As soon as the ladies had withdrawn Wilfrid came round and sat beside Stephen. ‘Christmas is going to be perfectly hateful this year,’ he said with a sigh.
‘It’s going to be worse for me than for you,’ said Stephen.
Arthur helped himself to brandy. The glass was of the generous balloon shape, and held a lot. Arthur took handsome advantage of its capacity. Before Daisy’s watchful eyes he had been compelled, throughout dinner, to let the wine pass him by, and now he was naturally eager to make up for lost time. He gulped the brandy as though Bisquit Dubouché, nearly sixty years old, were meant to quench a man’s thirst. It quenched, more happily and almost immediately, his sense of reality. He set his elbows on the table and leaned forward to listen to the General and Sir Gervase. This was the kind of company he preferred above all other. A soldier and a proconsul! Arthur felt the twin flames of war and imperialism warm his heart. He also had been a soldier. He had helped, if not to build, at least to defend an empire. He waited impatiently for an opportunity to say so.
Sir Gervase was talking about a study he had read of the Mahratta campaigns. ‘Rapid movement, decisive action, and independent judgement were the reasons for our success,’ he declared.
‘There was damned little opportunity for any of those in the last war,’ said the General.
Arthur finished his brandy. ‘It’s interesting to hear you say that,’ he said to Sir Gervase: and turned with a bland smile to the General, ’because I once had a most unusual chance to exercise independent judgement, and also to show the effect of rapid movement.’
‘Where was that?’ asked the General.
‘At the battle of Cambrai,’ said Arthur.
The General grunted. His own war service had been confined to garrison duty in India.
A dreaming beatitude made Arthur’s eyes more soft and velvety, a deeper brown. He replenished his glass.’ We’d gone forward behind the tanks, you know,’ he said, ‘and really the first day was quite easy. We had to do some mopping-up of course’ – Arthur passed over this unpleasant detail with a deprecatory smile – ‘and the Fifty-First, poor devils, were held up for a while in front of Flesquières. But except for that it was really quite good going. We pushed on very fast, and cut round behind Flesquières – we and the Fifty-First – and to keep the story short we got to Fontaine-Notre-Dame, on one of the main roads to Cambrai, and found ourselves practically in open country. We’d gone right through the Boches, and there was really nothing to stop us from simply walking ahead.’
‘What about Bourlon Wood?’ asked the General.
‘Yes, they still held part of Bourlon Wood,’ said Arthur quickly, ‘but what I mean is that in front of us, actually in front of us, there was no opposition and the road to Cambrai was open. But of course we couldn’t do anything about it, because the men were exhausted, and we’d no reserves.’
‘You’d have had plenty of reserves if they hadn’t all been wasted at Passchendaele,’ said Sir Gervase fiercely. ‘Four hundred thousand casualties, and what did we get in return? Nothing, absolutely nothing!’
‘I think that’s arguable,’ said the General. ‘Very arguable indeed. Haig’s strategy wasn’t a narrow one. It was conceived in terms of the whole front.’
Arthur coughed impatiently. If Sir Gervase and the General began to debate the ethics and military value of Third Ypres, there would be no stopping them and his story would never be heard. ‘As I was saying,’ he continued, ‘we found ourselves, on the night of 21 November in possession of Fontaine-Notre-Dame, and the road to Cambrai was open before us. But we were utterly exhausted, and we couldn’t exploit the situation. It was maddening, simply maddening. And then, while I was looking round, you know, I found a bicycle, a German bicycle they’d left behind them, and I got an idea. It was a fantastic and a rather rash idea, but curiously enough I very nearly put it into practice, and if I’d been successful – well, I don’t believe in boasting and it was a forlorn hope from the beginning – but it almost came off, and if it had come off the battle of Cambrai would have been one of the decisive victories of the War.’
‘Oh, Arthur, how wonderful!’ cried Wilfrid; but the General and Sir Gervase looked very sceptical.
Arthur drank a little more brandy. ‘The bicycle had a good strong carrier,’ he said,’ and that’s really what put the idea into my head, because it was big enough to carry a box of Mills bombs. So without saying a word to anyone I got a box, and strapped it on, and set out for Cambrai. I don’t think I’ve ever had a more thrilling ride in my life, but I kept very cool: being on a bicycle helped me, because a bicycle is such a reasonable thing to ride, not a bit like a horse. It was very cold, and the road was rough and wet. I skidded and nearly fell two or three times. But except for that there was no danger. There were a few stragglers and walking-wounded on the road, and a gun or two in the ditch, and some French peasants who evidently thought the Germans were in full retreat. I remember ringing my bell to make them get out of the way, and somehow or other that seemed a very funny thing to do. Well, I came to the outskirts of Cambrai, and there was a good deal of confusion there. The streets were unlighted, of course, and there were a lot of people running about, and they all seemed very alarmed. But they didn’t pay any attention to me: did I tell you I was wearing a German tunic and steel helmet that I’d taken off a dead officer in Fontaine-Notre-Dame? They were quite a good fit, as it happened. Now my plans were naturally very vague, and a good lot depended on luck, but what I hoped to do was to create a panic in Cambrai and disorganize the nerve-centre of that part of the German army. As it happened I very nearly succeeded. There’s a big square in the middle of the town, it’s called the Place d’Armes, I think, and when I reached it I saw exactly what I wanted to see. On one side there was a battalion of infantry drawn up – all in the dark, you know, and I vividly remember the noise their boots made on the cobbles – curious how a thing like that sticks in one’s mind! – and on the other side, in front of a big building, the hôtel de ville, I expect, there was a group of officers: two or three generals, and a lot of staff officers, and any number of colonels. They were all very excited, and there was a great argument going on. This was the situation I’d been praying for! No other officer in the whole war had such a magnificent opportunity to exploit the element of surprise, and I was determined to do everything I could without thought of my own life or safety. Well, I dismounted about thirty yards away from them, and concealed myself and my bicycle behind a convenient corner. I unfastened the box of bombs and took one out. I pulled out the safety pin and flung back my arm in readiness to throw it.’
Arthur demonstrated the movement with his now empty glass.
‘Look here,’ demanded the General, ‘is this a true story?’
Very politely Arthur said, ‘I don’t think you served on the Western Front, sir, did you?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ said the General, ‘but I’ve talked to a hundred people who did, and I’ve read a score of books …’
‘Books are almost useless,’ said Arthur. ‘The only people who really know what happened during the war are humble regimental officers like myself. I could tell you any number of remarkable occurrences that no historian has ever so much as mentioned, that no historian ever will mention, and, perhaps, that no historian would believe. There was, for example, a really vital mishap at Monchy…’
‘Oh, tell us about the bomb,’ cried Wilfrid. ‘I’m dying to know what happened. Did you really throw it?’
‘Ah yes, the bomb,’ said Arthur. ‘Yes, I threw it, and two more in quick succession.’
‘And blew them all up?’
Arthur shrugged his shoulders. With an expression that signified a humorous resignation to misfortune he reached for the brandy: ‘If I had, as you say, blown them all up, the rest of the war might have taken a very different course. But the bombs didn’t burst. One of them hit a staff officer in the face, but that was all the damage they did. By some mischance the detonators hadn’t been put in, and a Mills bomb’, he explained to Wilfrid, ‘will not explode unless there’s a detonator in it. It was my own fault, I admit. I should have examined them. But I was, not unnaturally, I think, somewhat excited by my venture, and I forgot to do so.’
‘And how did you manage to get back?’ asked Wilfrid.
‘There was a great uproar, but the confusion helped me. I rode right across the square, shouting as loudly as I could, in German, of course, and then unfortunately I got lost. I turned into a very narrow street, almost a cul-de-sac, for the only way out of it was by a little passage between two houses. I got off my bicycle, and suddenly a door opened and a woman spoke to me. Now what she said was one of the most astounding things I’ve ever heard.’
Sir Gervase interrupted him. ‘Talking of women,’ he said, ‘I think it’s time we joined the ladies.’
The General, who for some time had barely concealed his impatience, agreed with him. Mr Peabody was already on his feet.
‘What a marvellous adventure,’ said Wilfrid, following them to the drawing-room.
‘I wish they had let me finish it,’ said Arthur. ‘The next part was still more interesting. It was a green bicycle, you see, and green is rny lucky colour.’
Mrs Ramboise summoned Katherine, Sir Gervase, and Mr Peabody to play bridge. Bolivia, who had had a long and friendly talk with Jane, took charge of Stephen.
‘Poor old man,’ she said, ‘have you had a very boring evening? I know you didn’t enjoy yourself at dinner, and I don’t suppose things were any more amusing after we left.’
‘They talked about the War,’ said Stephen.
‘Well, daddy’s interested in that sort of thing, of course.’
‘It was Arthur who did most of the talking.’
‘He had a lot of adventures in France, hadn’t he? Let’s go into the little parlour and talk quietly for a while, and you can have a rest. I don’t want you to get tired out before Saturday.’
The little parlour opened off the drawing-room. It contained a sofa, a couple of chairs, a writing-table, a bookcase, and two pictures of roses painted in oil. The window was heavily curtained and so was the door. It was a comfortable little room.
Bolivia sat on the sofa and invitingly patted the place beside her. Stephen dully accepted the invitation.
‘Darling,’ she said,’ I know you’re not feeling very happy, but everything will be quite different after Saturday. We’re going to have a lovely time as soon as we get away from all these people. Won’t it be heavenly, just you and me, all by ourselves, in Lauterbrunnen?’
‘Lauterbrunnen isn’t a desert island, is it?’
‘Silly Stephen! You know perfectly well what I mean. Oh, we’re going to be terribly happy! And being married to me is going to do you a lot of good too. I’m not going to let you wear rings, for one thing, and I’m going to see that you get plenty of exercise, and then you won’t need that bismuth stuff that you’re always taking. You’ve no idea how much I’m going to enjoy looking after you. Kiss me, Stephen.’
‘No, I don’t feel like it tonight.’
‘Just a little one.’
‘No, really, I hate being pawed and messed about.’
‘Silly Stephen!’ repeated Bolivia, but now in a somewhat harder tone. Stephen turned petulantly away from her, but Bolivia, with a strong arm, pulled him backwards and clutched his head to her bosom. Stooping, she kissed him several times with the gusto of victory.
‘Oh, stop it!’ cried Stephen. ‘Let me go, Bolivia!’
He struggled to free himself, his large plump body writhing, half on and half off the sofa, his pale face flushed, his shirt front crackling. Excited by the contest, Bolivia bent to kiss him again. Stephen twisted his head away, and Bolivia, with a sudden disastrous madness, fastened her teeth in the lobe of his left ear.
It was a painful bite. Her teeth drew blood. And on the instant the hideous memory returned to Stephen of that afternoon in Florence when Giulia Whats-her-name had assaulted him. He saw again the dreadful turmoil in the Via Tosinghi: waiters gesticulating, the soap-smeared shouting men from the barber’s, the shining razors, the crowd gathering in the sunshine between the striped awnings, the coming of the Carabinieri. He heard Giulia’s shrill voice, he felt himself pulled again into that vortex of fear and embarrassment. His nerves, ragged already, fretted by weeks of emotion, snapped like the check-chains at the launching of a liner: and panic slid free. He sprang to the door. The curtain got in his way, and Bolivia nearly caught him. But just in time he pulled it aside, tugged open the door, and hurled himself into the startled drawing-room.
He traversed it like a bolting horse. He knocked down chairs and a table. He frightened Hilary and all her guests. He cried shrilly to Wilfrid to come and help him, and reaching the farthest door disappeared from view.
Bolivia, noticeably slower but with an expression of fierce determination, ran after him. But Wilfrid, gallantly sticking out his foot, tripped her and brought her to the floor.
There was an outcry of confused expostulation, inquiry, and fear: ‘He’s gone musth! shouted Sir Gervase. ‘Give me a gun! We’ve got to stop him. Where can I find a gun? He’s dangerous, I tell you. He’s gone musth! Surely there’s a gun of some kind in the house?’
‘Don’t be a silly old man!’ explained Hilary. ‘Oh, Bolivia, whatever have you done to him?’
While Bolivia was annotating the catastrophe, as best she could, Wilfrid hurried after Stephen and found him, bareheaded and dishevelled, walking swiftly down the drive. Wilfrid hailed and pursued him.
‘I’ve come to take you home,’ he said. ‘Now don’t start explaining, because there’s no need to. I’ve been expecting something of this kind to happen all the time, and you mustn’t worry about it, or be afraid of anything. I’m going to look after you now. We’re going straight home …’
‘But you’re taking me back to the house,’ said Stephen.
‘Only to get a car,’ said Wilfrid. ‘That will be quicker than walking. I think we’ll take Bolivia’s, shall we?’
There were three cars in front of the house, and Bolivia’s was the leading one. Stephen, whose panic had left him dazed and acquiescent, got in, and Wilfrid made a flying start as Bolivia and the General appeared at the front door.
‘They’ll follow us!’ cried Stephen, once more alarmed.
‘But they won’t catch us,’ said Wilfrid, and swung out of the drive with reckless speed.
Neither spoke again till they reached Mulberry Acre. Stephen, more sensitive to cold as his excitement waned, was shivering slightly. But Wilfrid was filled with triumph and drove with exultant speed. Like silver scissors ripping an old black coat, his headlights tore the darkness. The rushing tyres shrieked their defiance of the road. The cylinders purred their swift delight and the divided air, meeting behind, clapped its hands. Every lamp-post rose to the salute as they approached, and doubled-down with friendly laughter as they passed. Their invading gleams made Wilfrid’s fair hair shine, and lit the heroic gladness of his face. He had, like so many heroes, rescued his friend from dire peril. He was, perhaps, like Britomart when she saved Amoret from the enchanter Busyrane and the foul mansion where cruel Cupid, riding on a ravenous lion, for ever led Reproach, Repentance, Shame, Strife, Anger, and Unthriftihood, Disloyalty, Infirmity, Poverty, and Death, in the Masque of Love. And like Britomart, Wilfrid found ample reward for his exertion in the thought of Stephen’s escape from such company; like Amoret, Stephen had already begun to feed on hope.
Wilfrid swerved across the road and stopped abruptly by the little gate that led to Mulberry Acre. They hurried into the house. Wilfrid turned on the light and saw for the first time the damage done to Stephen’s ear. Had Stephen submitted to the caress he might have suffered no hurt; but as it happened Bolivia’s teeth had slightly torn the skin.
‘She bit me,’ Stephen explained.
‘But that’s dreadful,’ said Wilfrid indignantly. ‘Why, it’s nothing short of vandalism! I shan’t have a scrap of sympathy for her now, whatever she says. A woman who can do a thing like that is a perfect fiend. For goodness’ sake go upstairs and wash it, Stephen, and dab some iodine on it, or you’ll get blood-poisoning.’
‘They may come after us,’ said Stephen.
‘Go upstairs and bathe your ear,’ Wilfrid repeated. ‘I’ll lock the doors and put the house in a state of defence. Mrs Barrow will help us, won’t you, Mrs Barrow?’
Mrs Barrow was indeed willing to help, as soon as she had been told what had happened. ‘We’ll give her a warm welcome if she has the impudence to come here again!’ she declared; and with much puffing and panting pushed a table against the front door and piled a couple of chairs on top of it.
‘Are all the windows fastened?’ asked Wilfrid.
‘They are, Mr Wilfrid, but she might break them.’
‘We’ll go upstairs and keep guard from the guest-room, and if she tries to do that we’ll bombard her.’
The guest-room overlooked the front door. In preparation for the new regime it had lately been used as a dump for wedding-presents, surplus furniture, pictures, and books that Bolivia had removed from the downstairs shelves to make room for her own collection of schoolgirl, romantic, and golfing literature. There was, then, plenty of ammunition available, should Bolivia try to force an entrance. Among the books were the forty volumes of the selected works of Lope de Vega, that Stephen had once bought with the hope of discovering, in the works of the prolific Spaniard, plots, characters, and situations that he could use in a modern context. But as he had never fulfilled his intention of learning Spanish, Lope had been of no profit to him.
Wilfrid opened the casement window and waited anxiously. Presently he heard a car approach and stop. The sound of voices broke through the darkness: angry voices, the one rising clear and coppery as when a well-bred Englishwoman berates a porter or commands a foreigner, the other brusque and decisive as when 94 Piccadilly interprets Pacifism.’ She’s brought her father,’ whispered Wilfrid.
Bolivia leading, the invaders arrived and knocked loudly at the door.
‘What do you want?’ asked Wilfrid from the window.
Bolivia looked up, and shouted,’ I want to see Stephen, of course.’
‘Well, you can’t see him,’ said Wilfrid.
‘Look here,’ roared the General, ‘my daughter’s been insulted …’
‘And my friend’s been bitten,’ said Wilfrid.
‘Open the door!’ bellowed the General.
‘This is a private house,’ said Wilfrid, ‘and you’ve no claim to admission when the occupants obviously don’t desire your company.’
‘Where’s Stephen?’ cried Bolivia. ‘I’ve a right to see him, and I’m going to see him.’
‘If you don’t come down and let us in, you’ll suffer for it, young man!’
Bolivia hammered on the door, and Mrs Barrow handed Wilfrid, two volumes of Lope de Vega. They were Jerusalen Conquistada and El Galán Castrucho. ‘Here you are,’ she said. ‘Knock their blooming heads off!’
‘If you don’t go away I shall have to resort to violence,’ said Wilfrid sternly.
‘I demand to see Stephen!’ shouted Bolivia,. ‘I’m not going to leave here till I settle with him. Stephen! Stephen!’
‘Will you go away, or will you take the consequences?’ asked Wilfrid.
‘Open the door, you puppy!’ roared the General.
Jerusalen Conquistada flew down the cold night air and knocked his hat off. El Galán Castrucho followed. It opened its leaves in the outflowing light, it flapped in the darkness, and fell like a shot wood-pigeon at Bolivia’s feet. She jumped backwards into the winter soil of an herbaceous border.
‘Here’s plenty more,’ said Mrs Barrow, and gave Wilfrid Las Fortunas de Diana, El Maestro de Danzar, Las Flores de Don Juan, and several other plays, novels, and pastorals. In rapid succession Wilfrid hurled them at the enemy. The air was noisy with the fluttering of Spanish drama, the General’s oaths, and Bolivia’s indignant outcry. Las Fortunas de Diana scored a hit, and so did the Arte Nuevo de Comedias.
Some thirty volumes had descended – and effectively restrained the invaders from further attack upon the door – when the third car arrived, bringing Hilary, Arthur, and Mr Peabody.
‘My God, there’s more of them!’ cried Mrs Barrow, and feverishly began to load the table at Wilfrid’s side with fresh ammunition: wedding-presents now, travelling clocks, toast-racks, etchings of Lammiter Bridge and the Fifteenth Century house in Green Street, decanters, hock glasses, walking sticks, a cushion, a patent putter, napkin-rings, a fruit dish, finger-bowls, book-ends, and so forth.
‘Wait a minute,’ said Wilfrid, ‘let’s see what they’re going to do.’
It was soon apparent that the newcomers were not reinforcements for the attack. They were, indeed, a relieving force. Hilary took Bolivia by the arm and talked to her severely about her folly. Mr Peabody lectured the General on the rights of householders and the sanctity of private property.
‘But he’s insulted my daughter,’ shouted the General.
‘To force an entry into a private house’, said Mr Peabody, ‘is a very serious offence, and however grave the provocation I fear no magistrate would excuse your taking the law into your own hands in so violent and unwarrantable a manner. I myself am not only a lawyer, but a Justice of the Peace …’
‘So am I!’ said the General.
While this discussion was proceeding, Mrs Barrow observed that Stephen had entered the room. ‘Why here’s Mr Stephen,’ she said. ‘Oh, what a dreadful injury you’ve got!’
Stephen had put on a dressing-gown. He had also bedaubed his ear and the adjacent part of his cheek so lavishly with iodine as to resemble a skewbald pony. Mrs Barrow closely examined the punctured lobe. ‘There now,’ she said, ‘it’s not so bad as I thought it was. That’ll be all right in a day or two.’
‘It’s very painful,’ said Stephen.
‘Well, we don’t have to worry any more,’ said Mrs Barrow. ‘Not with Mr Wilfrid here to protect us. He’s been a perfect hero, Mr Stephen. You ought to have heard him telling off the General!’
‘I did,’ said Stephen.
‘Didn’t I do it beautifully!’ asked Wilfrid, his face flushed and his eyes shining with delight. ‘Oh, I’ve been having a lovely time. I’ve never felt so brave in my life before.’
‘What are they doing now?’ asked Stephen, and went to the window. He carried two pillows with him.
The disputing groups had coalesced. The General and Bolivia were still protesting. Hilary and Arthur and Mr Peabody were yet persuading. But the latter were now dominant, and all five were gradually moving away. Stephen leaned out of the window and viciously hurled his pillows after them – white, soft, and heavy, they sailed through the air and mistook their targets; for one took Mr Peabody on the nape of his neck, and the other struck Arthur somewhat lower down.
‘Why didn’t you throw a clock or a picture at them?’ asked Mrs Barrow. ‘There wasn’t any need to dirty two nice clean pillows.’
‘They were the pillows off Miss Ramboise’s double bed,’ said Stephen, and slammed the window.