I
Now, at last, the entertainment moves towards its end, the curtain is
atremble for its fall, the affair called _May Fair_ is on tiptoe to make
a last bow and retire forever into those anxious shades where all that
is not of the first excellence must come to the foul embrace of limbo.
So let the curtain fall, that we may get back to the serious business of
life. But, oh, it is easy enough to say that! The rub is, a curtain has
to be contrived. Action is demanded; and all the world loves a climax.
In fine, ladies and gentlemen, those inexorable twin sisters, Finale and
Farewell, have still to be served. And how shall that be done?
It happened that I was in Paris when I was thinking upon this matter
with some urgency. How shall the farewell be contrived, thought I, how
indeed? For, by the waters of the Thames, there never was such a trouble
put upon mankind as this confounded business of leave-taking! Haven’t we
all, to be sure, been sometime harassed by the saying of farewell? by
the fumbling of that pitiful, pitiless occasion? Indeed, find us the man
or woman who can say good-bye with ease, and he or she shall instantly
have a clear start to our friendship. How often we have been distressed
by the agonies of someone’s incapable departure! And you may rifle all
diplomacy for ways and means to help some people take their leave, and
still their glassy, fevered eyes will search your face as though for the
ultimate word, still their aggressive nervousness will not permit you to
put them and yourself out of their agony. While as for those poor
wretches whom it is our dread delight to “see off” at railway stations,
what confusion of mind is theirs, and ours! He is at the window of his
carriage, smiling: we on the platform, smiling: others are nearby,
smiling: hands are shaken, good-byes are said ... and does the train go?
It does not. Wouldn’t we then, if we but dared, implore the departing
wretch to withdraw his tormented head from the window, sit back in his
seat, hide himself behind a paper and send us all to the deuce? We
would, but we don’t, and he can’t, so fumble, fumble, fumble, until at
last the train takes him--or her, why not?--from us who had once thought
we were sorry he was going. Oh, no, this business of saying farewell is
not like saying “Jack Robinson”: it needs, without a doubt, a touch of
inhumanity, which, if it does not make the whole world kin, can at least
help to make a good part of it comfortable, as the humane gentleman now
honoured as Lord Balfour found when he was Secretary of State for
Ireland.
It was, then, with such thoughts as these that my mind was vexed during
my stay in Paris, much to the disorder of my pleasures, when whom should
I meet but my friend Dwight-Rankin! Gratified, I was yet surprised
almost beyond endurance. I had been at school with the man, but later we
had lost sight of one another, and still later I had heard of his death
on Gallipoli. I had been sorry.
Dwight-Rankin was a blood, and I have an intellectual leaning towards
bloods. They may have only the most moderate aspirations towards a state
of grace, theirs may be only the most superficial grasp of the culture
of the ages, but theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do nothing and
die. They may not Achieve, they may have nothing to Give to the world,
but nevertheless they serve several useful purposes and are decidedly a
good market for British-made and Dominion-made goods; such as
golf-links, foxes, spats, plover’s eggs, chorus girls, kippers, the
Conservative party, night-clubs, bookmakers, whisky, the Army, etc. They
are also decorative and are frequently used at balls and at our
Embassies abroad.
Dwight-Rankin remarked with gratification upon my pleasure at the fact
that he was still alive and invited me to take a glass of wine with him
at the Ritz, which we were at that moment passing. Nothing could have
been more agreeable to me, in my troubled state of mind. We then
indulged in conversation. It had rained the day before, and we spoke of
the rain. There was a rumour that it had been snowing in England, and we
spoke of the snow. Dwight-Rankin had just returned from Monte Carlo,
where he had lost money, and I had just returned from Rome, where I had
lost my luggage. We confounded Monte Carlo and Rome. Then Dwight-Rankin
said that the report of his death on Gallipoli was a gross exaggeration
and that one should not believe all one hears. His younger brother,
Dwight-Rankin said, had believed the report with an agility surprising
in one who was a confirmed sceptic in all religious matters, had stepped
into the property and had gone bankrupt before Dwight-Rankin could say
“knife.” Dwight-Rankin said he was now a broken man. I extended him my
sympathy, for which he thanked me.
“Talking of death,” he added, “that was a nasty end for Mrs. Amp, wasn’t
it?”
“Mrs. Amp!” I said. “Mrs. Amp? Who was Mrs. Amp?”
Dwight-Rankin said: “Rheumatism and Roosevelt, you’ve never heard of
Mrs. Amp! Nor of the death? Nor of the Lady Surplice?”
“Lady Surplice?” I said. “Oh, yes, I’ve heard of the Countess of
Surplice! And how is she?”
“She can’t be at all well,” said Dwight-Rankin. “She’s dead. Tummy
trouble, they _said_. By the way, one doesn’t say ‘the Countess of’
Surplice. One says ‘Lady Surplice.’ Do you mind?”
“Not in the least,” I said.
“Then don’t say it or write it, will you?” begged Dwight-Rankin. “All
you writers are very vague about your titles. No, not vague--you are
malinspired. It puts people against you, I assure you. I often had a
mind to tell Miss Marie Corelli about that, but I never had a chance.”
I said: “You see, Dwight-Rankin, I never hear any of these things, as I
am not in society.”
“That’s all right,” said Dwight-Rankin. “Hang on to me.”
“Waiter!” I said. “Two Martinis, please.”
“Dry,” said Dwight-Rankin. “Dry, waiter. And with a dash.”
It was luncheon time, and the foyer was crowded with people waiting for
each other whilst they passed the time of day with someone else. There
were many women with eager eyes and low heels. Dwight-Rankin said they
were American. There were many women with good complexions and large
feet. Dwight-Rankin said they were English. There was a young man who
looked like a pretty girl, except that his hair was long. Dwight-Rankin
said he was known as the Venus de Marlow and that his friends thought
him too marvellous. Pacing up and down was a French gentleman with
drooping ginger moustachios, a gardenia and a dog. Dwight-Rankin said
that he wore stays and that the dog was called “Hélöise and Abélard,”
and when I asked him how one dog came to be called “Hélöise and Abélard”
Dwight-Rankin said severely that even a dog must be called something.
“The man who owns him, her, it or them,” said Dwight-Rankin, “is the
Marquis des Beaux-Aces. He married a very rich American, but she turned
out to be a girl of strong character and instead of letting him spend
her money she spent all his and then divorced him for being incompetent.
He has never been the same man since, but he manages to make an honest
living by selling fancy needlework to Argentine polo-players. But you
will hear more of him when I tell you of the strange affair of Mrs. Amp
and Lady Surplice--of the late Mrs. Amp,” said Dwight-Rankin gloomily,
“and the late Lady Surplice. A great pity. By the way, are you lunching
with anyone?”