“For instance, I wrote something about my first unit when I was with them,” he said.
“Recite it to us.”
Stevens laughed, a merely formal gesture of modesty. He turned to me*
“Nicholas,” he said, “were you ever junior subaltern in your battalion?”
“For what seemed a lifetime.”
“And proposed the King’s health in the Mess on guest nights?”
“Certainly.”
“Mr. Vice, the Loyal Toast — then you rose to your feet and said: Gentlemen, the King.”
“Followed by The Allied Regiments — such-and-such a regiment of Canada and such-and-such a regiment of Australia.”
“Do you mean to say this actually happened to you yourself, Nick?” asked Moreland. “You stood up and said Gentlemen, the King?”
He showed total incredulity.
“I used to love it,” said Stevens. “Put everything I had into the words. It was the only thing I liked about the dump. I only asked all this because I wrote some lines called Guest Night.”
Stevens cleared his throat, then, without the least self-consciousness, began his recitation in a low, dramatic voice:
“On Thursday it’s a parade to dine,
The Allied Regiments and the King
Are pledged in dregs of tawny wine,
But now the Colonel’s taken wing.
Yet subalterns still talk and tease
(Wide float the clouds of Craven A
Stubbed out in orange peel and cheese)
Of girls and Other Ranks and pay.
If — on last night-scheme — B Coy, broke
The bipod of the borrowed bren:
The Sergeants’ Mess is out of coke:
And Gordon nearly made that Wren.
Along the tables of the Mess
The artificial tulips blow,
Tired as a prostitute’s caress
Their crimson casts no gladdening glow.
Why do those phallic petals fret
The heart, till coils — like Dannert wire –
Concentrically expand regret
For lost true love and found desire?
While Haw-Haw, from the radio,
Aggrieved, insistent, down the stair,
With distant bugles, sweet and low,
Commingles on the winter air.”
Stevens ceased to declaim. He smiled and sat back in his seat. He was certainly unaware of the entirely new conception of himself his own spoken verses had opened up for me. Their melancholy revealed quite another side of his nature, one concealed as a rule by aggressive cheerfulness. This melancholy was no doubt a logical counterpart, the reverse surface of the coin, one to be expected from high spirits of his own particular sort, bound up as they were with a perpetual discharge of personality. All the same, one never learns to expect the obvious. This contrast of feeling in him might have been an element that attracted Priscilla, something she recognised when they first met at Frederica’s; something more fundamentally melodramatic, even, than Lovell himself could achieve. We all expressed appreciation. Moreland was, I think, almost as surprised as myself.
“Not much like Max’s stuff though,” he said.
“All the same, Max Pilgrim was the source.”
“Nor very cheerful,” said Mrs. Maclintick. “I do believe you’re as morbid as Moreland is himself.”
Although she spoke in her accustomed spirit of depreciation, Stevens must have achieved his aim in making more or less of a conquest, because she smiled quite kindly at him after saying that. Moved by her complaisance, or, more likely, by the repetition of his own lines, his face registered self-pity.
“I wasn’t feeling very cheerful at the time,” he said. “That unit I went to as a one-pipper fairly got me down.”
Then, immediately, one of those instantaneous changes of mood, that were so much a part of him, took place.
“Would you like to hear one of the bawdy ones?” he asked.
Before anyone could reply, another officer, a big captain with a red face and cropped hair, like Stevens also wearing battle-dress, passed our table. Catching sight of Stevens, this man began to roar with laughter and point.
“Odo, my son,” he yelled. “Fancy seeing your ugly mug here.”
“God, Brian, you old swine.”
“I suppose you’ve been painting the town red, and, like me, have got to catch the night train back to the bloody grind again. I’ve been having a pretty wet weekend, I can tell you.”
“Come and have a drink, Brian. There’s lots of time.”
“Not going to risk being cashiered for W.O.A.S.A.W.L.”
“What on earth’s that he said?” asked Mrs. Maclintick.
“While-On-Active-Service-Absent-Without-Leave,” said Stevens, characteristically not allowing her even for a second out of his power by disregarding the question. “Oh, come on, Brian, no hurry yet.”
The red-faced captain was firm.
“Got to find a taxi, for one thing. Besides, I’ve baggage to pick up.”
Stevens looked at his watch.
“I’ve got baggage too,” he said, “a valise and a kit bag and some other junk. Perhaps you’re right, Brian, and I’d do well to accompany you. Anyway it would halve the taxi fare.”
He rose from the table.
“Then I’ll be bidding you all good-bye,” he said.
“Do you really have to go?” said Mrs. Maclintick. “We’re just beginning to get to know you. Are you annoyed about something, like the girl you were with?”
In the course of her life she could rarely have gone further towards making an effort to show herself agreeable. It was a triumph for Stevens. He laughed, conscious of this, pleased at his success.
“Duty calls,” he said. “I only wish I could stay till four in the morning, but they’re beginning to shut down here as it is, even if I hadn’t a train to catch.”
We said good-bye to him.
“Wonderful to have met you, Mr. Moreland,” said Stevens. “Here’s to the next performance of Vieux Port on the same programme as your newest work — and may I be there to hear. Good-bye, Nicholas.”
He held out his hand. From being very sure of himself, he had now reverted a little to that less absolute confidence of the days when I had first known him. He was probably undecided as to the most effective note to strike in taking leave of us. It may at last have dawned on him that all the business of Priscilla could include embarrassments of a kind to which he had hitherto given little or no thought. The hesitation he showed possibly indicated indecision as to whether or not he should make further reference to her sudden withdrawal from the party. If, for a second, he had contemplated speaking of that, he must have changed his mind.
“We’ll be meeting again,” he said.
“Good-bye.”
“And Happy Landings.”
“Come on, Odo, you oaf,” said the red-faced captain, “cut out the fond farewells, or there won’t be a cab left on the street. We’ve got to get cracking. Don’t forget there’ll be all that waffle with the R.T.O.”
They went off together, slapping each other on the back.
“He’s a funny boy,” said Mrs. Maclintick.
Stevens had made an impression on her. There could be no doubt of that. The way she spoke showed it. Although his presence that night had been unwelcome to myself — and the other two at first had also displayed no great wish to have him at the table — a distinct sense of flatness was discernible now Stevens was gone. Even Moreland, who had fidgeted when Mrs. Maclintick had expressed regrets at this departure, seemed aware that the conviviality of the party was reduced by his removal. I said I should have to be making for bed.