Vile Bodies by Evelyn Waugh
“My dear, from all I hear, I think they do.”
“Oh, to be young again, Kitty. When I think, my dear, of all the trouble and exertion which we had to go through to be even moderately bad… those passages in the early morning, and mama sleeping next door.”
“And yet, my dear, I doubt very much whether they really appreciate it all as much as we should… young people take things so much for granted. Si la jeunesse savait.”
“Si la vieillesse pouvait, Kitty.”
Later that evening Mr. Outrage stood almost alone in the supper room drinking a glass of champagne. Another episode in his life was closed, another of those tantalizing glimpses of felicity capriciously withdrawn. Poor Mr. Outrage, thought Mr. Outrage; poor, poor old Outrage, always just on the verge of revelation, of some sublime and transfiguring experience; always frustrated… Just Prime Minister, nothing more, bullied by his colleagues, a source of income to low caricaturists. Was Mr. Outrage an immortal soul, thought Mr. Outrage; had he wings, was he free and unconfined, was he born for eternity? He sipped his champagne, fingered his ribbon of the Order of Merit, and resigned himself to the dust.
Presently he was joined by Lord Metroland and Father Rothschild.
“Margot’s left—gone on to some party in an airship. I’ve been talking to Lady Anchorage for nearly an hour about the younger generation.”
“Everyone seems to have been talking about the younger generation tonight. The most boring subject I know.”
“Well, after all, what does all this stand for if there’s going to be no one to carry it on?”
“All what?” Mr. Outrage looked round the supper room, deserted save for two footmen who leaned against the walls looking as waxen as the clumps of flowers sent up that morning from hothouses in the country. “What does all what stand for?”
“All this business of government.”
“As far as I’m concerned it stands for a damned lot of hard work and precious little in return. If those young people can find a way to get on without it, good luck to them.”
“I see what Metroland means,” said Father Rothschild.
“Blessed if I do. Anyway I’ve got no children myself, and I’m thankful for it. I don’t understand them, and I don’t want to. They had a chance after the war that no generation has ever had. There was a whole civilization to be saved and remade—and all they seem to do is to play the fool. Mind you, I’m all in favor of them having a fling. I dare say that Victorian ideas were a bit straitlaced. Saving your cloth, Rothschild, it’s only human nature to run a bit loose when one’s young. But there’s something wanton about these young people today. That stepson of yours, Metroland, and that girl of poor old Chasm’s and young Throbbing’s brother.”
“Don’t you think,” said Father Rothschild gently, “that perhaps it is all in some way historical? I don’t think people ever want to lose their faith either in religion or anything else. I know very few young people, but it seems to me that they are all possessed with an almost fatal hunger for permanence. I think all these divorces show that. People aren’t content just to muddle along nowadays… And this word ‘bogus’ they all use… They won’t make the best of a bad job nowadays. My private schoolmaster used to say, ‘If a thing’s worth doing at all, it’s worth doing well.’ My Church has taught that in different words for several centuries. But these young people have got hold of another end of the stick, and for all we know it may be the right one. They say, ‘If a thing’s not worth doing well, it’s not worth doing at all.’ It makes everything very difficult for them.”
“Good heavens, I should think it did. What a darned silly principle. I mean to say, if one didn’t do anything that wasn’t worth doing well—why, what would one do? I’ve always maintained that success in this world depends on knowing exactly how little effort each job is worth… distribution of energy… And, I suppose, most people would admit that I was a pretty successful man.”
“Yes, I suppose they would, Outrage,” said Father Rothschild, looking at him rather quizzically.
But that self-accusing voice in the Prime Minister’s heart was silent. There was nothing like a little argument for settling the mind. Everything became so simple as soon as it was put into words.
“And anyway, what do you mean by ‘historical’?”
“Well, it’s like this war that’s coming…”
“What war?” said the Prime Minister sharply. “No one has said anything to me about a war. I really think I should have been told. I’ll be damned,” he said defiantly, “if they shall have a war without consulting me. What’s a Cabinet for if there’s not more mutual confidence than that? What do they want a war for, anyway?”
“That’s the whole point. No one talks about it, and no one wants it. No one talks about it because no one wants it. They’re all afraid to breathe a word about it.”
“Well, hang it all, if no one wants it, who’s going to make them have it?”
“Wars don’t start nowadays because people want them. We long for peace, and fill our newspapers with conferences about disarmament and arbitration, but there is a radical instability in our whole world order, and soon we shall all be walking into the jaws of destruction again, protesting our pacific intentions.”
“Well, you seem to know all about it,” said Mr. Outrage, “and I think I should have been told sooner. This will have to mean a coalition with that old windbag Brown, I suppose.”
“Anyhow,” said Lord Metroland, “I don’t see how all that explains why my stepson should drink like a fish and go about everywhere with a negress.”
“I think they’re connected, you know,” said Father Rothschild. “But it’s all very difficult.”
Then they separated.
Father Rothschild pulled on a pair of overall trousers in the forecourt and, mounting his motor cycle, disappeared into the night, for he had many people to see and much business to transact before he went to bed.
Lord Metroland left the house in some depression. Margot had taken the car, but it was scarcely five minutes’ walk to Hill Street. He took a vast cigar from his case, lit it and sank his chin in the astrakhan collar of his coat, conforming almost exactly to the popular conception of a highly enviable man. But his heart was heavy. What a lot of nonsense Rothschild had talked. At least he hoped it was nonsense.
By ill fortune he arrived on the doorstep to find Peter Pastmaster fumbling with the lock, and they entered together. Lord Metroland noticed a tall hat on the table by the door. “Young Trumpington’s, I suppose,” he thought. His stepson did not once look at him, but made straight for the stairs, walking unsteadily, his hat on the back of his head, his umbrella still in his hand.
“Good night, Peter,” said Lord Metroland.
“Oh, go to hell,” said his stepson thickly, then, turning on the stairs, he added, “I’m going abroad tomorrow for a few weeks. Will you tell my mother?”
“Have a good time,” said Lord Metroland. “You’ll find it just as cold everywhere, I’m afraid. Would you care to take the yacht? No one’s using it.”
“Oh, go to hell.”
Lord Metroland went into the study to finish his cigar. It would be awkward if he met young Trumpington on the stairs. He sat down in a very comfortable chair… A radical instability Rothschild had said, radical instability… He looked round his study and saw shelves of books—the Dictionary of National Biography, the Encyclopaedia Britannica in an early and very bulky edition, Who’s Who, Debrett, Burke, Whitaker, several volumes of Hansard, some Blue Books and Atlases—a safe in the corner painted green with a brass handle, his writing table, his secretary’s table, some very comfortable chairs and some very businesslike chairs, a tray with decanters and a plate of sandwiches, his evening mail laid out on the table… radical instability, indeed. How like poor old Outrage to let himself get taken in by that charlatan of a Jesuit.
He heard the front door open and shut behind Alastair Trumpington.
Then he rose and went quietly upstair
Quarter of a mile away the Duchess of Stayle went, as she always did, to say good night to her eldest daughter. She crossed the room and drew up the window a few inches, for it was a cold and raw night. Then she went over to the bed and smoothed the pillow.
“Good night, dear child,” she said. “I thought you looked sweet tonight.”
Lady Ursula wore a white cambric nightgown with a little yoke collar and long sleeves. Her hair hung in two plaits.
“Mama,” she said. “Edward proposed to me tonight.”
“Darling. What a funny girl you are. Why didn’t you tell me before? You weren’t frightened, were you? You know that your father and I are delighted at anything that makes our little girl happy.”
“Well, I said I wouldn’t marry him… I’m sorry.”
“But, my dear, it’s nothing to be sorry about. Leave it to your old mother. I’ll put it all right for you in the morning.”
“But, Mama, I don’t want to marry him. I didn’t know until it actually came to the point. I’d always meant to marry him, as you know. But somehow, when he actually asked me… I just couldn’t.”
“There, dear child, you mustn’t worry any more. You know perfectly well, don’t you, that your father and I would not let you do anything you didn’t want. It’s a matter that only you can decide. After all, it’s your life and your happiness at stake, not ours, isn’t it, Ursula?… but I think you’d better marry Edward.”
“But, Mama, I don’t want to… I couldn’t… it would kill me!”
“Now, now, my pet mustn’t worry her head about it anymore. You know your father and I only want your happiness, dear one. No one is going to make my darling girl do anything she doesn’t want to… Papa shall see Edward in the morning and make everything all right… dear Lady Anchorage was only saying tonight what a lovely bride you will make.”
“But, Mama…”
“Not another word, dear child. It’s very late and you’ve got to look your best for Edward tomorrow, haven’t you, love?”
The Duchess closed the door softly and went to her own room. Her husband was in his dressing room.
“Andrew.”
“What is it, dear? I’m saying my prayers.”
“Edward proposed to Ursula tonight.”
“Ah!”
“Aren’t you glad?”
“I told you, dear, I’m trying to say my prayers.”
“It’s a real joy to see the dear children so happy.”
Nine
At luncheon time next day Adam rang up Nina.
“Nina, darling, are you awake?”
“Well, I wasn’t…”
“Listen, do you really want me to go and see your papa today?”
“Did we say you were going to?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To say could we be married now I had a job.”
“I remember… yes, go and see him, darling. It would be nice to be married.”
“But, listen, what about my page?”
“What page, angel?”
“My page in the Excess… my job, you know.”
“Oh… well, look… Ginger and I will write that for you.”
“Wouldn’t that be a bore?”
“I think it would be divine. I know just the sort of things you say… I expect Ginger does too by now, the poor angel… how he did enjoy himself last night… I’m going to sleep now… such a pain… good-bye, my sweet.”
Adam had some luncheon. Agatha Runcible was at the next table with Archie Schwert. She said they were all going to some motor races next day. Would Adam and Nina come, too. Adam said yes. Then he went to Aylesbury.
There were two women on the other side of the carriage, and they, too, were talking about the Younger Generation.
“… and it’s a very good position, too, for a boy of that age, and I’ve told him and his father told him. ‘You ought to think yourself lucky,’ I’ve said, ‘to get a good position like that in these days, particularly when it’s so hard to get a position at all of any kind or sort.’ And there’s Mrs. Hemingway with her son next door who left school eighteen months ago, and there he is kicking his heels about the house all day and doing nothing, and taking a correspondence course in civil engineering. ‘It’s a very good position,’ I told him, ‘and, of course, you can’t expect work to be interesting, though no doubt after a time you get used to it just as your father’s done, and would probably miss it if you hadn’t it to do’—you know how Alfred gets on his holidays, doesn’t know what to do with himself half the time, just looks at the sea and says, ‘Well, this is a change,’ and then starts wondering how things are at the office. Well, I told Bob that, but it’s no good, and all he wants to do is to go into the motor business; well, as I said to him, the motor business is all right for them that have influence, but what could Bob hope to do throwing up a good job, too, and with nothing to fall back on supposing things did go wrong. But, no, Bob is all for motors, and, of course, you know it doesn’t really do having him living at home. He and his father don’t get on. You can’t have two men in a house together and both wanting the bath at the same time, and I suppose it’s only natural that Bob should feel he ought to have his own way a bit more now that he’s earning his own money. But, then, what is he to do? He can’t go and live on his own with his present salary, and I shouldn’t be any too pleased to see him doing it even if he could afford it—you know what it is with young people, how easy it is to get into mischief when they’re left to themselves. And there are a great many of Bob’s friends now that I don’t really approve of, not to have in and out of the house, you know the way they do come. He meets them at the hockey club he goes to Saturdays. And they’re most of them earning more money than he is, or, at any rate, they seem to have more to throw about, and it isn’t good for a boy being about with those that have more money than him. It only makes him discontented. And I did think at one time that perhaps Bob was thinking of Betty Rylands, you know Mrs. Rylands’ girl at the Laurels, such nice people, and they used to play tennis together and people remarked how much they were about, but now he never seems to pay any attention to her, it’s all his hockey friends, and I said one Saturday, ‘Wouldn’t you like to ask Betty over to tea?’ and he said, ‘Well, you can if you like,’ and she came looking ever so sweet, and, would you believe it, Bob went out and didn’t come in at all until suppertime. Well, you can’t expect any girl to put up with that, and now she’s practically engaged to that young Anderson boy who’s in the wireless business.”
“Well, and there’s our Lily now. You know how she would go in for being a manicurist. Her father didn’t like it, and for a long time he wouldn’t have it at all. He said it was just an excuse for holding hands, but, anyway, I said, ‘If that’s what the girl wants to do, and if she can make good money doing it, I think you ought to be able to trust your own daughter better than to stand in her way.’ I’m a modern, you see. ‘We’re not living in the Victorian Age,’ I told him. Well, she’s in a very nice job. Bond Street—and they treat her very fair, and we’ve no complaints on that score, but now there’s this man she’s met there—he’s old enough to be her father—well, middle-aged anyway—but very smart, you know, neat little gray mustache, absolute gentleman, with a Morris Oxford saloon. And he comes and takes her out for drives Sundays, and sometimes he fetches her after work and takes her to the pictures, and always most polite and well spoken to me and my husband, just as you’d expect, seeing the sort of man he is, and he sent us all tickets for the theater the other night. Very affable, calls me ‘Ma,’ if you please… and, anyway, I hope there’s no harm in it…”
“Now our Bob…”
They got out at Berkhamsted, and a man got in who wore a bright brown suit and spent his time doing sums, which never seemed to come right, in a little notebook with a stylographic pen. “Has he given all to his daughters?” thought Adam.
“Hi! You can’t go that way. They’re shooting in front. Go round by the stables, whoever you are.”
Wondering vaguely what kind of sport this could be, Adam followed the side path indicated. He listened for sounds of firing, but hearing nothing except distant shouting and what seemed to be a string band, he concluded that the Colonel was having a poor day. It seemed odd, anyway, to go shooting in front of one’s house with a string band, and automatically Adam began making up a paragraph about it:
“Colonel Blount, father of the lovely Miss Nina Blount referred to above, rarely comes to London nowadays. He devotes himself instead to shooting on his estate in Buckinghamshire. The coverts, which are among the most richly stocked in the country, lie immediately in front of the house, and many amusing stories are related of visitors who have inadvertently found themselves in the line of fire… Colonel Blount has the curious eccentricity of being unable to shoot his best except to the accompaniment of violin and ’cello. (Mr. ‘Ginger’ Littlejohn has the similar foible that he can only fish to the sound of the flageolet…)”
He had not gone very far in his detour before he was again stopped, this time by a man dressed in a surplice, episcopal lawn sleeves and scarlet hood and gown; he was smoking a cigar.
“Here, what in hell do you want?” said the Bishop.
“I came to see Colonel Blount.”
“Well, you can’t, son. They’re just shooting him now.”