He saw that Winslow was waiting for a remark, so he called his thoughts to
order and said guardedly: “I’m afraid I don’t quite catch on so far, but
whatever it is, if there’s any way I can help—”
“Thanks, that’s very kind of you. I hope there is. So if you’ll just let
me go ahead and explain…”
George nodded, now more puzzled than ever; he could not help thinking that
Winslow was terribly slow in getting to the point, whatever it was. Meanwhile
the great man had opened up into an account of a semi-official tour he had
lately undertaken to inspect housing projects, mostly on paper, in some of
the Continental countries. At this George nodded with enthusiastic
comprehension, and to show that, even without foreign travel, he kept himself
well abreast of such matters, he reached for a book that happened to be to
hand. “You’ll have seen it, I daresay,” he interrupted eagerly. “I got the
architect of our local scheme to adopt several of this fellow’s ideas—
I’ve always said we should all pool our post-war experience—Allies and
ex-enemies alike. Take Vienna, for instance, where the Socialists are very
strong—”
“Yes, yes indeed,” Winslow agreed, though with a note in his voice to
check all chatter. However, he seemed willing enough to take Vienna, for he
continued: “That was one of the cities I visited recently. Apart from
business, I had a special reason because my son Jeff happens to be there too.
He has a job—er—connected with the Embassy.” He paused and pulled
out a small pocket-book; in it he found a snapshot which he passed to George.
It showed a smiling young man in ski-costume in company with several pretty
girls against a background panorama of snow-covered mountains. “Taken at
Kitzbühl,” he added.
George had not heard of Kitzbühl, but he knew a fine-looking fellow when
he saw one, and now quite sincerely expressed his admiration. To reciprocate
the intimacy he pointed to one of a number of photographs on top of a
revolving bookcase of encyclopćdias. “Reminds me a bit of the lad just behind
you.”
Winslow turned to look and confirmed after scrutiny: “Yes, quite a
resemblance. Your SON? I wouldn’t have thought you were old
enough—”
“I’m not… That’s one of my brothers—killed on the Somme on July
First, Nineteen-Sixteen. Fifty thousand killed with him the same day—
according to the records. Something for folks to remember when they attack
disarmament.”
“And THIS?” said Winslow, still seemingly preoccupied with the
photographs.
“That’s my wife.”
“Ah, yes.”
George then felt it was time to relieve his guest of any further
obligation to appear interested in his family, so he returned the snapshot
with the comment: “Aye, he’s a bonny lad—and brainy too, by the look of
him.”
“They seemed to think so at Oxford.”
“He did well there?”
“Pretty well.”
“What did he get?”
“GET? Oh, a Rowing Blue, and he was also President of the
Union—”
“And a good degree? A First, I suppose?”
“Er… yes, I think so.”
“DOUBLE First?”
Winslow smiled. “I believe he took several Firsts in various subjects, but
they don’t seem to use the term ‘Double First’ any more.”
“Gladstone got it.”
“Did he? You seem to know a good deal about these matters, Boswell…”
“Aye, as an outsider. Though it was my father who told me about Gladstone.
I think he was the only man except Bible characters whom my father really
admired… But go on about your boy.”
“Well, as I said, Jeff did pretty well at Oxford till the war cut into his
career. Then he served in Egypt and got a D.S.O., and soon after the
Armistice he went to France and Germany for languages, because he was
entering the Diplomatic Service and the usual thing is to get attached for a
few years to one of the embassies or legations. He’s only twenty-five.”
“Sounds like a future in front of him.”
“That—er—is what I have hoped. We’ve always got on excellently
together—good friends, I mean, as well as father and son. When I
arrived in Vienna recently the first thing he did was to take me off to some
restaurant where we could talk—because I hadn’t seen him for six
months, and that’s a long time for family gossip to accumulate.” Winslow
began to smile again. “I thought from the outset he didn’t seem exactly
himself—he was preoccupied, somehow, in the way he behaved and talked
—and later I asked if there’d been any trouble at the Embassy, but he
said no, nothing like that. At last I got out of him what HAD caused the
change.” The smile became suddenly forced and wan. “Perfectly natural, you
may think.”
“Been worrying about conditions in Austria? I understand things are pretty
bad, what with the famine and inflation—”
“No—not even all that… He’d fallen in love.”
George chuckled. “Well, sir, that quite often happens to good- looking
chaps of twenty-five. The only surprising thing is that it hadn’t happened
before.”
“Oh, but it had. That’s one of the—er—complications. He was
engaged to a very charming girl, a neighbour of ours in Berkshire, but he
said he’d already written to her to break it off—on account of the
—er—new attraction.”
“I see.” And at this George frowned slightly. A whiff of truculence was
generated in him as, momentarily, he saw in Winslow no longer an unworldly
scholar but a hidebound aristocrat conforming to type; for already the
probable outlines of the story seemed clear—a father anxious for his
son to make a socially correct marriage, the son’s romance with some pretty
but penniless Austrian girl… and George, of course, was all on the side of
the son and the girl, though he would wait to say so till Winslow had
finished. All he commented now was a blunt: “Everyone has a right to change
his mind.”
“Of course. It wasn’t my place to interfere—provided the supplanter
was all right.”
“Not even if you thought she wasn’t. A chap of twenty-five must choose for
himself.”
“Yes, in theory, though when—”
“In theory AND in practice, sir. I don’t say a father can’t give advice in
these matters, but that’s about all he CAN give. And if a young fellow makes
a mistake, well, it’s his mistake, and he can’t blame anyone else. Haven’t we
all made mistakes? And besides, even if she is a foreigner and recently an
enemy—”
“Oh, that wouldn’t worry me, and anyhow, she isn’t—she’s
English.”
“Then what does worry you?”
“Perhaps I’d better go on with what happened. Jeff naturally described her
to me in glowing colours and suggested an early meeting, so we all three
dined together the next day, and I must admit my first impression was
favourable—at any rate, she struck me as both charming and
intelligent…”
George was about to pour his guest another cup of tea, but Winslow made a
declining gesture. “Very kind of you, Boswell, but—but I really feel in
need of something a little stronger—I wonder—if you —if it
isn’t too much trouble—if I could have a whisky and soda?”
At which George could only in his own turn look embarrassed. “To tell you
the truth I don’t have such a thing in the house—you see, I’m teetotal.
But if you’re not feeling well I could send Annie out for a drop of
brandy—”
“Oh, please, no, I’m perfectly well—just tiredness, that’s all. I
really shouldn’t have mentioned it. Of no consequence at all, I assure you.”
What had really been demonstrated was a social distinction far more revealing
than any question of blood or accent—the fact that Winslow, though he
drank sparingly, nevertheless belonged to the class for whom whisky is as
much a household commonplace as salt or soap; whereas George, though by no
means a bigot, had inherited enough of his father’s puritanism to think of
liquor in terms of drunkenness and social problems.
After the gulf had been bridged by renewed apologies on both sides,
Winslow continued: “To come to the point”—(AT LAST, thought George)
—“I told Jeff afterwards that if they’d both made up their minds there
was nothing much for me to say. I was just a bit worried, though, because I
gathered it had been a very sudden affair, and I didn’t think he could really
know enough about her.”
“You mean her family and so on?”
“Partly. You may think me a snob, but I had to ask myself whether, as a
diplomat’s wife, she would have the right background.”
“Aye, I suppose that’s what counts.” George’s voice was severe.
“Yes—though not as much as it used to.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I don’t know much about the Diplomatic Service, but
I’m all for democracy in these things. And since you have to admit the girl
was all right herself—”
“Oh yes, she seemed so. I could imagine her a good hostess, and she
certainly had intelligence enough to pull wires.”
“Do diplomats’ wives have to do that?”
“They don’t have to, but it can help. Don’t the wives of your local
councillors sometimes do it?”
George grinned. “Not mine, anyhow. I could never get her to take an
interest in local affairs at all… But about your son and this girl… So I
suppose you consented to the match?”
“I should have done, but for finding out something about her that was
—as I think even you will agree—rather insuperable. Simply that
she was already married. The fact came out quite accidentally— someone
I happened to meet in Switzerland on my way home was able to tell me about
her. She had, it appeared—at least there was no other conclusion to be
drawn—deliberately misled Jeff. And a rather pointless deception
too—unless of course she was prepared to commit bigamy.”
George pondered a moment. “Well, you found out in time, that’s the main
thing.”
“Perhaps not in time, though, to stop him from making an utter fool of
himself.”
Winslow paused and seemed suddenly aware of the extent of George’s
library, though his ranging glance was hardly one of interest in it. At the
same moment Annie entered with some letters and was about to hand them to
George, but the latter shook his head and gestured her to put them on his
desk. Winslow intervened: “Don’t mind me if there’s anything important you
ought to attend to.”
“They can wait, whatever they are.”
“It’s good of you to let me take up your time like this.”
George was amazed at the humility of such a remark from a man of Winslow’s
age and importance. He could only reply: “Not at all, sir. Besides, you say I
can help—though I wouldn’t pretend to be much good at advice about
—er—family matters and so on.”
“Perhaps because your own family affairs have been happy?”
“Oh, I’ve had my troubles, same as most folks, I reckon.”
“But you’ve settled them all?”
“I’ve never had any to settle about a grown-up lad.” And George added,
wryly: “Worse luck.”
“Perhaps that itself makes a sort of trouble? I mean if—if— of
course I don’t know what your—”
“Aye… aye… but let’s get back to YOUR lad. What’s the mistake he made?
Surely when you told him—”
Winslow leaned forward with his hands pressed down on his knees; he seemed
to be seeking mastery of some strong emotion. “Forgive me for not keeping to
the point… Yes, I told him. We had long conversations, but only by
telephone, unfortunately, because I was compelled to return to England for an
important Government conference. That was a further complication—not
being in personal touch with him. It was very hard to telephone. Of course if
he’d been his normal self the mere facts would have been enough—he’s
always been quick to do the right thing. But—you see—he’s NOT his
normal self any more. This emotion—love or whatever you call it
—perhaps madness or infatuation’s a better word—”
“Doesn’t seem to matter much what you call it if it’s there.”
“I agree—provided one doesn’t fall into the error of idealizing. I’d
say, for instance, that I love my own wife, but I can easily think of things
I wouldn’t do to please her—things which, even if she asked me to do
them, would destroy the bond between us—like betraying my friends or my
country… But infatuation’s different—it seems to glory in doing
things IN SPITE OF, rather than BECAUSE OF… if you know what I mean.”
George made no comment.
“Well, anyhow, the point is, he hasn’t dropped her, even though he knows
the truth and she’s been forced to admit it. He’s behaving, in fact, as if he
CAN’T drop her. The last time I talked to him, which was from Paris, I
gathered he’d not only forgiven her for the deception, but she’s made him
believe a long story about an unhappy past and a husband she ran away from
because she couldn’t stand him… and the upshot of it all is, Jeff’s now
urging her to get a divorce so that he can marry her himself.”
“What’s HER attitude?”
“I only know through him—and of course he’s so completely prejudiced
in her favour that it’s not much to go by. But remember he’s quite a catch,
even if it does ruin his career.”
“And it would? Because of the scandal?”
“Possibly… But worst of all, as I see it, is the thing itself—to
put himself at the mercy of someone who has such evident power to distort and
overthrow his judgment… JUDGMENT… the most valuable attribute a man of
his profession can have… because if he still had any of it left, he’d drop
her. After all, how could he EXPECT a marriage of that sort to turn out a
success?… It’s a sad thing, Boswell, to see a first-class intelligence
functioning like a baby’s.”
“Why don’t you go out and talk to him personally as soon as you have the
time?”
“Yes, I shall do that—I wired him today about it. But somehow I’m
not sure that I can do much on my own—that last telephone talk was
simply shattering—the most I could get was a promise that he’d think it
over, but he CAN’T think, that’s the trouble—he’s in a world utterly
beyond logic and argument—you can’t prove anything to him —he
just believes this woman’s a sort of martyr-heroine and her husband’s an
impossible brute and—”
“How do you know he isn’t?”