Forrest Leo - The Gentleman

‘No, no,’ I say hurriedly, for he looks more mortified by the moment. ‘No, I’d—’ I hesitate, then say, ‘I’d like that.’

The Gentleman looks up sharply, searching my face for traces of mockery. He finds none. ‘You would?’ he asks.

‘I would. I am at the moment suffering from a dearth of friends.’ It is no lie. I have never been what one might call a social chap; but I was not always as isolated from my fellow man as I have been of late. It was not so long ago that I had numerous acquaintances — admirers, colleagues (though the bond of fellowship between writers has always been a fraught thing),* even here and there a few of what you might call friends. Never perhaps of the intimate sort; but all the same men and women whose company gave me pleasure. Over the last six months, however, these have one by one fallen by the wayside — and this conversation, irrespective of the hellish nature of my interlocutor, is the first pleasurable exchange of words I have had with a like-minded person in a very long while. And so I tell him genuinely and without a thought to personal danger, ‘I would.’

‘That’s— That’s marvellous! And very kind of you, sir.’

‘Not at all,’ I say. There is more emotion in the air than I care for.

‘No, no, it is! You have treated me handsomely this evening, Mr Savage. I have been as I think I mentioned in a dark place these last— Well, for a rather long time. And your kindness moves me, sir. It moves me very much indeed.’

I see that he is very near to being overcome, which I fear will lead to me being overcome. ‘Steady on, old boy,’ I say with alarm, ‘I’ve had a run of it lately, too, and I don’t know if I can handle any more emotion tonight.’

‘Forgive me,’ he says, turning from me. ‘A moment, please. There. Apologies.’

‘Not at all. Handkerchief?’ I offer him mine.

‘Thank you.’ He takes it and dabs at his face. I avert my eyes. This is definitely not the evening I had expected it to be.

‘What is that book on your desk?’ the Gentleman asks. I am grateful for the change in subject, and look to where he points.

I smile to see the title indicated. ‘ The Idylls of the King ,’* I say.

‘What is it about?’

‘You’ve never read it?’ I ask with surprise.

‘No. Is it very good?’

‘It is,’ I say, struggling to imagine how dreary life must be without my lord Alfred.

‘Who wrote it?’

‘A great bear of a poet named Tennyson. But unlike any poet you’ve met. He’s taller than any man I’ve ever seen. At school they say he used to sneak into the stables and steal a pony which he’d put on his back and parade around the grounds. When queried about this remarkable habit, he replied that we should never recover the nobility lost us since the age of Arthur until we learn to bear our mounts as willingly as they bear us.’*

‘I would like to meet that man someday,’ he says with enthusiasm, and I try not to think mordant thoughts. ‘I do so love books,’ he goes on. ‘I have a great many. I flatter myself that my library is one of the finest anywhere. But I haven’t that one.’ He looks mournfully at the small volume.

‘Would you like to borrow it?’ I ask.

‘May I?’ he says with trepidation. ‘I would be in your debt.’

‘Please. The only thing more pleasurable than reading perfect poetry is sharing it.’ He still looks nervous, so I pick up the book and hand it to him.

‘I begin to understand the premium placed on friendship,’ he says with feeling. Then he shakes himself and says, ‘I regret that I must go.’

‘Are you sure?’ I ask. I find myself disappointed that the interview is at an end — somehow I have become quite attached to this slender Gentleman, and will be sorry to see him go. His company has been like a bit of wreckage from a sunken ship which a drowning man might cling to. His departure will plunge me back into the trackless ocean of despair which I have swum for so many months already.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I’ve tarried too long already. Your kindness tonight will not be forgotten, Mr Savage. I wish you a very pleasant night.’

‘You forget that I am married,’ I reply, gloomy once more.

The Gentleman looks at me queerly, with a sort of half-smile playing across his face. ‘Chin up, old boy,’ he says. ‘These things have a way of working themselves out.’ He raises the book to me in salute, opens the study door, and vanishes back into the party.

I scarcely have time to blink and none at all to think before Lizzie flounces in, a swirl of black velvet and pearls. I haven’t the slightest idea where she found the dress, but it suits her better than I am comfortable with. No sister should look so well.

‘Who was that?’ she demands, removing a silver domino mask. She must have passed the Gentleman in the hall.

‘It’s really rather difficult to explain,’ I say. I have no desire to speak to her about my encounter until I have had time to properly think about it, and I do not know when that might be. Then I recall our earlier harsh words and I tell her, ‘You look beautiful, little sister.’

‘Thank you,’ she says with womanly graciousness, twirling to show off her gown. It is alarming to me how lovely she is grown, and how very old. It isn’t a thing little sisters should do, grow up.

‘I wanted to apologise,’ I say. ‘About earlier.’

‘Oh no, no!’ she exclaims. ‘I was going to do the same!’

‘I love you, you know,’ I say.

‘And I love you, of course. I brought you a mask. Simmons said you needed one.’

She holds out to me a small, plain black mask, just such as I would have chosen for myself. ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Where is he?’

‘Simmons?’

I nod.

‘I’m not sure. There was some sort of upset among the guests which he was seeing to.’

I imagine the possible causes of said upset and shudder. Several scenarios chase one another through my mind. General Hallam might have had a heart attack and fallen dead on the table and caused a mess which would take a week to properly clean. A servant might have made eyes at a lady and been shot by a jealous husband. Or perhaps Babington became truly drunk and pinched a maid who squealed and jumped and upset a soup tureen which emptied its contents onto the lap of the Duke of Cumbria who fell backward and into the way of Mr Moncrieff who tripped over him and whose mask upon falling was pitched across the room and stabbed Lady Lazenby in the bosom causing her to drop her champagne flute which shattered on the carpet and a shard of which bounced and impaled Lord Earlsmere who dropped to his knees in pain and over whom Mrs Frazer, who was all this while preoccupied with jealousy for the pinched maid and was looking behind her at Babington instead of in front of her at the body of Earlsmere, pitched headlong, landing in a fireplace which immediately set her costume ablaze which in turn set the curtains alight and which will by and by burn down the whole house.* I loathe parties.

‘Did you meet my wife?’ I say.

‘Not yet. There are lots and lots of people, and everyone’s wearing a mask.’

‘Isn’t it horrid?’

‘Oh no!’ she cries. ‘I’ve never had such a lovely evening. I feel as though I could dance until my feet bled. Everyone’s so beautiful and mysterious and romantic in their costumes. I’m upset with you, Nellie. I feel as though you’ve been holding out on me. Society parties are wonderful.’

It is a dreadful speech, one which I never feared one of my own blood would ever make to me. I must look pained, because Lizzie says to me sternly, ‘Lionel, you are an old humbug, and I cannot believe—’

I do not learn what she cannot believe, for she is interrupted by the entrance of Simmons, who looks (though it is hard to tell beneath the turban) grave.