Magnus Merriman (16 page)

The Colonel and Mr Anstruther muttered their agreement.

Miss Mary said, ‘There is such a lot about killing people in your novel that I thought you might prefer going to war.
You should read Mr Merriman's book, Colonel. It's about fighting in Central Asia; at least the more proper parts are about fighting.'

‘Central Asia?' said the Colonel. ‘H'm. Have you been there?'

‘I've been to Teheran and on the border of the Turkoman Republic, and I was in Baku with Dunsterville during the war.'

The Colonel grew more friendly. Asia was a bond of interest. He knew all Northern India; he had been in Gilgit and the Hunza Valley, he had been on a mission to Kabul, he had guarded the Khyber Pass; he had soldiered with the levies in Persia, and he was familiar with all the gossip from Trebizond to Turkestan of the little warlike nations who in the post-war years had been betrayed by Britain's facile promises. He was a hard-shelled Conservative, narrow-headed, but in his narrow head there was a vast deal of knowledge, hot sympathy for the tribes and people he knew, enthusiasm for the ideals he had served. He said, ‘The more I hear of English politicians the more I love my Punjabi Mussulmans.'

Magnus said, ‘The Punjab is not all India. The Mahrathas have as good a war record as the Punjabis.'

‘Then you admit your liking for India?' said the Colonel.

Magnus, with a second glass of port before him, said, ‘India is the most fascinating country in the world.'

‘And what is going to happen to India if you split the Empire by separating Scotland from England? You're not one of those arm-chair optimists who believe that India could look after herself? What do you think would happen if we cleared out and said to the Swarajists, “Now carry on by yourselves”?'

‘There would be internecine warfare on a large and unpleasant scale. There's a Punjabi proverb that says, “The day after the British leave India…”'

‘You can't quote that one here,' said the Colonel, ‘but it's quite correct. And worse than internal trouble would be external invasion. The Russians would come in from the north, Japan would come in by sea, the Germans would penetrate with trading concessions, the French and
Italians would follow them—no, Italy would probably precede them—and you'd turn the clock back to the eighteenth century and make India the cockpit of the world.'

‘No, we can't abandon India,' said Magnus decidedly.

‘But how are you going to avoid abandoning it if you carve Britain in two?'

‘If Scotland were independent we could press forward the idea of an Imperial Federation, which is the logical conclusion, in modern terms, of our eighteenth-century colonization. We wouldn't weaken the Empire; we would strengthen it by adding to it a new and forceful nation.'

The Colonel looked sceptical. Most of the other members of the party considered their coffee-cups with that air of abstract speculation which is the polite disguise of boredom, but Aunt Mary had followed the discussion with interest and Frieda looked at Magnus with fond admiration. Mrs Wishart rose and with some acerbity reminded them of the time. The ladies followed her out of the room.

Magnus and the Colonel drew their chairs together, and in three minutes had agreed that Britain must be infused with new pride, new determination, and a new Imperialist spirit, though the Colonel was by no means willing to admit that that end could be attained by a path leading from Scottish Nationalism to Federation. With difficulty they were eventually separated, and each proceeded to the football match with the conviction that he had made a convert of the other.

The bastard Faulconbridge, having discovered that the world was mad, came to a very sensible decision and declared:

Without having precisely formulated such a code, Magnus was not insusceptible to this chameleon philosophy, and frequently found himself in happy agreement with his
surroundings—though there were occasions when he yielded to an anti-chameleon ethic and, in the midst of white, proclaimed himself all black. It was rather in this latter mood that he went to the football ground at Murrayfield, and after Uncle Henry's port and his discussion with the Colonel he felt superior to, and impatient with people who had in their minds no thought but to be entertained by an idle game. Five minutes after the match started, however, he was at one with the vast throng about him, a very chameleon on that pounding field, coloured like eighty thousand others with the fierce hues of enthusiasm.

There is a kind of Rugby that is no more than dull squabbling in the mud, a drenched and witless wrangling punctuated by a fretful whistle. But, at its best, Rugby is a game that all the gods of Greece might crowd the northern skies to see, and, benched on our cold clouds, be not restrained either by frozen bottoms or the crowd's chill sceptic hearts from plunging to the aid of stronger Myrmidons, of plucking from the scrimmage some Hector trodden in the mire and nursing him to strength again. Well might the Thunderer send fleet Mercury, swooping from the heights, to pick from the empty air Achilles' mis-flung pass and with it race—dog-rose and buttercup fast springing in his track—to the eternal goal.

And that square Ajax—dirtier than his namesake and more brave—would Hera not guard his brow from flying boots as, dauntless, down he hurls himself to stop a forward rush? Is there in all that crowd a Helen not quick-breathing, tip-toed and ready to leave dull Menelaus in his office chair and flee with Paris there, who runs so lightning-swift on the left wing?—on the left wing only? Eagles would need two to fly so fast.

Rugby can be a game for gods to see and poets to describe, and such a match was this.
L'audace, encore l'audace, et
toujours l'audace
was both sides' motto, and which was more gallant—England, taller and bulkier-seeming because clad in white: Scotland, running like stags and tackling like thunderbolts in blue—no one can truthfully say and none would care to know. If Tallent for England was magnificent, Simmers for Scotland was superb. Did Tallent run
the whole length of the field and score? Then Simmers, leaping like a leopard, snatched from the air a high cross-kick of Macpherson's and scored from that. Did Black for England kick like a giant, long, true and hard? Then see what Logan at the scrum, Smith on the wing, did like giants for Scotland. And each side in turn, tireless and full of devil, came to the attack and ranged the field to score. Pace never slackened from start to finish, and every minute thrilled with excitement till, at the end, wisps of fog came down—perhaps the gods indeed, hiding their brightness in the mist—and in that haze the players still battled with unwearied zeal.

Judge, then, of the fervour of the crowd, poised as it were on the broad rim of a saucer, and as thick together as if the saucer had been smeared with treacle and black sand thrown on it. But they were more mobile than sand, and ever and again a movement would pass through them as when a wave of the wind goes through a cornfield. Ever and again, as when walls in an earthquake fall asunder, some twelve or fourteen thousand would shiver and drift away from their neighbouring twelve thousand and then, stability reasserted, fall slowly into place again. And now, like a monstrous and unheralded flowering of dark tulip-beds, the crowd would open to its heart and fling aloft, as countless petals, hats, sticks, and arms, and pretty handkerchiefs, and threaten to burst the sky with cheers. Now they were wild as their poorer neighbours who, some mile or two away, were cheering their paid teams with coarser tongues. Now all Scotland was at one, united in its heat, and only the most sour of moralists would decry that heat because it had been lighted by a trivial game.

Magnus carried his excitement with him, through the voluminous outpouring of the crowd, all the way to Francis Meiklejohn's flat, and Frieda, walking beside him, was as fervid as he, and willing even to admit that Rugby such as this transcended the staccato violence of American football. But Meiklejohn, who had not been to the match, was sceptical of its virtues and scoffed at their enthusiasm. Mrs Dolphin, who entered the room with them to hear the news, rejoiced to learn that Scotland had won, but was
disinclined to believe that such a game was worthy to show off her country's virility.

‘Was there any blood?' she asked, and on being told that injuries had been few, said, ‘It's shinty they should have been playing. I remember seeing a game of shinty at Kingussie, and half the men there had bloody heads before it was over. Every other crack of the ball there was a man carried off the field, for if it wasn't the ball that hit him it was the stick, and a shinty-stick is a fine weapon. There was a man called Alistair Mhor, and he stopped at one time and said, “What's this on my stick?” And then he saw it was a man's eyebrow he had knocked off. Alistair was a Macdonald and the man who had lost his eyebrow was a Campbell, so Alistair wasn't as sorry as he would have been otherwise. Oh, shinty's a fine game if you don't mind it being a little bit rough. It pleased them well enough in Kingussie, for the people there said they hadn't had such a treat for years.'

Though Meiklejohn was not sympathetic with his guests' enthusiasm, his zeal for hospitality was unimpaired. Several other people arrived, and presently the room was full of the familiar sounds of
Figaro
, glass and bottle music, loud conversation, and Meiklejohn's detonating laughter. Among the newcomers was a very pretty girl whom Meiklejohn greeted with a flourish of welcome and introduced as Miss Beauly. He gathered her and Magnus and Frieda into a corner and said, ‘We're dining at the Tarascon tonight. I've got a table for four. Now I don't want any argument or hard-luck stories of previous engagements. We're going—so there's no more to be said.'

Magnus alone, however, found no difficulty in tacit agreement. Miss Beauly said a great deal about the difficulty of getting dressed in time and the breaking of earlier promises that would be incidental to the acceptance of this new invitation, and made a fine show of reluctance before consenting to join them. Frieda was anxious to go, but was doubtful of her aunt's compliance, and would not say yes till she had telephoned Mrs Wishart for permission. After that the party continued with such agreeable hilarity as to put them in danger of forgetting the subsequent engagement, and indeed they did not remember it till so late an hour that neither Miss
Beauly nor anyone else had time to go home and change into evening dress. But fortified by Meiklejohn's vodka they then found themselves ready to flaunt the conventions and dare the invasion of Edinburgh's most distinguished restaurant in the permeable armour of ordinary clothes.

The Tarascon Restaurant was in the Albyn Hotel. It gave facilities for dancing and dining at approximately the same time: one could rise from one's turbot
maître
d'hôtel
, that is, and while forgetting its flavour in the polite amusement of a waltz, find diversion—if such were one's nature—in the thought that all around one were agitated couples whose ears were full of music and whose stomachs were full of newly ingurgitated fragments of cutlet, potato salad, partridge and rum soufflé. In a mechanical age the mechanism of the human body is of universal interest, and the spectacle of mortality overcoming so many difficulties at once was enthralling: here was a brain zealously receiving afferent impulse from the American orchestration of an African melody, analysing it, and transmitting a hundred instructions to all the muscles from trouser-top to toe; and there were the muscles, huge fellows like the quadriceps extensor and tiny pink slips like the flexon digiti quinti—or some such thing—co-ordinating these instructions and obeying them with more than the discipline of a Guards' battalion. And immediately above the trouser-line was a digestive system revolving the mixed bag of an eight-course dinner, sorting its contents with the care of a stamp collector before a tray of new specimens, telegraphing to the brain for hepatic aid and pancreatic reinforcements, and notifying its descending tracts of their imminent burden. Meanwhile the lungs were filtering oxygen from a bewildering indraught of cigarette smoke, perfume, and the odours of food; the ever-versatile brain was putting a score of facial and glottal muscles through their drill of social conversation, and still navigating its owner down the crowded fairway of the floor; and a host of tactile sensations were informing various parts of the body that of all God's creatures there were only two kinds, and male and female created He them. Nor does this catalogue comprise more than half the activities of these dancers—whom many people would foolishly call idle—
but of other physiological business and cortical traffic there is no need to speak, for enough has been said to account for the popularity of the Tarascon Restaurant in those classes of people that could afford to frequent it.

On this particular evening it was full as a hive in the honey months, and as busy, with people who had been to the football match and were unwilling to stay quietly at home after the excitement. As though disgorged by the teeming dance-and-dining room, tables lined the foyer and corridor outside, whose occupants might hear the muted music from within, and people were still coming and going on the stairs, greeting friends and blocking the way with fortuitous assembly. The table that Meiklejohn had reserved was in the restaurant itself. It cowered beneath the orchestra and was overshadowed, almost overgrown, by surrounding diners like a Mayan temple in the jungle.

Meiklejohn and his friends, dressed for daytime purposes, were received by the waiters with obvious displeasure, for tweed and flannel had a raffish, disrespectful look among the elegances of evening wear. The head waiter indeed was unwilling to admit them, but yielded when Magnus said loudly, ‘The law of the land declares that an inn, tavern, pub, pot-house, coffee-stall, brothel or posada shall not refuse admission to customers able to pay for what they eat and drink, and that such refusal is a criminal offence. If you don't believe me send for the manager and I'll argue with him.' They were then allowed to proceed to their table, and the slow sequence of dishes began.

Owing to the contiguous noise of the orchestra they were compelled to speak at the top of their voices. Meiklejohn said, ‘The last time Magnus and I dined together we were arrested,' and he told the tale of their visit to the High Street pub and the subsequent interposition of the police. Frieda had heard the story before. In the early days of her acquaintance with Magnus she had thought it amusing, but now, when she saw him in a graver light and love had made her both sensitive and practical, she deprecated such wildness and did not like to be reminded of it.

She said, ‘Well, I hope you're not going to argue about Shakespeare and Racine tonight.'

‘Goodness, I hope not,' said Miss Beauly. ‘I came here to be amused.'

‘Anyhow, we shan't quarrel about them,' said Magnus, and Meiklejohn agreed.

Now later in the evening it happened that Meiklejohn himself quoted Shakespeare and the topic was reborn. They had danced several times, Magnus with Frieda, Meiklejohn with Miss Beauly, on each occasion Meiklejohn complained of the crowded floor. Magnus, who was a bad dancer and moreover in a mood of benign contentment with the world, did not object to being crushed by mortal shoulders, impeded by mortal legs, and blown upon by mortal breath in the intimacy common to a herd of sheep; he held Frieda closely to him, talked to her with boisterous and extravagant affection, and happily pranced or limped in accordance with the prevailing density of the multitude. But Meiklejohn was a good dancer, and could not find room to exercise his skill; and Miss Beauly got kicked on the heel by some high-stepping Boeotian, and so they returned to their seats with tempers rather ruffled.

Filling his glass from a new-come bottle of champagne, Meiklejohn drank it off, still creaming, and said: ‘I hate the mutable rank-scented many.'

‘You hear that?' said Magnus. ‘Even the Devil can't get on without Scripture.'

‘What do you mean?' asked Frieda.

‘He quoted Shakespeare. He pretends to despise him, and yet he can't do without him.'

‘My dear fellow!' said Meiklejohn, ‘that's an absurd thing to say. I happened to use a perfectly ordinary phrase…'

‘That you couldn't have used if Shakespeare hadn't invented it. And every day we use his inventions. English speech is full of them. Fat men from Glasgow and Manchester, tax-collectors and commercial travellers and sellers of soap and debentures and second-hand motor cars, and priggish old maids from Cheltenham, all make their speech glorious by talking about Triton of the minnows, and my prophetic soul! my uncle! and all the world's a stage, and cakes and ale, and a lion among ladies, and the lunatic, the lover, and the poet, and maiden meditation fancy-free, and
the hundred other things that Shakespeare said first. You talk about Racine, but did Racine create a whole speech? Shakespeare did. Shakespeare shines…'

At this point the music reached an unpleasant degree of loudness as all instruments blended in vulgar encouragement to the dancers, and Magnus, now very excited, found this opposition to his harangue utterly intolerable.

He jumped from his chair and confronting the orchestra shouted in tremendous tones: ‘Shut up!'

The music wavered through involuntary discords to half-silence. The agitated conductor looked round to see who had interrupted him, and, they also shaken and now released from the spell of the commanding baton, the remaining players put down their instruments.