The Complete Short Stories of Evelyn Waugh - Evelyn Waugh [9]
“Ah, yes, a delightful work. Yes, yes, marvellous style,” and he turns the pages fondly, “‘The large stations of the dead,’ what a noble phrase.” He looks at the cover and wipes it with his sleeve. “Why, I had forgotten I had this copy. It used to belong to Horace Walpole, only someone has stolen the bookplate—the rascal. Still, it was only the Oxford one—the armorial one, you know. Well, well, sir, since you have found it I suppose you have the right to claim it. Five guineas, shall I say. But I hate to part with it.”
The purchaser is a discerning man. Had he seen this same book baldly described in a catalogue he would not have paid half this price for it in its present condition, but the excitement of pursuit and the pride of discovery more even than the legends of Strawberry Hill have distorted his sense of values. One cannot haggle with Mr. Macassor as with some mere tradesman in Charing Cross Road. The purchaser pays and goes away triumphant. It is thus that Mr. Macassor’s son at Magdalen is able to keep his rooms full of flowers and, during the season, to hunt two days a week.
Enter Adam from a taxi laden with books. Mr. Macassor offers him snuff from an old tortoiseshell box.
“IT’S A SAD THING TO HAVE TO SELL BOOKS, MR. DOURE. Very sad. I remember as if it was yesterday, Mr. Stevenson coming in to me to sell his books, and will you believe it, Mr. Doure, when it came to the point, after we had arranged everything, his heart failed him and he took them all away again. A great book-lover, Mr. Stevenson.”
Mr. Macassor adjusts his spectacles and examines, caressingly, but like some morbid lover fastening ghoulishly upon every imperfection.
“Well, and how much were you expecting for these?”
Adam hazards, “Seventeen pounds,” but Mr. Macassor shakes his head sadly.
Five minutes later he leaves the shop with ten pounds and gets into his taxi.
PADDINGTON STATION.
Adam in the train to Oxford; smoking, his hands deep in his overcoat pockets.
“’E’s thinking of ’er.”
OXFORD.
KNOW YOU HER SECRET NONE CAN UTTER; HERS OF THE BOOK, THE TRIPLE CROWN? Art title showing Book and Triple Crown; also Ox in ford.
General prospect of Oxford from the train showing reservoir, gas works and part of the prison. It is raining.
The station; two Indian students have lost their luggage. Resisting the romantic appeal of several hansom cabdrivers—even of one in a grey billycock hat, Adam gets into a Ford taxi. Queen Street, Carfax, the High Street, Radcliffe Camera in the distance.
“Look, Ada, St. Paul’s Cathedral.”
King Edward Street. The cab stops and Adam gets out.
LORD BASINGSTOKE’S ROOMS.
KING EDWARD STREET.
Interior of Lord Basingstoke’s rooms. On the chimneypiece are photographs of Lord Basingstoke’s mother and two of Lord Basingstoke’s friends, wearing that peculiarly inane and serene smile only found during the last year at Eton and then only in photographs. Some massive glass paper weights and cards of invitation.
On the walls are large coloured caricatures of Basil Hay drawn by himself at Eton, an early nineteenth-century engraving of Lord Basingstoke’s home; two unfinished drawings by Ernest Vaughan of the Rape of the Sabines and a wool picture of two dogs and a cat.
Lord Basingstoke, contrary to all expectation, is neither drinking, gaming, nor struggling with his riding boots; he is engaged on writing a Collections Paper for his tutor.
Lord Basingstoke’s paper in a pleasant, childish handwriting.
“BRADLAUGH v. GOSSETT. THIS FAMOUS TEST CASE FINALLY ESTABLISHED THE DECISION THAT MARSHAL LAW IS UNKNOWN IN ENGLAND.”
He crosses out “marshal” and puts “martial”; then sits biting his pen sadly.
“Adam, how lovely; I had no idea you were in Oxford.”
They talk for a little while.
“RICHARD, CAN YOU DINE WITH ME TONIGHT. YOU MUST. I’M HAVING A FAREWELL BLIND.” Richard looks sadly at his Collections Paper and shakes his head.
“My dear, I simply can’t. I’ve got to get this finished by tonight. I’m probably going to be sent down as it is.”
Adam returns