The Mitchells
The Mitchells were, as Vincy had said, extremely hospitable; they had a
perfect mania for receiving; they practically lived for it, and the big
house at Hampstead, with its large garden covered in, and a sort of
studio built out, was scarcely ever without guests. When they didn't
have some sort of party they invariably went out.
Mitchell's great joy was to make his parties different from others by
some childish fantasy or other. He especially delighted in a surprise.
He often took the trouble (for instance) to have a telegram sent to
every one of his guests during the course of the evening. Each of these
wires contained some personal chaff or practical joke. At other times
he would give everyone little presents, concealed in some way.
Christmas didn't come once a year to the Mitchells; it seemed never to
go away. One was always surprised not to find a Christmas tree and
crackers. These entertainments, always splendidly done materially, and
curiously erratic socially, were sometimes extremely amusing; at
others, of course, a frost; it was rather a toss-up.
And the guests were, without exception, the most extraordinary mixture
in London. They included delightful people, absurd people, average
people; people who were smart and people who were dowdy, some who were
respectable and nothing else, some who were deplorable, others
beautiful, and many merely dull. There was never the slightest attempt
at any sort of harmonising, or of suitability; there was a great deal
of kindness to the hard-up, and a wild and extravagant delight in any
novelty. In fact, the Mitchells were everything except exclusive, and
as they were not guided by any sort of rule, they really lived, in St
John's Wood, superior to suburban or indeed any other restrictions.
They would ask the same guests to dinner time after time, six or seven
times in succession. They would invite cordially a person of no
attraction whatsoever whom they had only just met, and they would
behave with casual coolness to desirable acquaintances or favourite
friends whom they had known all their lives. However, there was no
doubt that their parties had got the name for being funny, and that was
quite enough. London people in every set are so desperate for something
out of the ordinary way, for variety and oddness, that the Mitchells
were frequently asked for invitations by most distinguished persons who
hoped, in their blasé fatigue, to meet something new and queer.
For the real Londoner is a good deal of a child, and loves Punch and
Judy shows, and conjuring tricks (symbolically speaking)--and is also
often dreaming of the chance of meeting some spring novelty, in the way
of romance. Although the Mitchells were proud of these successes they
were as free from snobbishness as almost anyone could be. On the whole
Mrs Mitchell had a slight weakness for celebrities, while Mr Mitchell
preferred pretty women, or people who romped. It was merely from
carelessness that the Ottleys had never been asked before.
When Edith and Bruce found themselves in the large square
country-house-looking hall, with its oak beams and early English
fireplace, about twenty people had arrived, and as many more were
expected. A lively chatter had already begun; for each woman had been
offered on her arrival a basket from which she had to choose a brightly
coloured ribbon. These ribbons matched the rosettes presented in an
equally haphazard way to every man. As Vincy observed, it gave one the
rather ghastly impression that there was going to be a cotillion at
once, on sight, before dinner; which was a little frightening. In
reality it was merely so that the partners for the meal should be
chosen by chance. Mitchell thought this more fun than arranging guests;
but there was an element of gambling about it that made wary people
nervous. Everyone present would have cheated had it been possible. But
it was not.
Mrs Mitchell was a tiny brown-eyed creature, who looked absurdly young;
she was kind, sprightly, and rather like a grouse. Mitchell was a
jovial-looking man, with a high forehead, almost too much ease of
manner, and a twinkling eye.
The chief guests tonight consisted of Lord Rye, a middle-aged
suffraget, who was known for his habit of barking before he spoke and
for his wonderful ear for music--he could play all Richard, Oscar and
Johann Strauss's compositions by ear on the piano, and never mixed them
up; Aylmer Ross, the handsome barrister; Myra Mooney, who had been on
the stage; and an intelligent foreigner from the embassy, with a
decoration, a goat-like beard, and an Armenian accent. Mrs Mitchell
said he was the minister from some place with a name like Ruritania.
She had a vague memory. There was also a Mr Cricker, a very young man
of whom it was said that he could dance like Nijinsky, but never would;
and the rest were chiefly Foreign Office clerks (like Mitchell and
Bruce), more barristers and their wives, a soldier or two, some
undergraduates, a lady photographer, a few pretty girls, and vague
people. There were to be forty guests for dinner and a few more in the
evening.
Almost immediately on her arrival Edith noticed a tall, clean-shaven
man, with smooth fair hair, observant blue eyes, and a rather humorous
expression, and she instantly decided that she would try to will him to
take her to dinner. (Rather a superfluous effort of magnetism, since it
must have been settled already by fate and the ribbons.) It was obvious
from one quick glance that he shared the wish. To their absurdly great
mutual disappointment (a lot of ground was covered very quickly at the
Mitchells), their ribbons didn't match, and she was taken to dinner by
Captain Willis, who looked dull. Fortune, however, favoured her. On her
other side she found the man who looked amusing. He was introduced to
her across the table by Mrs Mitchell, with _empressement_, as Mr Aylmer
Ross.
Edith felt happy tonight; her spirits were raised by what she felt to
be an atmosphere _tiède_, as the French say; full of indulgence,
sympathetic, relaxing, in which either cleverness or stupidity could
float equally at its ease. The puerility of the silly little
arrangements to amuse removed all sense of ceremony. The note is always
struck by the hostess, and she was everything that was amiable, without
effort or affectation.
No-one was ever afraid of her.
Bruce's neighbour at dinner was the delicate, battered-looking
actress, in a Royal fringe and a tight bodice with short sleeves, who
had once been a celebrity, though no-one remembered for what. Miss Myra
Mooney, formerly a beauty, had known her days of success. She had been
the supreme performer of ladylike parts. She had been known as the very
quintessence of refinement. It was assumed when she first came out that
a duke would go to the devil for her in her youth, and that in her late
maturity she would tour the provinces with _The Three Musketeers_.
Neither of these prophecies had, however, been fulfilled. She still
occasionally took small middle-aged titled parts in repertoire
matinees. She was unable to help referring constantly to the hit she
made in _Peril_ at Manchester in 1887; nor could she ever resist
speaking of the young man who sent her red carnations every day of his
blighted existence for fifteen years; a pure romance, indeed, for, as
she owned, he never even wished to be introduced to her. She still
called him poor boy, oblivious of the fact that he was now sixty-eight,
and, according to the illustrated papers, spent his entire time in
giving away a numberless succession of daughters in brilliant marriage
at St George's, Hanover Square.
In this way Miss Mooney lived a good deal in the past, but she was not
unaware of the present, and was always particularly nice to people
generally regarded as bores. So she was never without plenty of
invitations. Mitchell had had formerly a slight _tendre_ for her, and
in his good nature pretended to think she had not altered a bit. She
was still refined _comme cela ne se fait plus_; it was practically no
longer possible to find such a perfect lady, even on the stage. As she
also had all the easy good nature of the artist, and made herself
extremely agreeable, Bruce was delighted with her, and evidently
thought he had drawn a prize.
'I wondered,' Aylmer Ross said, 'whether this could possibly happen.
First I half hoped it might; then I gave it up in despair.'
'So did I,' said Edith; 'and yet I generally know. I've a touch of
second sight, I think--at dinner-parties.'
'Oh, well, I have second sight too--any amount; only it's always wrong.
However!...'
'Aren't the Mitchells dears?' said Edith.
'Oh, quite. Do you know them well?'
'Very well, indeed. But I've never seen them before.'
'Ah, I see. Well, now we've found our way here--broken the ice and that
sort of thing--we must often come and dine with them, mustn't we, Mrs
Ottley? Can't we come again next week?'
'Very sweet of you to ask us, I'm sure.'
'Not at all; very jolly of us to turn up. The boot is on the other leg,
or whatever the phrase is. By the way, I'm sure you know everything,
Mrs Ottley, tell me, did people ever wear only one boot at a time, do
you think, or how did this expression originate?'
'I wonder.'
Something in his suave manner of taking everything for granted seemed
to make them know each other almost too quickly, and gave her an odd
sort of self-consciousness. She turned to Captain Willis on her other
side.
'I say,' he said querulously, 'isn't this a bit off? We've got the same
coloured ribbons and you haven't said a word to me yet! Rather rot,
isn't it, what?'
'Oh, haven't I? I will now.'
Captain Willis lowered his voice to a confidential tone and said: 'Do
you know, what I always say is--live and let live and let it go at
that; what?'
'That's a dark saying,' said Edith.
'Have a burnt almond,' said Captain Willis inconsequently, as though it
would help her to understand. 'Yes, Mrs Ottley, that's what I always
say.... But people won't, you know--they won't--and there it is.' He
seemed resigned. 'Good chap, Mitchell, isn't he? Musical chairs, I
believe--that's what we're to play this evening; or bridge, whichever
we like. I shall go in for bridge. I'm not musical.'
'And which shall you do?' asked Aylmer of Edith. He had evidently been
listening.
'Neither.'
'We'll talk then, shall we? I can't play bridge either.... Mrs
Ottley--which is your husband? I didn't notice when you came in.'
'Over there, opposite; the left-hand corner.'
'Good-looking chap with the light moustache--next to Myra Mooney?'
'That's it,' she said. 'He seems to be enjoying himself. I'm glad he's
got Miss Mooney. He's lucky.'
'He is indeed,' said Aylmer.
'She's a wonderful-looking woman--like an old photograph, or someone in
a book,' said Edith.
'Do you care for books?'
'Oh, yes, rather. I've just been discovering Bourget. Fancy, I didn't
know about him! I've just read _Mensonges_ for the first time.'
'Oh yes. Rather a pompous chap, isn't he? But you could do worse than
read _Mensonges_ for the first time.'
'I _have_ done worse. I've been reading Rudyard Kipling for the last
time.'
'Really! Don't you like him? Why?'
'I feel all the time, somehow, as if he were calling me by my Christian
name without an introduction, or as if he wanted me to exchange hats
with him,' she said. 'He's so fearfully familiar with his readers.'
'But you think he keeps at a respectful distance from his characters?
However--why worry about books at all, Mrs Ottley? Flowers, lilies of
the field, and so forth, don't toil or spin; why should they belong to
libraries? I don't think you ever ought to read--except perhaps
sometimes a little poetry, or romance.... You see, that is what you
are, rather, isn't it?'
'Don't you care for books?' she answered, ignoring the compliment. 'I
should have thought you loved them, and knew everything about them. I'm
not sure that I know.'
'You know quite enough, believe me,' he answered earnestly. 'Oh, don't
be cultured--don't talk about Lloyd George! Don't take an intelligent
interest in the subjects of the day!'
'All right; I'll try not.'
She turned with a laugh to Captain Willis, who seemed very depressed.
'I say, you know,' he said complainingly, 'this is all very well. It's
all very well no doubt. But I only ask one thing--just one. Is this
cricket? I merely ask, you know. Just that--is it cricket; what?'
'It isn't meant to be. What's the matter?'
'Why, I'm simply fed up and broken-hearted, you know. Hardly two words
have I had with you tonight, Mrs Ottley.... I suppose that chap's
awfully amusing, what? I'm not amusing.... I know that.'
'Oh, don't say that. Indeed you are.' she consoled him.
'Am I though?'
'Well, you amuse _me_!'
'Right!' He laughed cheerily. He always filled up pauses with a laugh.