IX

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 ⁠… goodbye, 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 supper time. 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 grey moustache, 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 theatre 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.

He drove out to Doubting by a bus which took him as far as the village of petrol pumps. From there he walked down the lane to the park gates. To his surprise these stood open, and as he approached he narrowly missed being run down by a large and ramshackle car which swept in at a high speed; he caught a glimpse of two malignant female eyes which glared contemptuously at him from the small window at the back. Still more surprising was a large notice which hung on the central pier of the gates and said: “No Admittance Except on Business.” As Adam walked up the drive two lorries thundered past him. Then a man appeared with a red flag.

“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 county, 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.”

“Good heavens. What for?”

“Oh, nothing important. He’s just one of the Wesleyans, you know⁠—we’re trying to polish off the whole crowd this afternoon while the weather’s good.”

Adam found himself speechless before this cold-blooded bigotry.

“What d’you want to see the old geezer about, anyway?”

“Well, it hardly seems any good now. I came to tell him that I’d got a job on the Excess.”

“The devil you have. Why didn’t you say so before? Always pleased to see gentlemen of the Press. Have a weed?” A large cigar-case appeared from the recesses of the episcopal bosom. “I’m Bishop Philpotts, you know,” he said, slipping a voluminously clothed arm through Adam’s. “I dare say you’d like to come round to the front and see the fun. I should think they’d be just singing their last hymn now. It’s been uphill work,” he confided as they walked round the side of the house, “and there’s been some damned bad management. Why, yesterday, they kept Miss La Touche waiting the whole afternoon, and then the light was so bad when they did shoot her that they made a complete mess of her⁠—we had the machine out and ran over all the bits carefully last night after dinner⁠—you never saw such rotten little scraps⁠—quite unrecognizable half of them. We didn’t dare show them to her husband⁠—he’d be sick to death about it⁠—so we just cut out a few shots to keep and threw away the rest. I say, you’re not feeling queer, are you? You look all green suddenly. Find the weed a bit strong?”

“Was⁠—was she a Wesleyan too?”

“My dear boy, she’s playing lead⁠ ⁠… she’s Selina. Countess of Huntingdon.⁠ ⁠… There, now you can see them at work.”

They had rounded the wing and were now in full view of the front of the house, where all was activity and animation. A dozen or so men and women in eighteenth-century costume were standing in a circle singing strongly, while in their centre stood a small man in a long clerical coat and a full white wig, conducting them. A string band was playing not far off and round the singers clustered numerous men in shirt sleeves bearing megaphones, cinematograph cameras, microphones, sheaves of paper and arc lamps. Not far away, waiting their turn to be useful, stood a coach and four, a detachment of soldiers and some scene shifters with the transept of Exeter Cathedral in sections of canvas and matchboarding.

“The Colonel’s somewhere in that little crowd singing the hymn,” said the Bishop. “He was crazy to be allowed to come on as a super, and as he’s letting us the house dirt cheap Isaacs said he might. I don’t believe he’s ever been so happy in his life.”

As they approached the hymn stopped.

“All right,” said one of the men with megaphones. “You can beat it. We’ll shoot the duel now. I shall want two supers to carry the body. The rest of you are through for the afternoon.”

A man in a leather apron, worsted stockings and flaxen wig emerged from the retreating worshippers.

“Oh, please, Mr. Isaacs,” he said, “please may I carry the body?”

“All right, Colonel, if you want to. Run in and tell them in the wardrobe to give you a smock and a pitchfork.”

“Thank you so much,” said Colonel Blount, trotting off towards his house. Then he stopped. “I suppose,” he said, “I suppose it wouldn’t be better for me to carry a sword?”

“No, pitchfork, and hurry up about it or I shan’t let you carry the body at all; someone go and find Miss La Touche.”

The young lady whom Adam had seen in the motor car came down the steps of the house in a feathered hat, riding habit and braided cape. She carried a hunting crop in her hand. Her face was painted very yellow.

“Do I or do I not have a horse in this scene, Mr. Isaacs? I’ve been round to Bertie and he says all the horses are needed for the coach.”

“I’m sorry, Effie, you do not and it’s no good taking on. We only got four horses and you know that, and you saw what it was like when we tried to move the coach with two. So you’ve just got to face it. You comes across the fields on foot.”

“Dirty Yid,” said Effie La Touche.

“The trouble about this film,” said the Bishop, “is that we haven’t enough capital. It’s heartbreaking. Here we have a first-rate company, first-rate producer, first-rate scene, first-rate story and the whole thing being hung up for want of a few hundred pounds. How can he expect to get the best out of Miss La Touche if they won’t give her a horse? No girl will stand for that sort of treatment. If I were Isaacs I’d scrap the whole coach sooner. It’s no sense getting a star and not treating her right. Isaacs is putting everyone’s back up the way he goes on. Wanted to do the whole of my cathedral scene with twenty-five supers. But you’re here to give us a write up, aren’t you? I’ll call Isaacs across and let him give you the dope.⁠ ⁠… Isaacs!”

“Yuh?”

“Daily Excess here.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

“I’ll be right over.” He put on his coat, buttoned it tightly at the waist and strode across the lawn, extending a hand of welcome. Adam shook it and felt what seemed to be a handful of rings under his fingers. “Pleased to meet you, Mister. Now just you ask me anything you want about this film because I’m just here to answer. Have you got my name? Have a card. That’s the name of the company in the corner. Not the one that’s scratched out. The one written above. The Wonderfilm Company of Great Britain. Now this film,” he said, in what seemed a well-practised little speech, “of which you have just witnessed a mere fragment marks a stepping stone in the development of the British Film Industry. It is the most important All-Talkie super-religious film to be produced solely in this country by British artists and management and by British capital. It has been directed throughout regardless of difficulty and expense, and supervised by a staff of expert historians and theologians. Nothing has been omitted that would contribute to the meticulous accuracy of every detail. The life of that great social and religious reformer John Wesley is for the first time portrayed to a British public in all its humanity and tragedy.⁠ ⁠… Look here, I’ve got all this written out. I’ll have them give you a copy before you go. Come and see the duel.⁠ ⁠…

“That’s Wesley and Whitefield just going to start. Of course, it’s not them really. Two fencing instructors we got over from the gym at Aylesbury. That’s what I mean when I say we spare no expense to get the details accurate. Ten bob each we’re paying them for the afternoon.”

“But did Wesley and Whitefield fight a duel?”

“Well, it’s not actually recorded, but it’s known that they quarrelled and there was only one way of settling quarrels in those days. They’re both in love with Selina, Countess of Huntingdon, you see. She comes to stop them, but arrives too late. Whitefield has escaped in the coach and Wesley is lying wounded. That’s a scene that’ll go over big. Then she takes him back to her home and nurses him back to health. I tell you, this is going to make film history. D’you know what the Wesleyan population of the British Isles is? Well nor do I, but I’ve been told and you’d be surprised. Well every one of those is going to come and see this film and there’s going to be discussions about it in all the chapels. We’re recording extracts from Wesley’s sermons and we’re singing all his own hymns. I’m glad your paper’s interested. You can tell them from me that we’re on a big thing.⁠ ⁠… There’s one thing though,” said Mr. Isaacs, suddenly becoming confidential, “which I shouldn’t tell many people. But I think you’ll understand because you’ve seen some of our work here and the sort of scale it’s on, and you can imagine that expenses are pretty heavy. Why, I’m paying Miss La Touche alone over ten pounds a week. And the truth is⁠—I don’t mind telling you⁠—we’re beginning to feel the wind a bit. It’s going to be a big success when and if it’s finished. Now, suppose there was someone⁠—yourself, for instance, or one of your friends⁠—who had a little bit of loose capital he wanted to invest⁠—a thousand pounds, say⁠—well, I wouldn’t mind selling him a half-share. It’s not a gamble, mind⁠—it’s a certain winner. If I cared to go into the open market with it, it would be snapped up before you could say knife. But I don’t want to do that and I’ll tell you why. This is a British company and I don’t want to let any of those foreign speculators in on it, and once you let the shares get into the open market you can’t tell who’s buying them, see. Now why leave money idle bringing in four and a half or five percent when you might be doubling it in six months?”

“I’m afraid it’s no use coming to me for capital,” said Adam. “Do you think I could possibly see Colonel Blount?”

“One of the things I hate in life,” said Mr. Isaacs, “is seeing anyone lose an opportunity. Now listen, I’ll make you a fair offer. I can see you’re interested in this film. Now I’ll sell you the whole thing⁠—film we’ve made up to date, artists’ contracts, copyright of scenario, everything for five hundred quid. Then all you have to do is to finish it off and your fortune’s made and I shall be cursing for not having held on longer. How about it?”

“It’s very good of you, but really I don’t think I can afford it at the moment.”

“Just as you like,” said Mr. Isaacs airily. “There’s many who can who’d jump at the offer, only I thought I’d let you in on it first because I could see you were a smart kid.⁠ ⁠… Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll let you have it for four hundred. Can’t say fairer than that, can I? And wouldn’t do it for anyone but you.”

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Isaacs, but I didn’t come to buy your film. I came to see Colonel Blount.”

“Well, I shouldn’t have thought you were the sort of chap to let an opportunity like that slip through your fingers. Now I’ll give you one more chance and after that mind, the offer is closed. I’ll sell you it for three-fifty. Take it or leave it. That’s my last word. Of course, you’re not in any way obliged to buy,” said Mr. Isaacs rather haughtily, “but I assure you that you’ll regret it from the bottom of your heart if you don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” said Adam, “I think it’s a wonderfully generous offer, but the truth is I simply don’t want to buy a film at all.”

“In that case,” said Mr. Isaacs, “I shall return to my business.”

Not till sunset did the Wonderfilm Company of Great Britain rest. Adam watched them from the lawn. He saw the two fencing instructors in long black coats and white neck bands lunging and parrying manfully until one of them fell; then the cameras stopped and his place was taken by the leading actor (who had been obliged through the exigencies of the wardrobe to lend his own coat). Whitefield took the place (and the wig) of the victor and fled to the coach. Effie La Touche appeared from the shrubbery still defiantly carrying her hunting crop. Closeups followed of Effie and Wesley and Effie and Wesley together. Then Colonel Blount and another super appeared as yokels and carried the wounded preacher back to the house. All this took a long time as the action was frequently held up by minor mishaps and once when the whole scene had been triumphantly enacted the chief cameraman found that he had forgotten to put in a new roll of film (“Can’t think how I come to make a mistake like that, Mr. Isaacs”). Finally the horses were taken out of the coach and mounted by grenadiers and a few shots taken of them plunging despairingly up the main drive.

“Part of Butcher Cumberland’s army,” explained Mr. Isaacs. “It’s always good to work in a little atmosphere like that. Gives more educational value. Besides we hire the horses by the day so we might as well get all we can out of them while they’re here. If we don’t use ’em in Wesley we can fit ’em in somewhere else. A hundred foot or so of galloping horses is always useful.”

When everything was over Adam managed to see Colonel Blount, but it was not a satisfactory interview.

“I’m afraid I’ve really got very little time to spare,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I’m at work on a scenario of my own. They tell me you come from the Excess and want to write about the film. It’s a glorious film, isn’t it? Of course, you know, I have very little to do with it really. I have let them the house and have acted one or two small parts in the crowd. I don’t have to pay for them though.”

“No, I should think not.”

“My dear boy, all the others have to. I knocked a little off the rent of the house, but I don’t actually pay. In fact, you might almost say I was a professional already. You see, Mr. Isaacs is the principal of the National Academy of Cinematographic Art. He’s got a little office in Edgware Road, just one room, you know, to interview candidates in. Well, if he thinks that they’re promising enough⁠—he doesn’t take anyone, mind, only a chosen few⁠—he takes them on as pupils. As Mr. Isaacs says, the best kind of training is practical work, so he produces a film straight away and pays the professionals out of the pupils’ fees. It’s really a very simple and sensible plan. All the characters in ‘John Wesley’ are pupils, except Wesley himself and Whitefield and the Bishop and, of course, Miss La Touche⁠—she’s the wife of the man who looks after the Edgware Road office when Mr. Isaacs is away. Even the cameramen are only learning. It makes everything so exciting, you know. This is the third film Mr. Isaacs has produced. The first went wrong, through Mr. Isaacs trusting one of the pupils to develop it. Of course, he made him pay damages⁠—that’s in the contract they all have to sign⁠—but the film was ruined, and Mr. Isaacs said it was disheartening⁠—he nearly gave up the cinema altogether. But then a lot more pupils came along, so they produced another, which was very good indeed. Quite a revolution in Film Art, Mr. Isaacs said, but that was boycotted through professional jealousy. None of the theatres would show it. But that’s been made all right now. Mr. Isaacs has got in with the ring, he says, and this is going to establish Wonderfilms as the leading company in the country. What’s more, he’s offered me a half share in it for five thousand pounds. It’s wonderfully generous, when he might keep it all to himself, but he says that he must have someone who understands acting from the practical side of the board of directors. Funnily enough, my bank manager is very much against my going in for it. In fact, he’s putting every obstacle in my way.⁠ ⁠… But I dare say Mr. Isaacs would sooner you didn’t put any of this into your paper.”

“What I really came about was your daughter, Nina.”

“Oh, she’s not taking any part in the film at all. To tell you the truth, I very much doubt whether she has any real talent. It’s funny how these things often skip a generation. My father, now, was a very bad actor indeed⁠—though he always used to take a leading part when we had theatricals at Christmas. Upon my soul, he used to make himself look quite ridiculous sometimes. I remember once he did a skit of Henry Irving in The Bells.⁠ ⁠…”

“I’m afraid you’ve forgotten me, sir, but I came here last month to see you about Nina. Well, she wanted me to tell you that I’m Mr. Chatterbox now.⁠ ⁠…”

“Chatterbox⁠ ⁠… no, my boy, I’m afraid I don’t remember you. My memory’s not what it was.⁠ ⁠… There’s a Canon Chatterbox at Worcester I used to know⁠ ⁠… he was up at New College with me⁠ ⁠… unusual name.”

“Mr. Chatterbox on the Daily Excess.”

“No, no, my dear boy, I assure you not. He was ordained just after I went down and was chaplain somewhere abroad⁠—Bermuda, I think. Then he came home and went to Worcester. He was never on the Daily Excess in his life.”

“No, no, sir, I’m on the Daily Excess.”

“Well, you ought to know your own staff, certainly. He may have left Worcester and taken to journalism. A great many parsons do nowadays. I know. But I must say that he’s the last fellow I should have expected it of. Awful stupid fellow. Besides, he must be at least seventy.⁠ ⁠… Well, well⁠ ⁠… who would have thought it. Goodbye, my boy, I’ve enjoyed our talk.”

“Oh, sir,” cried Adam, as Colonel Blount began to walk away. “You don’t understand⁠—I want to marry Nina.”

“Well, it’s no good coming here,” said the Colonel crossly. “I told you, she’s somewhere in London. She’s got nothing to do with the film at all. You’ll have to go and ask her about it. Anyway, I happen to know she’s engaged already. There was a young ass of a chap down here about it the other day⁠ ⁠… the Rector said he was off his head. Laughed the whole time⁠—bad sign that⁠—still, Nina wants to marry him for some reason. So I’m afraid you’re too late, my boy. I’m sorry⁠ ⁠… and, anyway, the Rector’s behaved very badly about this film. Wouldn’t lend his car. I suppose it’s because of the Wesleyanism. Narrow-minded, that.⁠ ⁠… Well, goodbye. So nice of you to come. Remember me to Canon Chatterbox. I must look him up next time I come to London and pull his leg about it.⁠ ⁠… Writing for the papers, indeed, at his age.”

And Colonel Blount retired victorious.

Late that evening Adam and Nina sat in the gallery of the Café de la Paix eating oysters.

“Well we won’t bother any more about papa,” she said. “We’ll just get married at once.”

“We shall be terribly poor.”

“Well, we shan’t be any poorer than we are now.⁠ ⁠… I think it will be divine.⁠ ⁠… Besides, we’ll be terribly economical. Miles says he’s discovered a place near Tottenham Court Road where you can get oysters for three and six a dozen.”

“Wouldn’t they be rather ill-making?”

“Well, Miles said the only odd thing about them is that they all taste a little different.⁠ ⁠… I had lunch with Miles today. He rang up to find where you were. He wanted to sell Edward Throbbing’s engagement to the Excess. But Van offered him five guineas for it, so he gave it to them.”

“I’m sorry we missed that. The editor will be furious. By the way, how did the gossip page go? Did you manage to fill it all right?”

“My dear, I think I did rather well. You see Van and Miles didn’t know I was in the trade, so they talked about Edward’s engagement a whole lot, so I went and put it in⁠ ⁠… was that very caddish?⁠ ⁠… and I wrote a lot about Edward and the girl he’s to marry. I used to know her when I came out, and that took up half the page. So I just put in a few imaginary ones like you do, so then it was finished.”

“What did you say in the imaginary ones?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I said I saw Count Cincinnati going into Espinosa’s in a green bowler⁠ ⁠… things like that.”

“You said that?”

“Yes, wasn’t it a good thing to say.⁠ ⁠… Angel, is anything wrong?”

“Oh, God.”

Adam dashed to the telephone.

“Central ten thousand⁠ ⁠… put me through to the night editor.⁠ ⁠… Look here, I’ve got to make a correction in the Chatterbox page⁠ ⁠… it’s urgent.”

“Sorry, Symes. Last edition went to bed half an hour ago. Got everything made up early tonight.”

So Adam went back to finish his oysters.

“Bad tabulation there,” said Lord Monomark next morning, when he saw the paragraph.

So Miles Malpractice became Mr. Chatterbox.

“Now we can’t be married,” said Nina.