Evelyn Waugh: The Complete Stories Of Evelyn Waugh

“Who lives there?”

“Not that awful Basil Hay?”

“Well, perhaps he is.”

“I used to meet him at Oxford sometimes.”

“WELL, IF YOU’RE SURE YOU CAN PAY I’LL COME TO LUNCHEON WITH YOU.”

“WHY THERE? IT’S FRIGHTFULLY EXPENSIVE.”

“STEAK TARTARE—WHAT’S THAT?”

The Cambridge voice explains, “Quite raw, you know, with olives and capers and vinegar and things.”

“My dear, you’ll turn into a werewolf.”

“I should love it if you did.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I am getting a little morbid.”

“One-ish. Please don’t be too late—I’ve only three-quarters of an hour.”

“Good-bye, Imogen.”

So much of the forbidden conversation is audible to Miss Philbrick.

Adam returns to the studio and draws a few heavy and insensitive lines.

He rubs at them but they still show up grubbily in the pores of the paper. He tears up his drawing; old Mr. Maltby remonstrates; young Mr. Maltby is explaining the construction of the foot and does not look up.

Adam attempts another drawing.

Close up of Adam’s drawing.

“’E’s thinking of ’er.” Unerring Ada!

“These films would be so much more convincing if they would only employ decent draughtsmen to do the hero’s drawings for him—don’t you think?” Bravo, the cultured bourgeoisie!

TWELVE O’CLOCK.

There is a repetition of all the excursions of eleven o’clock.

The promising pupil is working out the ratio of two cubes. The girl who has been learning the construction of the foot comes over to him and looks over his shoulder; he starts violently and loses count.

Adam takes his hat and stick and goes out.

Adam on a bus.

Adam studying Poussin at the National Gallery.

Close up of Adam studying Poussin.

“’E’s thinking of ’er.”

The clock of St. Martin-in-the-Fields strikes one. Adam leaves the National Gallery.

TEN MINUTES PAST ONE.

THE DINING ROOM OF THE RESTAURANT DE LA TOUR DE FORCE.

Enter Adam; he looks round but as he had expected, Imogen has not yet arrived. He sits down at a table laid for two and waits.

Though not actually in Soho, the Tour de Force gives unmistakably an impression half cosmopolitan, half theatrical, which Ada would sum up in the word “Bo’emian.” The tables are well spaced and the wines are excellent though extremely costly.

Adam orders some sherry and waits, dividing his attention between the door through which Imogen will enter and the contemplation of a middle-aged political lawyer of repute who at the next table is trying to keep amused a bored and exquisitely beautiful youth of eighteen.

QUARTER TO TWO.

Enter Imogen.

The people at the other tables say, “Look, there’s Imogen Quest. I can’t see what people find in her, can you?” or else, “I wonder who that is. Isn’t she attractive?”

“My dear, I’m terribly late. I am sorry. I’ve had the most awful morning shopping with Lady R.”

She sits down at the table.

“You haven’t got to rush back to your school, have you? Because I’m never going to see you again. The most awful thing has happened—you order lunch, Adam. I’m very hungry. I want to eat a steak tartare and I don’t want to drink anything.”

Adam orders lunch.

“LADY R. SAYS I’M SEEING TOO MUCH OF YOU. ISN’T IT TOO AWFUL?”

Gladys at last is quite at home. The film has been classified. Young love is being thwarted by purse-proud parents.

Imogen waves aside a wagon of hors d’oeuvre.

“We had quite a scene. She came into my room before I was up and wanted to know all about last night. Apparently she heard me come in. And, oh Adam, I can’t tell you what dreadful things she’s been saying about you. My dear, what an odd luncheon—you’ve ordered everything I most detest.”

Adam drinks soup.

“THAT’S WHY I’M BEING SENT OFF TO THATCH THIS AFTERNOON. And Lady R. is going to talk to you seriously tonight. She’s put Mary and Andrew off so that she can get you alone . Adam, how can you expect me to eat all this? and you haven’t ordered yourself anything to drink.”

Adam eats an omelette alone. Imogen crumbles bread and talks to him.

“But, my dear, you mustn’t say anything against Basil because I simply adore him, and he’s got the loveliest, vulgarest mother—you’d simply love her.”

The steak tartare is wheeled up and made before them.

Close up; a dish of pulverized and bleeding meat: hands pouring in immoderate condiments.

“Do you know, Adam, I don’t think I do want this after all. It reminds me so of Henry.”

HALF PAST TWO.

Adam has finished luncheon.

“SO YOU SEE, DEAR, WE SHALL NEVER, NEVER MEET AGAIN—PROPERLY I MEAN. Isn’t it just too like Lady R. for words.”

Imogen stretches out her hand across the table and touches Adam’s.

Close up; Adam’s hand, a signet ring on the little finger and a smudge of paint on the inside of the thumb. Imogen’s hand—very white and manicured—moves across the screen and touches it.

Gladys gives a slight sob.

“YOU DON’T MIND TOO DREADFULLY—DO YOU, ADAM?”

Adam does mind—very much indeed. He has eaten enough to be thoroughly sentimental.

The Restaurant de la Tour de Force is nearly empty. The political barrister has gone his unregenerate way; the waiters stand about restlessly.

Imogen pays the bill and they rise to go.

“Adam, you must come to Euston and see me off. We can’t part just like this—for always, can we? Hodges is meeting me there with the luggage.”

They get into a taxi.

Imogen puts her hand in his and they sit like this for a few minutes without speaking.

Then Adam leans towards her and they kiss.

Close up: Adam and Imogen kissing. There is a tear (which finds a ready response in Ada and Gladys, who sob uncontrollably) in Adam’s eye; Imogen’s lips luxuriously disposed by the pressure.

“Like the Bronzino Venus.”

“IMOGEN, YOU NEVER REALLY CARED, DID YOU? IF YOU HAD YOU WOULDN’T GO AWAY LIKE THIS. IMOGEN, DID YOU EVER CARE—REALLY?”

“HAVEN’T I GIVEN PROOF THAT I DID. Adam dear, why will you always ask such tiresome questions. Don’t you see how impossible it all is? We’ve only about five minutes before we reach Euston.”

They kiss again.

Adam says, “Damn Lady R.”

They reach Euston.

Hodges is waiting for them. She has seen about the luggage; she has seen about tickets; she has even bought magazines; there is nothing to be done.

Adam stands beside Imogen waiting for the train to start; she looks at a weekly paper.

“Do look at this picture of Sybil. Isn’t it odd? I wonder when she had it taken.”

The train is about to start. She gets into the carriage and holds out her hand.

“Good-bye, darling. You will come to mother’s dance in June, won’t you? I shall be miserable if you don’t. Perhaps we shall meet before then. Good-bye.”

The train moves out of the station.

Close up. Imogen in the carriage studying the odd photograph of Sybil.

Adam on the platform watching the train disappear.

Fade out.

“Well, Ada, what d’you think of it?”

“Fine.”

“It is curious the way that they can never make their heroes and heroines talk like ladies and gentlemen—particularly in moments of emotion.”

A QUARTER OF AN HOUR LATER.

Adam is still at Euston, gazing aimlessly at a bookstall. The various prospects before him appear on the screen.

Maltby’s. The anthracite stove, the model, the amorous student— (“the Vamp”), the mathematical student, his own drawing.