Part 10 (1/2)
”There, I knew you were French. I've been betting on it ever since you came in. We could see you two from our table.” She waved her hand towards a group of six or seven people who were standing at the top of the stairs. ”Come along home with me now,” she said. ”We're going to have some music. I've got a new Russian violinist-you needn't be afraid, he's been thoroughly disinfected-and a dear thing who sings the roof off. I can't p.r.o.nounce her name. It's a cross between a sneeze and an oath. I believe she comes from Czecho-Slovakia. Also I've got Alton Cartridge, the poet. He's going to read one of his latest effusions.
He's the great futurist, you know. That is, he doesn't bother himself about rhymes and not very much about reason. Why don't you both come?”
Chalfont looked quickly at Lola and signaled, ”For G.o.d's sake, no.”
So she said, ”I should love to.” The name and fame of Lady Cheyne was well known to her through the medium of the ”Letters of Evelyn.”
”That's very sweet of you, my dear. One hundred Kensington Gore.
Memorize it, because I know that Peter will forget. He always does. We can't raise a car between us so we're all going in taxis. See you later then.”
She squeezed Lola's hand, nodded roguishly at Peter and bounced away to join her friends, watched hypnotically by people on their way out who, although she was one of London's landmarks, had never seen her before.
Chalfont was abominably disappointed. It would have been so jolly to have had Lola all to himself. ”Wasn't that rather unkind of you?” he asked.
”Yes,” said Lola, ”it was, but I couldn't resist the chance to see Lady Cheyne at home and discover if all the stories about her are true. I'm so sorry, but after all we can do the Coliseum another night.”
”Oh, well, then, that's all right.” He brightened up considerably.
”Probably you will be more amused at number One Hundred than you would have been at the Coliseum. Poppy manages to surround herself with all the latest freaks.” He led her out, captured a cab and gave the man the address.
”Tell me about her,” said Lola. ”You know her very well, it seems.”
”No, I don't. I've only met her twice. She arrives at Christian names within half an hour. She calls herself the mother of thousands, and is, although she's never had a child of her own. n.o.body knows who she was before she married Sir William Cheyne, the contractor, but it's generally believed that she's the daughter of a country parson brought up between the Bible and the kitchen garden. She tells everybody that she was very pretty as a girl. It's her horticultural training that makes her look like a cauliflower. The old man died about ten years ago and left her very well off. She's really a remarkable little soul, greatly to be respected. Every struggling artist who has ever found his way into London has been financed by her. She has a heart of gold and during the War she was the chairman of one of the soldiers'
entertainment committees. I shall never forget seeing her behind the lines, surrounded by muddy Tommies just relieved. She was a prime favorite out there and was known as Poppy throughout the British Army.
How long are you going to be in London?” He switched suddenly to personalities.
”For the rest of the season,” said Lola, ”and then my plans are uncertain. I may go down to Buckinghams.h.i.+re or I may spend July at Dinard. It isn't settled yet.” She had heard Lady Feo talk over both places with Mrs. Malwood.
”I wonder if I've met your husband about London?”
”I am a widow,” said Lola. Her tone was a little sad but, at the same time, it was filled with resignation.
That was something to know. There was no further information forthcoming, however, and as Peter was one of those men who had a great respect for fourth walls, he left it at that.
They were the last to arrive. Their cab had stalled three times in Piccadilly and coughed badly through Knightsbridge. Every window of number One Hundred was alight and as they entered the hall a high soprano voice was sending piercing vibrations all through the house. A long oak settle in the hall was covered with strange coats and stranger hats and there were queer people sitting on the stairs. The drawing-room was obviously overflowing.
Lola picked her way upstairs, Chalfont following closely. Among these people who conveyed the impression of having slept in their clothes-Art is always a little shy of cold water-Lola felt a sense of distress.
Democratic in her ability to make friends with all honest members of the proletariat, like those in the servants' sitting room in Dover Street, she felt hopelessly aristocratic when it came to affection with dandruff on its velvet collar.
The drawing-room, wide and lofty, was one great square of bad taste, filled, overfilled, with what America aptly calls ”junk.” Spurious Italian furniture jostled with imitation English oak. Huge pieces of fake tapestry hung on the walls side by side with canvases of extremely self-conscious nudes. Early Victorian whatnots covered with silver apostle spoons jostled with Tottenham Court Road antiques. All the lamp shades on the numerous electric lamps were red and heavy, so that the light crept through. To add to the conglomeration of absurdities the whole place reeked with burning josh sticks. A woman who dyes her hair a brilliant yellow invariably burns something on the altar of renewed optimism. The only thing that rang true in the room was the grand piano and that was kept in tune.
Sprawling on divans which were ranged around the walls Lola could make out the forms of men and women of all sizes, ages and nationalities. The men had more hair than the women. There must have been at least sixty people present, among whom Peter Chalfont looked like a greyhound and Lola like an advertis.e.m.e.nt of somebody's soap. A tremendous woman, standing with her feet wide apart like a sea captain in a gale, or a self-conscious golfer on the first tee, was singing Carmen's most flamboyant song. She was accompanied by a little person of the male gender whose lank black locks flapped over his eyes. They seemed to be competing in making the most noise because when the pianist attempted to overwhelm the voice with all the strength that he possessed, the singer filled herself with breath, gripped the floor with her well-trained feet, and sent forth sounds that must have been excessively trying to the Albert Memorial.
At the end of this shattering event Lady Cheyne bubbled forward and took Lola's hand. ”What do you do, my dear?” she asked, as though she were a performing dog to be put through her tricks. To which Lola replied, ”Nothing. Nothing at all,” with rock-like firmness.
So the exhibitor of human vanities turned persuasively to Peter. ”But you whistle, don't you?” she asked. And Peter with a stiffening spine replied, ”Yes, but only for taxis.”
”In that case,” said Lady Cheyne, genuinely astonished that neither of the new arrivals showed any eagerness to jump at her suggestion to advertise, ”find a corner somewhere. A little protegee of mine is going to dance for us. She is an interpreter of soul moods. So wonderful and inspiring. You'll love it, I'm sure.”
Obeying orders, Peter led Lola into a distant corner, eyed by various artists who labeled him ”Soldier” and dismissed him loftily. The pa.s.sing of Lola sent a quiver through them and they were ready for the first available opportunity to att.i.tudinize about her chair. At a sign from Lady Cheyne the little pianist commenced to play one of h.e.l.ler's ”Sleepless Nights” and a very thin girl, wrapped in a small piece of chiffon, dropped into the middle of the room like a beam of moonlight.