In widening circle round, forget their food,
And at the harmless stranger wondering gaze.’
Stefan Tilos considered himself a very ordinary man. He was genuinely surprised when so much interest was shown in his coming to live at Holmwood. After thinking about it, he came to the conclusion that it must be because the English were naturally gemütlich. They welcome a poor foreigner – Mr Tilos sometimes had rather ridiculous ideas about himself – into their midst as if he were one of themselves, he thought, not realizing that he was not, and never could be, anything so dull as one of themselves. He overlooked the importance of his being a foreigner and a Hungarian. Foreigners are rare in Shropshire, particularly Hungarians. For the inhabitants of Up Callow, Stefan Tilos had about him all the glamour of Budapest, against a background of mediaeval castles, tzigane bands and vampires. Above all, he was a single man, so far as anyone knew.
On the morning when he received the invitation to Adam and Cassandra’s party, Mr Tilos was sitting at breakfast in his dining room. From his window he could see a group of fir trees. He might almost be living in the middle of a thick forest, a Hungarian feudal lord in the heart of Shropshire. His friends in Budapest had thought he was mad to go and live in England. It was cold, they said, and always raining. London was nice, but the nightclubs were very expensive, though he must be sure to visit Quaglino’s. They had heard that Scotland was beautiful, but Shropshire, where was that? There must surely be many wolves in such a wild region. It was unfortunate that his business (something to do with importing and exporting commodities) should have made it necessary to leave the safety of the capital. Stefan would soon be back, they told themselves.
‘I’m beginning to wish we hadn’t asked this man,’ said Cassandra to Adam as they were getting ready for the party. ‘After all, we don’t really know anything about him.’
‘It is really very inconvenient to have invited anyone at all,’ said Adam. ‘I am so busy, I really ought not to spare the time.’
Cassandra sighed. ‘Well, you can always rush out to your study if you’re suddenly inspired,’ she said, for Adam’s inspiration was now coming very irregularly, and one never knew when to expect it. He had laid aside the novel about the gardener, as she had hoped, and was now at work on an epic poem, which was nearly as bad.
The first people to arrive were Mr Gay and his niece. When she greeted them Cassandra could not help exclaiming how well he looked.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Gay, ‘I have never felt better in my life.’
‘It’s the spring,’ said Miss Gay, who knew nothing of Mrs Gower’s wonderful tablets. ‘Isn’t the weather lovely?’
‘It is lovely,’ Cassandra agreed, ‘and all the flowers are coming out so beautifully.’
Miss Gay seemed very sprightly. Had there been other meetings between her and the romantic stranger? Could it be that they had discovered that they had other things in common besides Primus stoves?
‘What a delightful frock!’ said Miss Gay, taking Cassandra aside and speaking in a confidential feminine whisper. ‘That shade of blue suits you so well,’ she added, thinking how insipid it was.
‘When will this man arrive?’ asked Adam, coming up to them. ‘Will he be in native costume?’
‘Oh, Mr Marsh-Gibbon, how charming! But I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. Stefan is really quite English in his appearance.’ She brought out the Christian name with self-conscious pride. In fact, Mrs Gower had told her that she had seen his name on a trunk that was being taken into Holmwood, and Miss Gay had decided to use it. She felt that as she was the only person who had really spoken to him, she was justified in calling him by some more intimate name.
Adam looked at Miss Gay over the top of his spectacles. He often wore them when people came to the house, to make himself seem more learned, but he could not see through them very well as they were intended only for reading.
‘Am I to understand that you have got as far as that?’
Cassandra thought that he was getting rather silly and so, evidently, did the rector, for he joined the little group and asked Adam how he was getting on with his novel.
‘I have laid it aside,’ said Adam. ‘Temporarily,’ he added, imagining that he detected a look of disappointment on the rector’s face, although Cassandra, who had also been watching, suspected that it was relief.
‘Oh, but surely you will go on with it?’
‘Certainly, but in the autumn. I shall find it easier to write about the spring then. It is always better to recall one’s emotion in tranquillity.’
Cassandra smiled, wondering whether, when autumn came, Adam would find that there hadn’t been any emotion to be recollected at all. She rather hoped so.
‘Then you are taking a well-earned rest?’ said the rector.
‘Oh, no.’ Adam shook his head and a weary smile crept over his face. ‘I am at present contemplating an epic poem,’ he declared, raising his voice a little so that, as he had intended, all the other people in the room heard, stopped their trivial conversations, and edged nearer to hear more about it. ‘Dryden tells us that it is the greatest work of which the soul of man is capable,’ he went on impressively.
There was an admiring silence, during which nobody knew what to say. Then Mrs Gower remarked in an indulgent tone, as if she regarded him as a child who must be humoured, ‘My late husband once thought of writing an epic poem about King Arthur, but he never wrote more than fifty lines, as far as I can remember.’
‘And I suppose that wouldn’t be long enough for an epic?’ suggested Miss Gay, thinking distastefully of Paradise Lost.
‘Hardly,’ said the rector. ‘I imagine that length is an essential qualification, whatever else may be lacking.’
The door opened and Lily announced Mr Stefan Tilos. The stage was set for an impressive entrance. All the occupants of the room were crowded in one corner where they had been listening to Adam, and when the door opened they all turned automatically to see who it was.
Cassandra advanced to meet him. ‘I’m so glad you were able to come,’ she said.
‘It was most kind of you to ask me. But I am late, yes?’ He looked around him, smiling at everyone. ‘I am so sorry,’ he said.
‘Oh, not at all … ’
Cassandra gave him some sherry and began introducing him to people. She tried to do this as quickly as possible, as she had the uncomfortable feeling that Miss Gay was watching her and was ready to snatch Mr Tilos away, should she monopolize him for too long.
‘Ah, my Parisian friend,’ he said, when he saw Miss Gay.
Mr Gay looked at him sternly. How could this be? Angela had left Paris when she was a child.
The rector cleared his throat. ‘I daresay you will find that it is quieter here than in your part of the world,’ he said.
‘I came here for quiet,’ said Mr Tilos, ‘and I hope I will find it.’
Surely he isn’t writing an epic poem as well, thought Cassandra hopelessly. The town certainly could not hold two authors.
‘The country round here is very pleasant,’ ventured Mr Gay.
‘It is a healthy place, I think,’ said Mr Tilos.
‘Oh, no,’ interrupted Adam, ‘it isn’t. Not at all healthy,’ he declared gravely. ‘Too low lying.’
‘Perhaps he has come to lie low,’ said Miss Gay laughing. ‘After all, we know nothing of your past,’ she said provocatively looking up at Mr Tilos.
‘I must hope you will never discover anything,’ he replied in the same strain.
I think we are going to regret this man’s presence among us, reflected Mrs Gower. He was far too handsome to be let loose in a small town.
‘Are you staying here long?’ she asked.
‘Oh, yes, I hope that I stay many, many months.’
‘I expect you will find it tedious here,’ said Adam, ‘unless you like walking or riding.’
‘I like very much to hunt the wild boar,’ said Mr Tilos simply.
Even Adam was impressed by this. He imagined mediaeval castles and spacious forests with great dogs running about. The rector remembered the ceremony of bringing in the Boar’s Head at Queen’s College, Oxford. Cassandra thought of one of those false boar’s heads, made of galantine with a shiny brown surface, decorating a cold buffet table. Nobody knew what to say. It seemed hardly kind to tell Mr Tilos that he was unlikely to be able to indulge in his favourite sport in Shropshire.
He was standing by the fireplace with a happy smile on his face, almost as if he was smiling at some secret. This was, in fact, the case, and he could not very well reveal what it was. Being a susceptible man, he had fallen in love, at first sight, with Cassandra Marsh-Gibbon.