Джеймс Хилтон - Time And Time Again

His eyes were riveted by something else on the table before him. It was a telegram, addressed to Charles at Beeching, from his college tutor.

HEARTIEST CONGRATULATIONS ON OBTAINING NOT ONLY FIRST IN TRIPOS BUT YOUR THESIS ALSO CONSIDERED SO GOOD STRONGLY RECOMMEND SUBMISSION FOR THE COURTENAY PRIZE…

‘It came yesterday,’ said Havelock. ‘I took the liberty of holding it back for our celebration tonight… NOW will you have a little more claret? We shall be late for the theatre, but who cares?’

Thirty-one years later Charles could sum up his early life as ‘nothing to complain of without really wondering whether it had been or hadn’t. He was much too pleased by his son’s remark that he didn’t look anything like his age; and for a second he glanced in a mirror on the wall of the Cheval Noir that showed him trim and distingué in his dark suit. ‘Do you really think, Gerald,’ he asked, fishing for another compliment, ‘I could safely allow a photograph of the author to be used as a frontispiece for my book?’ He laughed, of course, so that his son should know it was partly a joke.

‘You bet you could,’ Gerald answered, loyally. ‘You’re really very handsome. You look a bit like Ronald Colman.’

‘And WHO is Ronald Colman?’

‘Oh, come now, dad, you must know that.’

‘I will admit I do, but I find that a great impression can be made nowadays by claiming never to have heard of somebody.’

Gerald grinned. ‘You’re pretty smart too.’

‘Am I—away from dinner parties and agreeable company? Sometimes lately I’ve begun to doubt it.’ At a remark like that Palan stepped into Charles’s mind like an unwanted guest who finds the door left open, and because he would otherwise have had to quell an almost unconquerable preoccupation Charles began to talk about Palan to Gerald, though of course without mentioning the name. ‘You know, Gerald, this job I have isn’t the kind of thing it used to be. You may think me snobbish—it’s so easy to be thought that nowadays—but when I first started in diplomacy one could always assume that whatever the sort of fellow one was up against there’d be at least some things in common—a professional training, for instance, and a minimum code of manners. Your opponent might trick you, he might be dishonest or corrupt—my father used to say that everyone was corrupt to some extent—but you could count on him not yelling across the room like an auctioneer or belching after a heavy lunch… But I mustn’t bore you—here’s Henri, wondering what we’re going to eat. Anything special you fancy, my boy? This is an occasion, remember.’

Henri presented the menu, which Gerald studied for a moment before replying: ‘My French isn’t equal to it—maybe you’d better do the choosing.’

Charles smiled. He had been prepared for this. ‘How about soup to begin with? May I suggest tortue claire?’

‘Fine, whatever it is.’

‘Just turtle soup. And then perhaps sole Véronique—that’s sole cooked in wine and served with a very delicate cream sauce and fresh grapes—and after that I can recommend Henri’s way with a small chicken—poulet en casserole ŕ la maison—’

Gerald put down the menu and tried to catch Henri’s eye with a knowing wink, but of course Henri did not respond. ‘I wonder if I could just have a good thick steak after the soup.’

‘Certainly, M’sieu’.’

Charles continued to smile; he had been prepared for this too. All he said was: ‘One thing you never have to specify here, Gerald—everything always IS good… I think then a tournedos garni for Gerald, Henri, with those little potatoes and champignons. I’ll have the sole.’

Henri bowed. After he had left them Gerald said, still looking amused: ‘What first made you so interested in food, dad?’

‘To that question, Gerald, I had better quote an answer made by a titled Englishwoman to the Duchess of Marlborough—who, as perhaps you know, was a titled American. The Duchess was informed that considering it is the only pleasure one can count on having three times a day every day of one’s life, a well ordered meal is of prime importance… Ben trovato, possibly.’ Henri had approached with the wine list. ‘A Chablis, Henri… Try a small glass, Gerald, after the soup.’

‘Okay.’

‘It’s a very simple wine.’

‘I thought one ordered wines by the year.’

Charles smiled again; it was a matter he liked to have brought up. ‘Your millionaire junk merchant ALWAYS does—he learns a few words and dates like Liebfraumilch Forty-Seven and thinks it makes him a connoisseur. I myself would GENERALLY know the best years for a Burgundy or a champagne or a claret, but with a Chablis I leave everything to Henri, who was born quite close to the town of Chablis… isn’t that so, Henri?’

‘At Auxerre, M’sieu’,’ said Henri, beaming.

‘Oh yes?’ Gerald suddenly spoke up. ‘I think I know of it.’ He was evidently at pains to demonstrate that he wasn’t an ignoramus in every field of knowledge. ‘Didn’t Clovis capture Auxerre from the Romans in the fifth century?’

‘I haven’t the slightest idea,’ answered Charles with keen delight, ‘and I don’t suppose Henri has either. So you put us both in our place. I took my degree in history, and I’ve never regretted doing so, though I expect I’ve forgotten ninety per cent of all I ever learned. One does, you know. But the other ten per cent, if well cared for, can stand one in pretty good stead… Thank you, Henri. Oh yes—and a small salade gauloise.’ Henri bowed and left them again. ‘I’m glad you’re interested in history, Gerald. Perhaps it’ll win you a Cambridge scholarship next year.’

‘I think I shall take Economics.’

‘Well, that includes a lot of history—and vice versa. I remember when I was at Cambridge I used to go to Pigou and Keynes—that was at the end of the war which we now call the FIRST World War, though it was Colonel Repington back in 1919 who originated the phrase and was well trounced for it.’

‘Did you enjoy Cambridge?’

‘Very much indeed. Of course I’m fortunate to have it associated in my mind with pleasant things—such as a First in the Tripos and the Courtenay Prize. I didn’t like games and I was too shy in those days to take part in Union debates, but I think I can say that Cambridge gave me, if nothing else, a sense of kinship with tradition—of being privileged, if the metaphor isn’t too fanciful, to touch the pulse of five centuries with the tip of one’s little finger. I remember what a thrill I got when I found that a previous occupant of my college rooms had introduced the turnip from Holland in the late seventeenth century—thus becoming a benefactor of English agriculture though certainly not of the English dinner-table… Strange, though, when one looks back on early life, how it’s the little incidents that stay in the mind. I remember once, while I was researching at the British Museum, being told that the desk I was working at had been used by Karl Marx when he was writing Das Kapital… I mentioned that to Palan the other day, by way of making conversation—’

‘Who’s Palan?’

Charles had spoken the name without thinking, though now he had done so he felt it did not matter. ‘One of my opponents at the Conference. A disciple of Marx, of course.’

‘I think I’ve seen pictures of him in the papers. Rather a jolly-looking fellow.’

‘He would certainly never forget to smile when being photographed.’

‘What did he say when you told him about the desk at the British Museum?’

‘Nothing. He just stopped picking his nose.’

Gerald laughed. ‘You’ve certainly got your knife into him all right.’