Gaudy Night (53 page)

“We’ll take it with us,” said Peter, firmly. “If you’d rather have notes than a cheque—”

The dealer protested that the cheque would be quite all right but that the parcel would be a large one and take some time to make up, since the pieces ought all to be wrapped separately.

“We’re in no hurry,” said Peter. “We’ll take it with us”; thus conforming to the first rule of good nursery behaviour, that presents must always be taken and never delivered by the shop.

The dealer vanished upstairs to look for a suitable box, and Peter turned apologetically to Harriet.

“Sorry to be so long about it. You’ve chosen better than you knew. I’m no expert, but I’m very much mistaken if that isn’t a very fine and ancient set, and worth a good bit more than he wants for it. That’s why I haggled so much. When a thing looks like a bargain, there’s usually a snag about it somewhere. If one of those dashed pawns wasn’t the original, it would make the whole lot worthless.”

“I suppose so.” A disquieting thought struck Harriet. “If the set hadn’t been perfect, should you have bought it?”

“Not at any price.”

“Not if I still wanted it?”

“No. That’s the snag about
me.
Besides, you wouldn’t want it. You have the scholarly mind and you’d always feel uncomfortable knowing it was wrong, even if nobody else knew.”

“That’s true. Whenever anybody admired it I should feel obliged to say, ‘Yes, but one of the pawns is modern’—and that would get so tedious. Well, I’m glad they’re all right, because I love them with a perfectly idiotic passion. They have been haunting my slumbers for weeks. And even now I haven’t said thank you.”

“Yes, you have—and anyway, the pleasure is all mine.... I wonder whether that spinet’s in order.”

He threaded his way through the dark backward and abysm of the antique shop, clearing away a spinning-wheel, a Georgian wine-cooler, a brass lamp and a small forest of Burmese idols that stood between him and the instrument. “Variations on a musical-box,” he said, as he ran his fingers over the keys, and, disentangling a coffin-stool from his surroundings, sat down and played, first a minuet from a Bach suite and then a gigue, before striking into the air of Greensleeves.

“Alas! my love, you do me wrong
To cast me off discourteously,
And I have loved you so long,
Delighting in your company.”

He shall see that I don’t mind that, thought Harriet, and raised her voice cheerfully in the refrain:

“For O Greensleeves was all my joy,
And O Greensleeves was my delight—”

He stopped playing instantly.

“Wrong key for you. God meant you for a contralto.” He transposed the air into E minor, in a tinkling cascade of modulations. “You never told me you could sing....No, I can hear you’re not trained...chorus-singer? Bach Choir?... of course—I might have guessed it.... ‘And O Greensleeves was my heart of gold And who but my Lady Greensleeves’... Do you know any of Morley’s Canzonets for Two Voices?... Come on, then, ‘When lo! by Break of Morning’... Whichever part you like—they’re exactly the same.... ‘My love herself adorning.... G natural, my dear, G natural....”

The dealer, descending with his arms full of packing materials, paid no attention to them. He was well accustomed to the eccentricities of customers; and, moreover, probably cherished hopes of selling them the spinet.

“This kind of thing,” said Peter, as tenor and alto twined themselves in a last companionable cadence, “is the body and bones of music. Anybody can have the harmony, if they will leave us the counterpoint. What next?... ‘Go to Bed, sweet Muse’? Come, come! Is it true? is it kind? is it necessary?... ‘Love is a fancy, love is a frenzy.’... Very well, I owe you one for that,” and with a mischievous eye he played the opening bars of “Sweet Cupid, Ripen Her Desire.”

“No,” said Harriet, reddening.

“No. Not in the best of taste. Try again.”

He hesitated; ran from one tune to another; then settled down to that best-known of all Elizabethan love-songs.

“Fain would I change that note
To which fond love hath charmed me....”

Harriet, with her elbows on the lid of the spinet and her chin propped on her hands, let him sing alone. Two young gentlemen, who had strayed in and were talking rather loudly in the front part of the shop, abandoned a half-hearted quest for brass candlesticks and came stumbling through the gloom to see who was making the noise.

“True house of joy and bliss
Where sweetest pleasure is
I do adore thee;
I see thee what thou art,
I love thee in my heart
And fall before thee.”

Tobias Hume’s excellent air rises to a high-pitched and triumphant challenge in the penultimate line, before tumbling with a clatter to the keynote. Too late, Harriet signed to the singer to moderate his voice.

“Here, you!” said the larger of the two young gentlemen, belligerently. “You’re making a filthy row. Shut up!”

Peter swung round on the stool. “Sir?” He polished his monocle with exaggerated care, adjusted it and let his eye travel up the immense tweedy form towering over him. “I beg your pardon. Was that obligin’ observation addressed to me?”

Harriet started to speak, but the young man turned to her.

“Who,” he demanded loudly, “is this effeminate bounder?”

“I have been accused of many things,” said Wimsey, interested, “but the charge of effeminacy is new to me. Do you mind explaining yourself?”

“I don’t like your song,” said the young man, rocking slightly on his feet, “and I don’t like your voice, and I don’t like your
tom
-tool eyeglass.”

“Steady on, Reggie,” said his friend.

“You’re annoying this lady,” persisted the young man. “You’re making her conspicuous. Get out!”

“Good God!” said Wimsey, turning to Harriet. “Is this by any chance Mr. Jones of Jesus?”

“Who are you calling a bloody Welshman?” snarled the young man, much exasperated. “My name’s Pomfret.”

“Mine’s Wimsey,” said Peter. “Quite as ancient though less euphonious. Come on, son, don’t be an ass. You mustn’t behave like this to senior members and before ladies.”

“Senior member be damned!” cried Mr. Pomfret, to whom this unfortunate phrase conveyed only too much. “Do you think I’m going to be sneered at by you? Stand up, blast you! why can’t you stand up for yourself?”

“First,” replied Peter, mildly, “because I’m twenty years older than you are. Secondly, because you’re six inches taller than I am. And thirdly, because I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then,” said Mr. Pomfret, “take that, you sitting rabbit!”

He launched an impetuous blow at Peter’s head, and found himself held by the wrist in an iron grip.

“If you don’t keep quiet,” said his lordship, “you’ll break something. Here, you, sir. Take your effervescent friend home, can’t you? How the devil does he come to be drunk at this time of the day?”

The friend offered a confused explanation about a lunch party and subsequent cocktail binge. Peter shook his head.

“One damn gin after another,” he said, sadly. “Now, sir. You had better apologise to the lady and beetle off.”

Mr. Pomfret, much subdued and tending to become lachrymose, muttered that he was sorry to have made a row.

“But why did you make fun of me with that?” he asked Harriet, reproachfully.

“I didn’t, Mr. Pomfret. You’re quite mistaken.”

“Damn your senior members!” said Mr. Pomfret.

“Now, don’t begin all over again,” urged Peter, kindly. He got up, his eyes about on a level with Mr. Pomfret’s chin. “If you want to continue the discussion, you’ll find me at the Mitre in the morning. This way out.”

“Come on, Reggie,” said the friend.

The dealer, who had returned to his packing after assuring himself that it would not be necessary to send for the police or the proctors, leapt helpfully to open the door, and said “
Good
afternoon, gentlemen,” as though nothing out of the way had happened.

“I’m damned if I’ll be sneered at,” said Mr. Pomfret, endeavouring to stage a come-back on the doorstep.

“Of course not, old boy,” said his friend. “Nobody’s sneering at you.
Come
on! You’ve had quite enough fun for one afternoon.” The door shut them out.

“Well, well!” said Peter.

“Young gentlemen will be lively,” said the dealer. “I’m afraid it’s a bit bulky, sir. I’ve put the board up separate.”

“Stick ’em in the car,” said Peter. “They’ll be all right.”

This was done; and the dealer, glad enough to get his shop cleared, began to put up his shutters, as it was now long past closing-time.

“I apologise for my young friend,” said Harriet.

“He seems to have taken it hard. What on earth was there so infuriating about my being a senior?”

“Oh, poor lamb! He thought I’d been telling you about him and me and the proctor. I suppose I
had
better tell you now.”

Peter listened and laughed a little ruefully.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That kind of thing hurts like hell when you’re his age. I’d better send him a note and set that right. I say!”

“What?”

“We never had that beer. Come round and have one with me at the Mitre, and we’ll concoct a salve for wounded feelings.”

With two half-pint tankards on the table before them, Peter produced his epistle.

The Mitre Hotel,

Oxford

To Reginald Pomfret, Esq.

Sir,

I am given to understand by Miss Vane that in the course of our conversation this afternoon I unhappily made use of an expression which might have been misconstrued as a reference to your private affairs. Permit me to assure you that the words were uttered in complete ignorance, and that nothing could have been farther from my intentions than to make any such offensive allusion. While deprecating very strongly the behaviour you thought fit to use, I desire to express my sincere regret for any pain I may have inadvertently caused you, and beg to remain,

Your obedient servant,

PETER DEATH BREDON WIMSEY

“Is that pompous enough?”

“Beautiful,” said Harriet. “Scarcely a word under three syllables and all the names you’ve got. What your nephew calls ‘Uncle Peter at his stuffiest.’ All it wants is the crest and sealing-wax. Why not write the child a nice, friendly note?”

“He doesn’t want friendliness,” said his lordship, grinning. “He wants satisfaction.” He rang the bell and sent the waiter for Bunter and the sealing-wax. “You’re right about the beneficial effects of a red seal—he’ll think it’s a challenge. Bunter, bring me my seal ring. Come to think of it, that’s an idea. Shall I offer him the choice of swords or pistols on Port Meadow at daybreak?”

“I think it’s time you grew up,” said Harriet.

“Is it?” said Peter, addressing the envelope. “I’ve never challenged anybody. It would be fun. I’ve been challenged three times and fought twice; the third time the police butted in. I’m afraid that was because my opponent didn’t fancy my choice of weapon.... Thanks, Bunter.... A bullet, you see, may go anywhere, but steel’s almost bound to go somewhere.”

“Peter,” said Harriet, looking gravely at him, “I believe you’re showing off.”

“I believe I am,” said he, setting the heavy ring accurately down upon the wax. “Every cock will crow upon his own dung-hill.” His grin was half petulant, half deprecating. “I hate being loomed over by gigantic undergraduates and made to feel my age.”

For, to speak in a word, envy is naught else but
tristitia de bonis alienis,
sorrow for other men’s good, be it present, past, or to come: and
gaudium de adversis,
and joy at their harms.... Tis a common disease, and almost natural to us, as Tacitus holds, to envy another man’s prosperity.

—ROBERT BURTON

It is said that love and a cough cannot be hid. Nor is it easy to hide two-and-thirty outsize ivory chessmen; unless one is so inhuman as to leave them swaddled in their mummy clothes of wadding and entombed within the six sides of a wooden sarcophagus. What is the use of acquiring one’s heart’s desire if one cannot handle and gloat over it, show it to one’s friends and gather an anthology of envy and admiration? Whatever awkward deductions might be drawn about the giver—and, after all, was that anybody’s business?—Harriet knew that she must needs display the gift or burst in solitary ecstasy.

Accordingly, she put a bold face on it, marched her forces openly into the Senior Common Room after Hall, and deployed them upon the table, with the eager assistance of the dons.

“But where are you going to keep them?” asked the Dean, when everybody had sufficiently exclaimed over the fineness of the carving, and had taken her turn at twisting and examining the nests of concentric globes. “You can’t just leave them in the box. Look at those fragile little spears and things and the royal head-dresses. They ought to be put in a glass case.”

“I know,” said Harriet. “It’s just like me to want something completely impracticable. I shall have to wrap them all up again.”

“Only then,” said Miss Chilperic, “you won’t be able to look at them. I know, if they were mine, I shouldn’t be able to take my eyes off them for a moment.”

“You can have a glass case if you like,” said Miss Edwards. “Out of the Science Lecture-Room.”

“The very thing,” said Miss Lydgate. “But how about the terms of the bequest? I mean, the glass cases—”

“Oh, blow the bequest!” cried the Dean. “Surely one can borrow a thing for a week or two. We can lump some of those hideous geological specimens together and have one of the small cases taken up to your room.”

“By all means,” said Miss Edwards. “I’ll see to it.”

“Thank you,” said Harriet; “that will be lovely.”

“Aren’t you simply aching to play with the new toy?” asked Miss Allison “Does Lord Peter play chess?”

“I don’t know,” said Harriet. “I’m not much of a player. I just fell in love with the pieces.”

“Well, said Miss de Vine, kindly, “let us have a game. They are so beautiful, it would be a pity not to use them.”

“But I expect you could play my head off.”

“Oh, do play with them!” cried Miss Shaw, sentimentally. “Think how they must be longing for a little life and movement after sitting all that time in a shop-window.”