Mark Twain's Medieval Romance (5 page)

“‘Because the painters themselves didn’t really know what was underneath!’”

Gladys Ponsonby paused to take a few more sips of brandy. “Don’t look so startled, Lionel,” she said to me. “There’s nothing wrong about this. Keep quiet and let me finish. So then Mr. Royden said, ‘That’s why I insist on painting my subjects first of all in the nude.’

“‘Good Heavens, Mr. Royden!’ I exclaimed.

“‘If you object to that, I don’t mind making a slight concession, Lady Ponsonby,’ he said. ‘But I prefer it the other way.’

“‘Really, Mr. Royden, I don’t know.’

“‘And when I’ve done you like that,’ he went on, ‘we’ll have to wait a few weeks for the paint to dry. Then you come back and I paint on your underclothing. And when that’s dry, I paint on the dress. You see, it’s quite simple.’”

“The man’s an absolute bounder!” I cried.

“No, Lionel, no! You’re quite wrong. If only you could have heard him, so charming about it all, so genuine and sincere. Anyone could see he really
felt
what he was saying.”

“I tell you, Gladys, the man’s a bounder!”

“Don’t be so silly, Lionel. And anyway, let me finish. The first thing I told him was that my husband (who was alive then) would never agree.

“‘Your husband need never know,’ he answered. ‘Why trouble him. No one knows my secret except the women I’ve painted.’

“And when I protested a bit more, I remember he said, ‘My dear Lady Ponsonby, there’s nothing immoral about this. Art is only immoral when practiced by amateurs. It’s the same with medicine. You wouldn’t refuse to undress before your doctor, would you?’

“I told him I would if I’d gone to him for earache. That made him laugh. But he kept on at me about it and I must say he was very convincing, so after a while I gave in and that was that. So now Lionel, my sweet, you know the secret.” She got up and went over to fetch herself some more brandy.

“Gladys, is this really true?”

“Of course it’s true.”

“You mean to say that’s the way he paints all his subjects?”

“Yes. And the joke is the husbands never know anything about it. All they see is a nice fully clothed portrait of their wives. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with being painted in the nude; artists do it all the time. But our silly husbands have a way of objecting to that sort of thing.”

“By gad, the fellow’s got a nerve!”

“I think he’s a genius.”

“I’ll bet he got the idea from Goya.”

“Nonsense, Lionel.”

“Of course he did. But listen, Gladys. I want you to tell me something. Did you by any chance know about this … this peculiar technique of Royden’s before you went to him?”

When I asked the question she was in the act of pouring the brandy, and she hesitated and turned her head to look at me, a little silky smile moving the corners of her mouth. “Damn you, Lionel,” she said. “You’re far too clever. You never let me get away with a single thing.”

“So you knew?”

“Of course. Hermione Girdlestone told me.”

“Exactly as I thought!”

“There’s still nothing wrong.”

“Nothing,” I said. “Absolutely nothing.” I could see it all quite clearly now. This Royden was indeed a bounder, practicing as neat a piece of psychological trickery as ever I’d seen. The man knew only too well that there was a whole set of wealthy indolent women in the city who got up at noon and spent the rest of the day trying to relieve their boredom with bridge and canasta and shopping until the cocktail hour came along. All they craved was a little excitement, something out of the ordinary, and the more expensive the better. Why—the news of an entertainment like this would spread through their ranks like smallpox. I could just see the great plump Hermione Girdlestone leaning over the canasta table and telling them about it …“But my dear, it’s
simp-
ly fascinating … I can’t
tell
you how intriguing it is …
much
more fun than going to your doctor …”

“You won’t tell anyone, Lionel, will you? You promised.”

“No, of course not. But now I must go, Gladys, I really must.”

“Don’t be so silly. I’m just beginning to enjoy myself. Stay till I’ve finished this drink anyway.”

I sat patiently on the sofa while she went on with her interminable brandy sipping. The little buried eyes still watching me out of their corners in that mischievous, canny way, and I had a strong feeling that the woman was now hatching out some further unpleasantness or scandal. There was the look of serpents in those eyes and a queer curl around the mouth; and in the air—although maybe I only imagined it—the faint smell of danger.

Then suddenly, so suddenly that I jumped, she said “Lionel, what’s this I hear about you and Janet de Pelagia?”

“Now Gladys, please …”

“Lionel, you’re blushing!”

“Nonsense.”

“Don’t tell me the old bachelor has really taken a tumble at last?”

“Gladys, this is too absurd.” I began making movements to go, but she put a hand on my knee and stopped me. “Don’t you know by now, Lionel, that there
are
no secrets?”

“Janet is a fine girl.”

“You can hardly call her a
girl.”
Gladys Ponsonby paused, staring down into the large brandy glass that she held cupped in both hands. “But of course, I agree with you, Lionel, she’s a wonderful person in every way. Except,” and now she spoke very slowly, “except that she
does
say some rather peculiar things occasionally.”

“What sort of things?”

“Just things, you know—things about people. About you.”

“What did she say about me?”

“Nothing at all, Lionel. It wouldn’t interest you.”

“What did she say about me?”

“It’s not even worth repeating, honestly it isn’t. It’s only that it struck me as being rather odd at the time.”

“Gladys—what did she say?” While I waited for her to answer, I could feel the sweat breaking out all over my body.

“Well now, let me see. Of course, she was only joking or I couldn’t dream of telling you, but I suppose she
did
say how it was all a wee bit of a bore.”

“What was?”

“Sort of going out to dinner with you nearly every night—that kind of thing.”

“She said it was a bore?”

“Yes.” Gladys Ponsonby drained the brandy glass with one last big gulp, and sat up straight. “If you really want to know, she said it was a crashing bore. And then …”

“What did she say then?”

“Now look, Lionel—there’s no need to get excited. I’m only telling you this for your own good.”

“Then please hurry up and tell it.”

“It’s just that I happened to be playing canasta with Janet this afternoon and I asked her if she was free to dine with me tomorrow. She said no, she wasn’t.”

“Go on.”

“Well—actually what she said was ‘I’m dining with that crashing old bore Lionel Lampson.’”

“Janet said that?”

“Yes, Lionel dear.”

“What else?”

“Now, that’s enough. I don’t think I should tell the rest.”

“Finish it, please!”

“Why Lionel, don’t keep shouting at me like that. Of course I’ll tell you if you insist. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t consider myself a true friend if I didn’t. Don’t you think it’s the sign of true friendship when two people like us …”

“Gladys!
Please
hurry.”

“Good Heavens, you must give me time to
think
. Let me see now—so far as I can remember, what she
actually
said was this …”—and Gladys Ponsonby, sitting upright on the sofa with her feet not quite touching the floor, her eyes away from me now, looking at the wall, began cleverly to mimic the deep tone of that voice I knew so well— “‘Such a bore, my dear, because with Lionel one can
always
tell exactly what will happen
right
from beginning to end. For dinner we’ll go to the Savoy Grill—it’s
always
the Savoy Grill—and for two hours I’ll have to listen to the pompous old … I mean I’ll have to listen to him droning away about pictures and porcelain—
always
pictures and porcelain. Then in the taxi going home he’ll reach out for my hand, and he’ll lean closer, and I’ll get a whiff of stale cigar smoke and brandy, and he’ll start burbling about how he wished—oh how he wished he was just twenty years younger. And I will say “Could you open a window, do you mind?” And when we arrive at my house I’ll tell him to keep the taxi, but he’ll pretend he hasn’t heard and pay it off quickly. And then at the front door, while I fish for my key, he’ll stand beside me with a sort of silly spaniel look in his eyes, and I’ll slowly put the key in the lock, and slowly turn it, and then—very quickly, before he has time to move—I’ll say goodnight and skip inside and shut the door behind me …’ Why Lionel! What’s the matter, dear? You look positively ill …”

At that point, mercifully, I must have swooned clear away. I can remember practically nothing of the rest of that terrible night except for a vague and disturbing suspicion that when I regained consciousness I broke down completely and permitted Gladys Ponsonby to comfort me in a variety of different ways. Later, I believe I walked out of the house and was driven home, but I remained more or less unconscious of everything around me until I woke up in my bed the next morning.

I awoke feeling weak and shaken. I lay still with my eyes closed, trying to piece together the events of the night before—Gladys Ponsonby’s living-room, Gladys on the sofa sipping brandy, the little puckered face, the mouth that was like a salmon’s mouth, the things she had said … What was it she had said. Ah yes. About me. My God, yes! About Janet and me! Those outrageous, unbelievable remarks! Could Janet really have made them? Could she?

I can remember with what terrifying swiftness my hatred of Janet de Pelagia now began to grow. It all happened in a few minutes—a sudden, violent welling up of a hatred that filled me till I thought I was going to burst. I tried to dismiss it but it was on me like a fever, and in no time at all I was hunting around, as would some filthy gangster, for a method of revenge.

A curious way to behave, you may say, for a man such as me; to which I would answer—no, not really, if you consider the circumstances. To my mind, this was the sort of thing that could drive a man to murder. As a matter of fact, had it not been for a small sadistic streak that caused me to seek a more subtle and painful punishment for my victim, I might well have become a murderer myself. But mere killing, I decided, was too good for this woman, and far too crude for my own taste. So I began looking for a superior alternative.

I am not normally a scheming person; I consider it an odious business and have had no practice in it whatsoever. But fury and hate can concentrate a man’s mind to an astonishing degree, and in no time at all a plot was forming and unfolding in my head—a plot so superior and exciting that I began to be quite carried away at the idea of it. By the time I had filled in the details and overcome one or two minor objections, my brooding vengeful mood had changed to one of extreme elation, and I remember how I started bouncing up and down absurdly on my bed and clapping my hands. The next thing I knew I had the telephone directory on my lap and was searching eagerly for a name. I found it, picked up the phone, and dialled the number.

“Hello,” I said. “Mr. Royden? Mr. John Royden?”

“Speaking.”

Well—it wasn’t difficult to persuade the man to call around and see me for a moment. I had never met him, but of course he knew my name, both as an important collector of paintings and as a person of some consequence in society. I was a big fish for him to catch.

“Let me see now, Mr. Lampson,” he said, “I think I ought to be free in about a couple of hours. Will that be allright?”

I told him it would be fine, gave my address, and rang off.

I jumped out of bed. It was really remarkable how exhilarated I felt all of a sudden. One moment I had been in agony of despair, contemplating murder and suicide and I don’t know what; the next, I was whistling an aria from Puccini in my bath. Every now and again I caught myself rubbing my hands together in a devilish fashion, and once, during my exercises, when I overbalanced doing a double-knee-bend, I sat on the floor and giggled like a schoolboy.

At the appointed time Mr. John Royden was shown in to my library and I got up to meet him. He was a small neat man with a slightly ginger goatee beard. He wore a black velvet jacket, a rust-brown tie, a red pullover, and black suède shoes. I shook his small neat hand.

“Good of you to come along so quickly, Mr. Royden.”

“Not at all, sir.” The man’s lips—like the lips of nearly all bearded men—looked wet and naked, a trifle indecent, shining pink in among all that hair. After telling him again how much I admired his work, I got straight down to business.

“Mr. Royden,” I said, “I have a rather unusual request to make of you, something quite personal in its way.”

“Yes, Mr. Lampson?” He was sitting in the chair opposite me and he cocked his head over to one side, quick and perky like a bird.

“Of course, I know I can trust you to be discreet about anything I say.”

“Absolutely, Mr. Lampson.”

“Allright. Now my proposition is this: there is a certain lady in town here whose portrait I would like you to paint. I very much want to possess a fine painting of her. But there are certain complications. For example, I have my own reasons for not wishing her to know that it is I who am commissioning the portrait.”

“You mean …”

“Exactly, Mr. Royden. That is exactly what I mean. As a man of the world I’m sure you will understand.”

He smiled, a crooked little smile that only just came through his beard, and he nodded his head knowingly up and down.

“Is it not possible,” I said, “that a man might be—how shall I put it?—extremely fond of a lady and at the same time have his own good reasons for not wishing her to know about it yet?”

“More than possible, Mr. Lampson.”

“Sometimes a man has to stalk his quarry with great caution, waiting patiently for the right moment to reveal himself.”

“Precisely, Mr. Lampson.”

“There are better ways of catching a bird than by chasing it through the woods.”