Without desiring to interfere with the sale of guide-books, I may say that
Clermont-Ferrand is a great big town, the principal city of Auvergne, and
devotes itself to turning out all sorts of things from its factories such
as Michelin and Berguignan tyres, and all sorts of young lawyers, doctors
and schoolmasters from its university. It proudly claims Blaise Pascal as
its distinguished son. It has gardens and broad walks and terraces along
the old ramparts, whence one can see the round-backed pride (with its
little pip on the top) of the encircling mountain range, the Puy de Dôme;
and it also has a wilderness of smelly, narrow little streets with fine
old seventeenth-century mansions hidden in mouldering court-yards behind
dilapidated portes cochères; it has a beautiful romanesque Church in a
hollow, and, on an eminence, an uninteresting restored cathedral whose twin
spires dominate the town for miles around. By way of a main entrance, it
has a great open square, the Place de Jaude, the clanging ganglion of its
tramway system, about which are situated the municipal theatre and the
chief cafés, and from which radiate the main arteries of the city. On the
entrance side rises a vast mass of sculpture surmounted by a statue of
Vercingetorix, the hero of those parts, the gentleman over whose name we
have all broken our teeth when learning to construe Cæsar "_De Bello
Gallico_." Passing him by for the first time, I should have liked to
shake hands with him for old times' sake, to show my lack of ill feeling.
Now that you all know about Clermont-Ferrand, as the ancient writers say, I
will tell you about Royat. You take a tram from Vercingetorix and after
a straight mile you are landed at the foot of a cup of the aforesaid
encircling mountains, and, looking around, when the tram refuses to go
any further owing to lack of rails, you perceive that you are in
Royat-les-Bains. It consists, on the ground floor, as it were, of a white
Etablissement des Bains surrounded by a little park, which is fringed on
the further side by an open-air concert platform and a theatre, of a few
rows of shops, and a couple of cafés. You could play catch with a cricket
ball across it. The hotels are perched around on the slopes of the hills,
so that you may enter stately portals among the shops, but shall be whirled
upwards in a lift to the main floor, whence you look down on the green and
tidy miniature place.
From my room in the Royat Palace Hotel I had a view across the Park, beyond
which I could see the black crowds pouring out of the Clermont-Ferrand
trams. The reason for this frenzied going and coming of human beings
between Clermont-Ferrand and Royat, I could never understand. I believe
tram-riding is a hideous vice. Just connect up by tramlines a place no one
ever wants to go to with another no one ever wants to go from, and in a
week you will have the inhabitants of those respective Sleepy Hollows
running to and fro with the strenuous aimlessness of ants. Progressive
politicians will talk to you of the wonders of transport. Well, transport
or madness, what does it matter? I mean what does it matter to the course
of this narrative?
I had a pleasant room, I say, with a good view blocked above the tram
terminus by a vine-clad mountain. I called on a learned gentleman who knew
all about hearts and blood pressures, he prescribed baths and unpleasant
waters, and my cure began. All this by way of preamble to the statement
that I had comfortably settled down in Royat a week before Les Petit Patou
were billed to appear in Clermont-Ferrand. Having nothing in the world to
do save attend to my internal organs, I spent much time in the old town,
which I had not visited for many years, match-hunting (with indifferent
success) being at first my main practical pursuit. Then a natural curiosity
leading me to enquire the whereabouts of the chief music-halls and vacant
ignorance manifesting itself on the faces of the policemen and waiters
whom I interrogated, I abandoned matches for the chase of music-halls.
Eventually I became aware that I was pursuing a phantom. There were no
music-halls. All had been perverted into picture palaces. I read Lackaday's
letter again. There it was as clear as print.
"So we proceed on our pilgrimage; we are booked for Clermont-Ferrand for
the third week in August. I hate it--because I hate it. But I'm looking
forward to it because my now prosperous friend Bakkus has arranged to sing
during my stay there, at the Casino of Royat."
And sure enough the next day, they stuck up bills by the park gates
announcing the coming of the celebrated tenor, Monsieur Horatio Bakkus.
It was only later that the great flaming poster of a circus--The
Cirque Vendramin--which had pitched its tent for a fortnight past at
Clermont-Ferrand, caught my eye. There it was, amid announcements of all
sorts of clowns and trapezists and Japanese acrobats:
"Special engagement of the world famed eccentrics, Les Petit Patou."
If I uttered profane words, I am sure the Recording Angel followed an
immortal precedent.
In order to spy out the land, I went then and there to the afternoon
performance. The circus was pitched in a disgruntled field somewhere near
the dismally remote railway station. The tent was crowded with the good
inhabitants of Clermont-Ferrand who, since they could not buy sugar or
matches or coal for cooking, must spend their money somewhere. I scarcely
had entered a circus since the good old days of the Cirque Rocambeau.
And what a difference! They had a few uninspiring horses and riders for
convention sake. But the _haute école_ had vanished. Not even a rouged
and painted ghost of Mademoiselle Renée Saint-Maur remained. It was a
ragged, old-fashioned acrobatic entertainment, with the mildewed humour of
antiquated clowns. But they had a star turn--a juggler of the school of
Cinquevallis--an amazing fellow. And then I remembered having seen the name
on the last week's bill, printed in the great eighteen inch letters which
were now devoted to Les Petit Patou.
Next week Lackaday would be the star turn. But still...
I went back to Royat feeling miserable. I was not elated by finding a
letter from Lady Auriol which had been forwarded from my St. James's Street
chambers. She was in Paris organising something in connection with the
devastated districts. She reproached me for not having answered a letter
written a month ago, written at her ancestral home where she had been
summoned to her father's gouty chair side. I might, she said, have had the
politeness to send a line of condolence.... Well, I might: but whether to
her or to Lord Mountshire, whose gout was famous in the early nineties, I
did not know. Yes, I ought to have answered her letter. But then, you see,
I am a villainous correspondent: I was running about, and doctors were
worrying me: and I could not have answered without lying about Andrew
Lackaday who, leaving her without news of himself, had apparently vanished
from her ken. She had asked me all sorts of pointed questions about
Lackaday which I, having by that time read his manuscript, found very
embarrassing to answer. Of course I intended to write. One always does,
in such cases. There was nothing for it now but to make immediate and
honourable amends.
I explained my lack of courtesy, as best I could, bewailed her father's
gout and her dreary ministrations on that afflicted nobleman, regretted
incidentally her lack of news of the gallant General and spread myself over
my own sufferings and my boredom in a little hole of a place, where no one
was to be seen under the age of seventy-three--drew, I flattered myself,
rather a smart picture of the useless and gasping ancients flocking
pathetically to the futile _Fons Juventutis_ (and what business
had they to be alive anyhow during this world food shortage?) and then,
commending her devotion to the distressed and homeless, expressed the warm
hope that I should meet her in Paris on my way back to England.
It was the letter of a friend and a man of the world. It put me into a
better humour with myself. I dined well on the broad terrace of the hotel,
smoked a cigar in defiance of doctor's orders, and after an instructive
gastronomical discussion with a comfortable old Bordeaux merchant with whom
I had picked acquaintance, went to bed in a selfishly contented frame of
mind.
Two or three mornings later, going by tram into Clermont-Ferrand and
passing by the great cafe on the east side of the Place de Jaude opposite
the statue of Vercingetorix, I ran literally, stumbling over long legs
outstretched from his chair to the public danger, into Andrew Lackaday. It
was only at the instant of disentanglement and mutual apologies that we
were aware of each other. He sprang to his great height and held out-both
his long arms, and grinned happily.
"My dear fellow, what a delight. Fancy seeing you here! Elodie----"
If he had given me time, I should have recognized her before he spoke.
There she was in the flesh--in a great deal of flesh--more even than I had
pictured. She had a coarse, dark face, with the good humour written on it
that loose features and kind soft eyes are able so often to express--and
white teeth rather too much emphasized by carmined lips above which grew
the faint black down of many women of the South. She was dressed quite
tastefully: white felt hat, white skirt, and a silken knitted yellow
_chandail_.
"Elodie--I present Monsieur le Capitaine Hylton, of whom you have heard me
speak so much." To me--"Madame Patou," said he.
"Madame," said I. We shook hands. I professed enchantment.
"I have spoken much about you to Captain Hylton," said Lackaday quickly.
"So it seems," said I, following the good fellow's lead, "as if I were
renewing an old acquaintance."
"But you speak French like a Frenchman," cried Elodie.
"It is my sole claim, Madame," said I, "to your consideration."
She laughed, obviously pleased, and invited me to sit. The waiter came up.
What would I have? I murmured "Amer Picon--Curaçoa," the most delectable
ante-meal beverage left in France now that absinthe is as extinct as the
stuff wherewith the good Vercingetorix used to gladden his captains after
a successful bout with Cæsar. Elodie laughed again and called me a true
Parisian. I made the regulation reply to the compliment. I could see that
we became instant friends.
"_Mais, mon cher ami_," said Lackaday, "you haven't answered my
question. What are you doing here in Clermont-Ferrand?"
"Didn't I write to you?"
"No----"
I hadn't. I had meant to--just as I had meant to write to Auriol Dayne.
I wonder whether, in that Final Court from which I have not heard of any
theologian suggesting the possibility of Appeal, they will bring up against
me all the unanswered letters of my life? If they do, then certainly shall
I be a Condemned Spirit.
I explained airily--just as I have explained to you.
"Coincidences of the heart, Madame," said I.
She turned to Andrew. "He has said that just like Horace."
I realized the compliment. I liked Elodie. Dress her at whatever Rue de
la Paix rag-swindler's that you pleased, you would never metamorphose the
daughter of the people that she was into the lady at ease in all company.
She was a bit _mannièrée_--on her best behaviour. But she had the
Frenchwoman's instinctive knowledge of conduct. She conveyed, very
charmingly, her welcome to me as a friend of Andrew's.
"Horace--that's my friend Bakkus I've told you about," said Lackaday.
"He'll be here to-morrow. I should so much like you to meet him."
"I'm looking forward," said I, "to the opportunity."
We talked on indifferent subjects; and in the meanwhile I observed Lackaday
closely. He seemed tired and careworn. The bush of carroty hair over his
ears had gone a yellowish grey and more lines seamed his ugly and rugged
face. He was neatly enough dressed in grey flannels, but he wore on his
head the latest model of a French straw hat--the French hatter, left to his
own devices, has ever been the maddest of his tribe--a high, coarsely woven
crown surrounded by a quarter inch brim which related him much more nearly
to Petit Patou than to the British General of Brigade. His delicate fingers
nervously played with cigarette or glass stem. He gave me the impression of
a man holding insecurely on to intelligible life.
Mild hunger translating itself into a conception of the brain, I looked at
my watch. I waved a hand to the row of waiting cabs with linen canopies on
the other side of the blazing square.
"Madame," said I, "let me have the pleasure of driving you to Royat and
offering you _déjeuner_."
"My dear chap," said Andrew, "impossible. We play this afternoon. Twice a
day, worse luck. We have all sorts of things to arrange."
Elodie broke in. They had arranged everything already that morning. Their
turn did not arrive till three-forty. There was time for a dozen lunches;
especially since she would go early and see that everything was prepared.
She excused herself to me in the charmingest way possible. Another day
she might perhaps, with my permission, have the pleasure. But to-day she
insisted on Andre lunching with me alone. We must have a thousand things to
say to each other.
"_Tenez_," she smiled, rising. "I leave you. There's not a word to be
said. Monsieur le Capitaine, see that the General eats instead of talking
too much." She beamed. "_Au grand plaisir de vous revoir._"
We stood bare-headed and shook hands and watched her make a gracious exit.
As soon as she crossed the tram-lines, she turned and waved her fingers at
me.
"A charming woman," said I.
Lackaday smiled in his sad babyish way.
"Indeed she is," said he.
We drove into Royat in one of the cool, white canopied victorias.
"You know we are playing in a circus," he said, indicating a huge play bill
on the side of a wall.
"Yes," said I. "_On revient toujours à ses premières amours._"
"It's not that, God knows," he replied soberly. "But we were out for these
two weeks of our tour. One can't pick and choose nowadays. The eccentric
comedian will soon be as dead as his ancestor, the Court Jester. The war
has almost wiped us out. Those music-halls--of the Variety type--that have
not been turned, through lack of artists, into picture palaces, are now
given over to Revue. I have been here at Clermont-Ferrand many times--but
now," he shrugged his shoulders. "I had an engagement--at my ordinary
music-hall terms--offered me at the Cirque Vendramin to fill in the blank
weeks, and I couldn't afford to refuse. That's why, my friend, you see me
now, where you first met me, in a circus."
"And Madame Patou?" said I.
"I'm afraid," he sighed, "it is rather a come down for Elodie."
We reached the hotel and lunched on the terrace, and I did my best, with
the aid of the maître d'hôtel, to carry out the lady's injunctions. As a
matter of fact, she need not have feared that he should miss sustenance
through excessive garrulity. He seemed ill at ease during the meal and I
did most of the talking. It was only after coffee and the last drop of the
last bottle in the hotel--one of the last, alas! in France--of the real
ancient Chartreuse of the Grand Chartreux, that he made some sort of avowal
or explanation. After beating about the bush a bit, he came to the heart of
the matter.
"I thought the whole war was axed out of my life--with everyone I knew in
it or through it. I wrote all that stuff about myself because I couldn't
help it. It enabled me to find my balance, to keep myself sane. I had to
bridge over--connect somehow--the Andrew Lackaday of 1914 with the Andrew
Lackaday of 1919. A couple of months ago, I thought of sending it to you.
You know my beginnings and my dear old father Ben Flint and so forth. You
came bang into the middle of my most intimate life. I knew in what honour
and affection you were held among those whom I--to whom I--am infinitely
devoted. I..." He paused a moment, and tugged hard at his cigar and
regarded me with bent brows and compressed lips of his parade manner. "I am
a man of few friendships. I gave you my unreserved friendship--it may not
be worth much--but there it is." He glared at me as though he were defying
me to mortal combat, and when I tried to get in a timid word he wiped it
out of my mouth with a gesture. "I wanted you to know the whole truth about
me. Once I never thought about myself. I wasn't worth thinking about. But
the war came. And the war ended. And I'm so upside down that I'm bound to
think about myself and clear up myself, in the eyes of the only human being
that could understand--namely you--or go mad. But I never reckoned to see
you again in the flesh. Our lives were apart as the poles. It was in my
head to write to you something to that effect, when I should receive an
answer to my last letter. I never dreamed that you should meet me now, as I
am."
"It never occurred to you that I might value your friendship and take a
little trouble to seek you out?"
"I must confess," said he, "that I did not suspect that anyone, even you,
would have thought it worth while."
I laughed. He was such a delicious simpleton. So long as he could regard
me as someone on the other side of the grave, he could reveal to me the
intimacies of his emotional life; but as soon as he realized his confidant
in the flesh, embarrassment and confusion overwhelmed him. And, ostrich
again, thinking that, once his head was hidden in the sands of Petit
Patouism, he would be invisible to mortal eye, he had persuaded himself
that his friends would concur in his supposed invisibility.
"My dear fellow," I said, "why all this apologia? As to your having ever
told me or written to me about yourself I have kept the closest secrecy.
Not a human soul knows through me the identity of General Lackaday with
Petit Patou. No," I repeated, meeting his eyes under his bent brows, "not a
human being knows even of our first meeting in the Cirque Rocambeau--and as
for Madame Patou, whom you have made me think of always as Elodie--well--my
discretion goes without saying. And as for putting into shape your
reminiscences--I shouldn't dream of letting anyone see my manuscript before
it had passed through your hands. If you like I'll tear the whole thing up
and it will all be buried in that vast oblivion of human affairs of which I
am only too temperamentally capable."
He threw his cigar over the balustrade of the terrace and stretched out his
long legs, his hands in his pockets and grinned.
"No, don't do that. One of these days I might be amused to read it.
Besides, it took me such a devil of a time to write. It was good of you to
keep things to yourself although I laid down no conditions of secrecy. I
might have known it." He stared at the hill-side opposite, with its zigzag
path through the vines marked by the figures of zealous pedestrians, and
then he said suddenly: "If I asked you not to come and see our show you
would set me down as a fantastical coward."
I protested. "How could I, after all you have told me?"
"I want you to come. Not to-day. Things might be in a muddle. One never
knows. But to-morrow. It will do me good."
I promised. We chatted a little longer and then he rose to go. I
accompanied him to the tram, his long lean body overwhelming my somewhat
fleshy insignificance. And while I walked with him I thought: "Why is it
that I can't tell a man who confides to me his inmost secrets, to buy, for
God's sake, another hat?"
The following afternoon, I went to the Cirque Vendramin. I sat in a front
seat. I saw the performance. It was much as I have already described to
you. Except perhaps for his height and ungainliness no one could have
recognized Andrew Lackaday in the painted clown Petit Patou. His
grotesquery of appearance was terrific. From the tip of his red pointed
wig to the bottom of his high heels he must have been eight feet. I should
imagine him to have been out of scale on the music-hall stage. But in
the ring he was perfect. The mastery of his craft, the cleanness of his
jugglery, amazed me. He divested himself of his wig and did a five minutes'
act of lightning impersonation with a trick felt hat, the descendant of the
_Chapeau de Tabarin:_ the ex-Kaiser, Foch, Clemenceau, Lloyd George,
President Wilson--a Boche prisoner, a helmeted Tommy, a Poilu--which was
marvellous, considering the painted Petit Patou face. For all assistance,
Elodie held up a cheap bedroom wall-mirror. He played his one-stringed
fiddle. I admired the technical perfection of the famous cigar-act. I noted
the stupid bewilderment with which he received a typhoon of hoops thrown by
Elodie, and his waggish leer when, clown-wise, he had caught them all. If
the audience packed within the canvas amphitheatre had gone mad in applause
over this exhibition of exquisite skill interlarded with witty patter, I
might have been carried away into enthusiastic appreciation of a great art.
But the audience, as far as applause could be the criterion, missed the
exquisiteness of it, guffawed only at the broadest clowning and applauded
finally just enough to keep up the heart of the management and Les Petit
Patou. I have seen many harrowing things in the course of a complicated
life; but this I reckon was one of the chief among them.
I thought of the scene a year ago, at Mansfield Park. The distinguished
soldier with his rainbow row of ribbons modestly confused by Evadne's
summons to the household on his appointment to the Brigade; the English
setting; the old red gabled Manor house; the green lawn; the bright English
faces of old Sir Julian and his wife, of young Charles the hero worshipper;
the light in Auriol's eyes; the funny little half-ashamed English ceremony;
again the gaunt, grim, yet childishly smiling figure in khaki, the ideal of
the scarred and proven English leader of men....
The scene shimmered before me and then I realized the same man in his
abominable travesty of God's image, bowing before the tepid plaudits of an
alien bourgeoisie in a filthy, smelly canvas circus, and I tell you I felt
the agony that comes when time has dried up within one the fount of tears.