Vile Bodies · Chapter 8 (2/2)

“All this business of government.”

“As far as I’m concerned it stands for a damned lot of hard work and precious little in return. If those young people can find a way to get on without it, good luck to them.”

“I see what Metroland means,” said Father Rothschild.

“Blessed if I do. Anyway I’ve got no children myself, and I’m thankful for it. I don’t understand them, and I don’t want to. They had a chance after the war that no generation has ever had. There was a whole civilization to be saved and remade⁠—and all they seem to do is to play the fool. Mind you, I’m all in favour of them having a fling. I dare say that Victorian ideas were a bit straitlaced. Saving your cloth, Rothschild, it’s only human nature to run a bit loose when one’s young. But there’s something wanton about these young people today. That stepson of yours, Metroland, and that girl of poor old Chasm’s and young Throbbing’s brother.”

“Don’t you think,” said Father Rothschild gently, “that perhaps it is all in some way historical? I don’t think people ever want to lose their faith either in religion or anything else. I know very few young people, but it seems to me that they are all possessed with an almost fatal hunger for permanence. I think all these divorces show that. People aren’t content just to muddle along nowadays.⁠ ⁠… And this word ‘bogus’ they all use.⁠ ⁠… They won’t make the best of a bad job nowadays. My private schoolmaster used to say, ‘If a thing’s worth doing at all, it’s worth doing well.’ My Church has taught that in different words for several centuries. But these young people have got hold of another end of the stick, and for all we know it may be the right one. They say, ‘If a thing’s not worth doing well, it’s not worth doing at all.’ It makes everything very difficult for them.”

“Good heavens, I should think it did. What a darned silly principle. I mean to say if one didn’t do anything that wasn’t worth doing well⁠—why, what would one do? I’ve always maintained that success in this world depends on knowing exactly how little effort each job is worth⁠ ⁠… distribution of energy.⁠ ⁠… And, I suppose, most people would admit that I was a pretty successful man.”

“Yes, I suppose they would, Outrage,” said Father Rothschild, looking at him rather quizzically.

But that self-accusing voice in the Prime Minister’s heart was silent. There was nothing like a little argument for settling the mind. Everything became so simple as soon as it was put into words.

“And anyway, what do you mean by ‘historical’?”

“Well, it’s like this war that’s coming.⁠ ⁠…”

“What war?” said the Prime Minister sharply. “No one has said anything to me about a war. I really think I should have been told. I’ll be damned,” he said defiantly, “if they shall have a war without consulting me. What’s a Cabinet for if there’s not more mutual confidence than that? What do they want a war for, anyway?”

“That’s the whole point. No one talks about it, and no one wants it. No one talks about it because no one wants it. They’re all afraid to breathe a word about it.”

“Well, hang it all, if no one wants it, who’s going to make them have it?”

“Wars don’t start nowadays because people want them. We long for peace, and fill our newspapers with conferences about disarmament and arbitration, but there is a radical instability in our whole world-order, and soon we shall all be walking into the jaws of destruction again, protesting our pacific intentions.”

“Well, you seem to know all about it,” said Mr. Outrage, “and I think I should have been told sooner. This will have to mean a coalition with that old windbag Brown, I suppose.”

“Anyhow,” said Lord Metroland, “I don’t see how all that explains why my stepson should drink like a fish and go about everywhere with a negress.”

“I think they’re connected, you know,” said Father Rothschild. “But it’s all very difficult.”

Then they separated.

Father Rothschild pulled on a pair of overall trousers in the forecourt and, mounting his motor cycle, disappeared into the night, for he had many people to see and much business to transact before he went to bed.

Lord Metroland left the house in some depression. Margot had taken the car, but it was scarcely five minutes’ walk to Hill Street. He took a vast cigar from his case, lit it and sank his chin in the astrakhan collar of his coat, conforming almost exactly to the popular conception of a highly enviable man. But his heart was heavy. What a lot of nonsense Rothschild had talked. At least he hoped it was nonsense.

By ill-fortune he arrived on the doorstep to find Peter Pastmaster fumbling with the lock, and they entered together. Lord Metroland noticed a tall hat on the table by the door. “Young Trumpington’s, I suppose,” he thought. His stepson did not once look at him, but made straight for the stairs, walking unsteadily, his hat on the back of his head, his umbrella still in his hand.

“Good night, Peter,” said Lord Metroland.

“Oh, go to hell,” said his stepson thickly, then, turning on the stairs, he added, “I’m going abroad tomorrow for a few weeks. Will you tell my mother?”

“Have a good time,” said Lord Metroland. “You’ll find it just as cold everywhere, I’m afraid. Would you care to take the yacht? No one’s using it.”

“Oh, go to hell.”

Lord Metroland went into the study to finish his cigar. It would be awkward if he met young Trumpington on the stairs. He sat down in a very comfortable chair.⁠ ⁠… A radical instability, Rothschild had said, radical instability.⁠ ⁠… He looked round his study and saw shelves of books⁠—the Dictionary of National Biography, the Encyclopaedia Britannica in an early and very bulky edition, Who’s Who, Debrett, Burke, Whitaker, several volumes of Hansard, some Blue Books and Atlases⁠—a safe in the corner painted green with a brass handle, his writing table, his secretary’s table, some very comfortable chairs and some very businesslike chairs, a tray with decanters and a plate of sandwiches, his evening mail laid out on the table⁠ ⁠… radical instability, indeed. How like poor old Outrage to let himself get taken in by that charlatan of a Jesuit.

He heard the front door open and shut behind Alastair Trumpington.

Then he rose and went quickly upstairs, leaving his cigar smouldering in the ashtray, filling the study with fragrant smoke.

Quarter of a mile away the Duchess of Stayle went, as she always did, to say good night to her eldest daughter. She crossed the room and drew up the window a few inches, for it was a cold and raw night. Then she went over to the bed and smoothed the pillow.

“Good night, dear child,” she said, “I thought you looked sweet tonight.”

Lady Ursula wore a white cambric nightgown with a little yoke collar and long sleeves. Her hair hung in two plaits.

“Mama,” she said. “Edward proposed to me tonight.”

“Darling. What a funny girl you are. Why didn’t you tell me before? You weren’t frightened, were you? You know that your father and I are delighted at anything that makes our little girl happy.”

“Well, I said I wouldn’t marry him⁠ ⁠… I’m sorry.”

“But, my dear, it’s nothing to be sorry about. Leave it to your old mother. I’ll put it all right for you in the morning.”

“But, Mama, I don’t want to marry him. I didn’t know until it actually came to the point. I’d always meant to marry him, as you know. But somehow, when he actually asked me⁠ ⁠… I just couldn’t.”

“There, dear child, you mustn’t worry any more. You know perfectly well, don’t you, that your father and I would not let you do anything you didn’t want. It’s a matter that only you can decide. After all, it’s your life and your happiness at stake, not ours, isn’t it, Ursula⁠ ⁠… but I think you’d better marry Edward.”

“But, Mama, I don’t want to⁠ ⁠… I couldn’t⁠ ⁠… it would kill me!”

“Now, now, my pet mustn’t worry her head about it any more. You know your father and I only want your happiness, dear one. No one is going to make my darling girl do anything she doesn’t want to.⁠ ⁠… Papa shall see Edward in the morning and make everything all right⁠ ⁠… dear Lady Anchorage was only saying tonight what a lovely bride you will make.”

“But, Mama⁠ ⁠…”

“Not another word, dear child. It’s very late and you’ve got to look your best for Edward tomorrow, haven’t you, love?”

The Duchess closed the door softly and went to her own room. Her husband was in his dressing-room.

“Andrew.”

“What is it, dear? I’m saying my prayers.”

“Edward proposed to Ursula tonight.”

“Ah!”

“Aren’t you glad?”

“I told you, dear, I’m trying to say my prayers.”

“It’s a real joy to see the dear children so happy.”