The Complete Short Stories of Evelyn Waugh - Evelyn Waugh [115]
“I do, indeed.”
“Human beings without human interest.”
“Very true. I . . .”
“Well, I’ve cut human beings out altogether.”
“Sounds rather like an old-fashioned ballet.”
“Exactly,” Roger said with great pleasure. “It is an old-fashioned ballet. I knew you’d understand. Poor old Benwell couldn’t. The Finsbury International Theatre are sitting on it now, and if it’s orthodox—and I think it is—they may put it on this summer if Lucy finds the money.”
“Is she keen too?”
“Well, not very, as a matter of fact. You see, she’s having a baby and that seems to keep her interested at the moment.”
“But to return to the question of my hats . . .”
“I tell you what. Why don’t you buy a nice quiet house in the country. I shall want somewhere to stay while this baby is born.”
There was the rub. It was precisely this fear that had been working in my mind for days, the fear of making myself a sitting shot to the world. It lay at the root of the problem of privacy; the choice which torments to the verge of mania, between perpetual flight and perpetual siege; and the unresolved universal paradox of losing things in order to find them.
“Surely that is odd advice from a communist?”
Roger became suddenly wary; he had been caught and challenged in loose talk. “Ideally, of course, it would be,” he said. “But I daresay that in practice, for the first generation, we shall allow a certain amount of private property where its value is purely sentimental. Anyway, any investment you make now is bound to be temporary. That’s why I feel no repugnance about living on Lucy’s money . . .” Marxist ethics kept him talking until we had finished luncheon. Over the coffee he referred to Ingres as a “bourgeois” painter. When he left me I sat for some time in the leather armchair finishing my cigar. The club was emptying as the younger members went back to their work and their elders padded off to the library for the afternoon nap. I belonged to neither world. I had nothing whatever to do. At three in the afternoon my friends would all be busy and, in any case, I did not want to see them. I was ready for a new deal. I climbed to my room, began re-reading the early chapters of Murder at Mountrichard Castle, put it from me and faced the boredom of an afternoon in London. Then the telephone rang and the porter said, “Mr. Thurston is downstairs to see you.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Thurston. He says he has an appointment.”
“I don’t know anything about him. Will you ask what he wants?”
A pause: “Mr. Thurston says will you see him very particular.”
“Very well, I’ll come down.”
A tall young man in a raincoat was standing in the hall. He had reddish hair and an unusually low, concave forehead. He looked as though he had come to sell some hopelessly unsuitable commodity and had already despaired of success.
“Mr. Thurston?” He took my hand in a savage grip. “You say you have an appointment with me. I am afraid I don’t remember it.”
“No, well, you see I thought we ought to have a yarn, and you know how suspicious these porter-fellows are at clubs. I knew you wouldn’t mind my stretching a point.” He spoke with a kind of fierce jauntiness. “I had to give up my club. Couldn’t run to it.”
“Perhaps you will tell me what I can do for you.”
“I used to belong to the Wimpole. I expect you know it?”
“I’m not sure that I do.”
“No? You would have liked it. I could have taken you there and introduced you to some of the chaps.”
“That, I gather, is now impossible.”
“Yes. It’s a pity. There are some good scouts there. I daresay you know the Batchelors?”
“Yes. Were you a member there, too?”
“Yes, at least not exactly, but a great pal of mine was—Jimmie Grainger. I expect you’ve often run across Jimmie?”
“No, I don’t think I have.”
“Funny. Jimmie knows almost everyone. You’d like him. I must bring you together.” Having failed to establish contact, Thurston seemed now to think that responsibility for the conversation devolved on me.
“Mr. Thurston,” I said, “is there