Guy Renton Read online

  Guy turned it over in his hand: old and smooth and the gold butter pale: made in London, dated 1880. He took it across to Renée. “Isn’t it curious that at a time when the standard of taste in England was at its lowest, they should have made anything as handsome as this watch.”

  She shrugged. “Emigré workmanship most likely. Europe was in a ferment then. It’s the year my grandparents left Vienna.”

  Eighteen hundred and eighty. The year in which his own grandfather had decided that it was time to stop living above his business in Soho and had taken a house in Highgate; 1880, the start in England of an unparalleled period of financial prosperity and architectural bad taste. How calm and assured and stable the world had seemed to the average Londoner at the very time when innumerable Austrians, Germans, Swedes, Italians, Poles were deciding that there was no future for them in the countries of their birth and were crossing the Atlantic to build a new world that could disown Europe. He turned the watch over in his hand.

  “It’s very handsome.”

  “Why don’t you buy it then?”

  She said it in the casual tone of one who had never considered that there was any point to be discussed with regard to the acquisition of an object except the degree and nature of one’s fancy for it. If one saw anything that one liked below a certain price, one bought it. Below what price though? There must be a line drawn somewhere. Albion Street wasn’t a rich address.

  He walked back to the counter. “How much does he want for it?” he asked.

  “The one he wants to buy costs three hundred francs.” ‘In Swiss francs, over twenty pounds; oh well,’ he thought, ‘I want it.’

  Renée came across to him.

  “I’m taking your advice,” he said.

  “How wise of you.”

  “I’d like to have a souvenir of this trip.”

  It was said lightly, or rather it was meant to be said lightly. But into his voice, unexpectedly, unsought, came an inflection suggesting that it was not lightly felt. She looked at him, as though she were surprised. Her eyes were almost on a level with his own. Her look was thoughtful, as though she were asking herself a question. She did not look away or drop her eyes but he had the feeling suddenly that she was not looking at him any longer. She half closed her eyes and her lips parted. It was as though she were inhaling an agreeable odour. It was a fleeting look. Her eyes opened and she smiled.

  “I hope you’re as pleased with your purchase as I am with mine,” she said.

  It had been raining as they walked up from the hotel. It was raining harder now. They paused in the shop doorway. He did not want to go back to the hotel right away.

  “There’s a bookshop over there. Let’s see if they’ve anything amusing.”

  He was curious to know in what kind of book she took an interest. He also wanted a chance of showing her that he was not merely a hearty with no interest in life outside the football field. He was surprised and a little disappointed when she went straight across to the table where the magazines were stacked.

  “Ah, the new number of Cosmopolitan. I must see who’s in it.”

  She picked it up, ran her eye down the contents, then turned the pages. She was so absorbed that he turned away, and walked over to the bookshelves. For the most part they contained classical reprints and modern novels. One small shelf was devoted to editions de luxe. There was a Mademoiselle de Maupin, illustrated with aquatints. He took it down to show her, to find that, with a Cosmopolitan tucked under her arm, she was now turning the pages of the Saturday Evening Post.

  “I must get this too. There’s a story by Scott Fitzgerald.”

  Her interest in the Post was so complete that he restored Mademoiselle de Maupin to the shelf. She eventually left the shop with a stack of four magazines under her arm. “I don’t mind now if it rains all afternoon,” she said.

  They walked back in silence. He was piqued, and impatient with himself for feeling piqued.

  As they came back into the hall of the hotel, they encountered Hansom.

  “Terrible weather,” he called out. “I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone your test until to-morrow.”

  To-morrow—the day he had planned to go out with Renée. On the next day, the Friday, he would be going home. And now she was on her way upstairs with a pile of magazines. Perhaps when she came down this evening he might miss her: all next day he’d be out on this confounded test. She’d be alone for all those hours, to be taken almost certainly under someone’s wing. In forty-eight hours’ time when his aeroplane droned westwards over northern France, he might well find himself looking back to this moment as their good-bye.

  “I’m sorry,” he called after Hansom, “but I can’t manage it to-morrow. I’m going on a whole-day picnic with Mrs. Burton.”

  “But surely ...” Hansom checked; paused, hurried back; a puzzled expression on his face. “Aren’t you going back on Friday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what are you going to do about your tests?”

  “Leave them till next year.”

  “But that means beginning all over again; that means losing all that you’ve done these last few days.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s madness. You can’t even be put up for the Kandahar till you’ve passed your seconds. This might prove fatal. I don’t mind telling you that we’ll have to do some rather special lobbying to get you in. You aren’t really up to the standard yet. But because of your football, and because you’re obviously keen. … You’re the kind of man we want to have in after all. But if you can’t be bothered to pass your tests at the earliest chance—and you must admit that we’ve done everything to push you on—they’re bound, aren’t they, to wonder if you are really keen. They’ve got to be strict about admissions. The one thing that matters here, you’ll agree I know, is keeping up the standard of the Kandahar.”

  He paused: not exactly breathlessly, but as though he had exhausted his supply of avuncular good nature: as though he had said, “Now, now, my little man, that’s quite clear, isn’t it? We don’t want any more of this nonsense, do we now.”

  Guy smiled.

  “I’m really very sorry, but I can’t possibly manage to take my tests to-morrow.”

  The good humour left Hansom’s face, to be replaced by an expression of petulant irritation.

  “You can’t mean that, you can’t be so absurd. I’m sure Mrs. Burton wouldn’t hold you to an engagement of that kind, when anything so important was concerned.”

  He underlined the ‘that’, turning appealingly to Renée. She made no answer. She made no sign. She watched and listened. Hansom turned back to Guy.

  “Surely you must see. ...” He checked. “Of course I can’t force you, you haven’t got to decide this minute. There’s plenty of time before to-morrow to change your mind.”

  Guy shook his head.

  “I’m afraid I shan’t change my mind. I’m sorry, but I am on a holiday you know.”

  The look of irritation on Hansom’s face changed to one of stupefied, incredulous amazement.

  “You’re the last person I should have expected to take up that attitude,” he said, and walked away.

  Renée made no comment. She made none of the remarks that might have been expected from a woman at such a moment. She did not say, “You shouldn’t really have done that,” or “I shan’t be offended you know if you think better of it later.” She gave him the credit of knowing his own mind, of having done the thing he wanted.

  “Couldn’t you stay on another day?” she asked.

  “I’m playing football on the Saturday.”

  “Is that very important?”

  “Not very. But I’m captain of the side.”

  “I see”.

  She looked at him thoughtfully: “It’s too early to start drinking yet,” she said, “let’s go into the lounge and have a cup of chocolate.”

  They found an empty table.

  “Tell me about yourself,” she said.

  He
told her about Duke and Renton, about what he’d done in the war and about his football. She listened attentively, watching him as he talked.

  “Are you married?” she asked.

  “No, I’m not married.”

  Late that afternoon the rain stopped, the mist cleared, and it began to freeze. He was woken on the following morning by sunlight on his face. The sky was blue. The snow was gleaming on the Eiger. A good day for an expedition.

  They set off directly after breakfast. She was wearing the conventional Mürren uniform, loose dark blue waterproof jacket, baggy dark blue trousers, tight-fitting at the ankle with short bright socks turned back over her boots. Trousers suited her. She looked very boyish as she stood straight and tall upon her skis, her hair hidden under a low flat, long-peaked cap. They were going to Grindelwald, a long three hours’ climb.

  She struck out with the ease and assurance, with the economy of effort of one who has spent half her life on skis. The athlete in him watched her with an almost impersonal appreciation. Her body was her slave. She had complete control of it, complete knowledge of its capabilities. And Hansom had wanted to enrol her in his novice class.

  They climbed in silence, zig-zagging their way up the long steep slope with the sun warming their cheeks and the keen air cooling them. He was very conscious of her at his side. They were as much at one, as much in tune as when they had been dancing. They were exchanging, they were sharing not ideas and thoughts, but feelings and sensations—the sense of effort, the blue of the sky, the glare of the sunlight on the snow, the sense of health, the dampness of their shirts against their skins—sensations felt along nerves and muscles that would become transmuted into memory, so that all his life he would only have to say, “That climb to Grindelwald,” to live again, to recall, to share an intimacy that passed the need of words.

  With a sigh at the long climb’s end, she undid her skis, stuck their ends in the snow, pulled off her cap, shook out her hair, took off her sunglasses and rubbed her eyes. There was a small log cabin where a guide and his wife provided coffee. They had brought ham rolls and hard-boiled eggs, chocolate and Gruyére cheese. They pulled a couple of deck chairs into the sun. They were very tired. They were not ready yet for talk. They munched their food and sipped their coffee, enjoying their exhaustion and the prospect of racing back in a few minutes over the slopes that it had taken them so long to climb; looking out over the long stretch of snow.

  “It reminds me of home,” she said. “It’s nothing like it, but it reminds me of it.”

  She stretched her arms lazily above her head.

  “We used to go out, half a dozen of us, for three or four days on end. Nothing would be arranged. It didn’t need to be. There was so much more snow. We’d stay at a ranch. We’d be out on our skis all day. We’d get back absolutely dead. There’d be a great log fire waiting, we’d sit round it, just lolling there, each of us with a coca-cola; too tired to go up and bathe, wishing we could miss dinner and get right to bed. But, of course, as soon as we had bathed and changed, why we’d be ravenous. There’d be a lovely dinner. One of us would have brought her cook. We pay our servants a lot, but it’s marvellous what one woman who really sets her mind on it can do. There’d be a thick creamed soup, great sizzling steaks and a crisp salad, a dream of a dessert—all cream and fruit and sponge and ice. The kind of coffee that you get nowhere else. We’d sit around the fire and there’d be no lights except the fire’s light, we’d chatter and someone would have a ukulele and we’d sing songs. Though we’d all been dead for want of sleep at six, we’d sit up gossiping till midnight, to awake fresh and early as soon as day broke.”

  She paused. Her voice had a mesmeric quality. She half closed her eyes, as she had the morning before in the watchmaker’s. She was very far away, and very close.

  “You’ve never been to America,” she went on. “People out here get such strange ideas of what it’s like. I suppose they get them from the films. They think of us in terms of enormous palaces or slums or the wild, wild West. They don’t realize that one of the nicest things about it all is being able to do simple outdoor things very comfortably. Nothing could be simpler than those ski-ing picnics. No wild party atmosphere. No highballs and no cocktails. The country itself is very open, almost uninhabited; only a few scattered shacks. Yet we’d have all the advantages of civilization, open fires and soft beds and huge armchairs. That’s one of the things I miss in Europe. Wherever you’ve got civilized amenities, the landscape’s tame. Even this is in a way.”

  He could see what she meant. Though the Eiger was towering behind them, though to the left there were the unsealed ridges of Endelwald, the valleys below were dotted with clustering villages; the smug domesticities of an unadventurous life.

  He looked at her as she lolled back in her deck chair. How different from her background was his. Her mother had been born in Austria. On her father’s side she was Pennsylvania Dutch. Two different civilizations were mixed in her; two strains that had only this in common, that neither strain had been able to adapt itself to Europe. Through her veins ran blood that had so needed freedom, that three hundred years ago it had risked the crossing of the Atlantic to find a land where it could worship its own God in freedom: a blood that had so prized that freedom that a century and a half later, mingled now with New England stock, it had declared war on its own kinsmen. The break on her mother’s side, though recent, was no less complete; the outcome of political dispute, of ‘backing the wrong horse’. In Renée, the first American-born product of these two different strains, how many loyalties must not be in conflict; loyalties that he could not appreciate, he whose ancestry, for as long back as he could trace the record, had accepted the English way of life.

  Lolling back there in her dark blue suit, with her skis beside her, with her fair short hair and her flushed cheeks, she looked a typical example of healthy Anglo-Saxon womanhood, yet she was more alien to him in blood and tradition than a Castillian gipsy. There were depths and barriers and reservations in her that he could only guess at. She spelt mystery, adventure, the unknown.

  She turned away from her long reverie and looked back at him, realizing that he had been staring at her.

  “I’m surprised,” she said, “that you’ve never married.”

  He shrugged. “I’m nearly thirty. I suppose it’s time I did.”

  “I didn’t mean that. Marriage isn’t like graduation. But it’s strange that you should have got to thirty without ever wanting to.”

  “How do you know I haven’t?”

  “If you have, why haven’t you? You could have afforded to.”

  He hesitated. What had he to tell her? Remarkably little when the sum was told. There had been that girl at Folkestone, met in the spring of 1916, when he was recovering from a wound. He had been lonely there, and bored. It had been easy to fall half in love. He’d have fallen the whole way in love, if he’d had the chance, if he’d had the time, if he’d not been posted back to France. They’d corresponded, and he’d dreamed about her, in the way that you did in France. He’d carried her snapshot in his pocket book. He had pictured his next leave in terms of her. And then a week before that leave, she had married someone else.

  At the moment he had thought himself broken-hearted. But a year later he had realized that he had been unhappy less because he had lost her than because his plans for a leave had been upset. He could scarcely present that episode in terms of a grand passion.

  “Perhaps you’ve got yourself involved with someone that you can’t marry?”

  He shook his head. He had not led a life of copy-book decorum. There had been heavy evenings after Rugger dinners ending up at Brett’s. One of those evenings had led to a Le Touquet week-end, to a series of Le Touquet week-ends. But it had not been serious. He had had no real adventures. He had not met the Jimmy Grant type of girl. Most of the girls he knew had a very definite interest in matrimony, at any rate when they were with marriageable men. He was inclined to wonder whether there was quit
e so much ‘of that kind of thing’ as novels like The Green Hat suggested. He wondered if it wasn’t largely talk. At any rate, he shook his head to Renée’s question.

  “Are you really going to tell me that you’ve got to the age of thirty without having fallen seriously in love?” she asked.

  He hesitated. It seemed an ignominious confession and one that he would never have dared to make to Jimmy Grant. But somehow he couldn’t lie to Renée.

  “It sounds very unromantic, but that does happen to be the way it is. First there was the war, then there was Oxford; then all that football. I’ve had to work very hard. I’ve kept in training through the winter. I’ve been pretty busy all the time . . . And well ... I don’t seem to have met anyone I could feel that way about.”

  She laughed. “There’s no need for you to make excuses. I’ve always heard that Englishmen developed late; sometimes it can be confusing… But when it’s somebody like you——” She paused, and her face grew thoughtful. “It’s rather a relief to find somebody like that,’ she said.

  There was an abstracted expression on her face. That clause ‘sometimes it can be confusing’ had sprung, he suspected, out of some deep and not too welcome experience. Out of what experience, he wondered, out of what type of experience? She rose to her feet and stretched out her arms.

  “I’m getting cold. Time we were getting back,” she said.

  Down the smooth stretch of snow that was zig-zagged with the pattern of their mounting skis they raced in a series of straight fast runs into the valley. In a quarter of an hour they descended a slope that earlier in the day they had taken three hours to climb. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were sparkling, just as they had been three nights earlier when they had waltzed.