the quickest way of doing so Mrs. Maile took the stockings into her own hands and thanked the Professor for his gift.

She did more than that. Visited by a genuine inspiration, she thanked him in French.

“Je vous remercie mille fois,
” pronounced Mrs. Maile.

The effect was sensational—not indeed upon Belinski, who was used to servants speaking French when they didn't speak German—but upon Mr. Syrett and Hilda and Cluny Brown. They hardly, saw Mr. Belinski depart, they were gazing, but now with admiration, at the accomplished housekeeper.

“Dear me,” said Mr. Syrett, “dear me, Mrs. Maile, I had no idea you could parley-vous.”

“I learnt French as a girl,” replied Mrs. Maile modestly.

She did not add that she had learnt exactly three phrases, the other two being
“Quelle heure est-il?
” and
“Comment vous allez-vous?”
; but with the air of a Cincinnatus returning to his plough went back to the fire and took up her end of the sheet. The rest of the evening she was in an unusually good humour; in fact the whole incident had pleased her very much.

Chapter 16

I

Mr. Belinski's prospects continued to brighten. At Andrew's suggestion he cabled to Miss Dunnett giving his Friars Carmel address, and a day or two later received a cable back. “
CONGRATULATIONS
,” it said, “
RAVE NOTICES ANTICIPATE GOOD SALES
”; and this shout of encouragement from across the Atlantic stimulated the Professor quite as much as his new wealth. He began work on his new book about Balzac and the Countess Hanska, wrote six hours a day and was often late for meals. He told Andrew that under some such simple title as
Genius and Sex,
or perhaps
Sex and Genius,
he anticipated for it even raver notices and better sales. Andrew rather dubiously agreed, at the same time throwing in a word or two on the prostitution of talent; for he felt a certain (Lord-of-the-Manorish) responsibility for whatever was written under his roof. The Professor, however, was not deterred.

“It is surely better that people should hear of Balzac, even through the medium of his amours, than that they should not hear of him at all?”

“I suppose it is,” said Andrew—still dubiously. “Though not if you leave them thinking of him as a super man-about-town and nothing else.”

“Even that is to the good,” argued Belinski. “To know merely that such a man has lived enlarges the experience. I shall send a few, no doubt, from the Countess Hanska to the
Comédie Humaine;
but even those who stop at the Countess will know something they did not know before. And fortunately Balzac was such a vulgar fellow himself, one need have no scruples.”

Andrew abandoned the argument. He disagreed; nothing could make him approve this extraordinary downhill rush of a fine critical talent; but he did at the same time acknowledge that to Adam Belinski the material he worked in was thoroughly alive. Alive and kicking. He might vulgarize Balzac, but he wouldn't mummify him. He took liberties with him as with a personal friend, whereas Andrew defended him out of academic piety.

“I would never think of behaving in the same way,” added Belinski reassuringly, “to John Milton.…”

He sent another cable to America and received an enthusiastic reply; for half a week he worked with fury; at the end of which period Balzac, the Countess, and the whole United States were wiped from his consciousness by the arrival of Betty Cream.

II

It will be remembered that when Betty and Mr. Belinski originally met, the latter was still emotionally in thrall to Maria Dillon: he had not really seen Betty at all. Now his heart was vacant, his eyes were open, and the consequences inevitable.