"Well, Milton, had a good holiday?" said Mr. Prohack to the hall-porter on entering his chief club for lunch that day.
"No, sir," said the hall-porter, who was a realist.
"Ah, well," said Mr. Prohack soothingly1. "Perhaps not a bad thing. There's nothing like an unsatisfactory holiday for reconciling us all to a life of toil3, is there?"
"No, sir," said Milton, impassively, and added: "Mr. Bishop4 has just called to see you, sir. I told him you'd probably be in shortly. He said he wouldn't wait but he might look in again."
"Thanks," said Mr. Prohack. "If he does, I shall be either in the coffee-room or upstairs."
Mr. Prohack walked into the majestic5 interior of the Club, which had been closed, rather later than usual, for its annual cleaning. He savoured anew and more sharply the beauty and stateliness of its architecture, the elaboration of its conveniences, the severe splendour of its luxury. And he saw familiar and congenial faces, and on every face was a mild joy similar to the joy which he himself experienced in the reopening of the Club. And he was deliciously aware of the "club feeling," unlike, and more agreeable than, any other atmosphere of an organism in the world.
The Club took no time at all to get into its stride after the closure. It opened its doors and was instantly its full self. For hundreds of grave men in and near London had risen that very morning from their beds uplifted by the radiant thought: "To-day I can go to the Club again." Mr. Prohack had long held that the noblest, the most civilised achievement of the British character was not the British Empire, nor the House of Commons, nor the steam-engine, nor aniline dyes, nor the music-hall, but a good West End club. And somehow at the doors of a good West End club there was an invisible magic sieve6, through which the human body could pass but through which human worries could not pass.
This morning, however, Mr. Prohack perceived that one worry could pass through the sieve, namely a worry concerning the Club itself.... Give up the Club? Was the sacrifice to be consummated7? Impossible! Could he picture himself strolling down St. James's Street without the right to enter the sacred gates—save as a guest? And supposing he entered as a guest, could he bear the hall-porter to say to him: "If you'll take a seat, sir, I'll send and see if Mr. Blank is in the Club. What name, sir?" Impossible! Yet Milton would be capable of saying just that. Milton would never pardon a defection.... Well, then, he must give up the other club. But the other—and smaller—Club had great qualities of its own. Indeed it was indispensable. And could he permit the day to dawn on which he would no longer be entitled to refer to "my other club"? Impossible! Nevertheless he had decided8 to give up his other club. He must give it up, if only to keep even with his wife. The monetary9 saving would be unimportant, but the act would be spectacular. And Mr. Prohack perfectly10 comprehended the value of the spectacular in existence.
II
He sat down to lunch among half a dozen cronies at one of the larger tables in a window-embrasure of the vaulted11 coffee-room with its precious portrait of that historic clubman, Charles James Fox, and he ordered himself the cheapest meal that the menu could offer, and poured himself out a glass of water.
"Same old menu!" remarked savagely12 Mr. Prohack's great crony, Sir Paul Spinner, the banker, who suffered from carbuncles and who always drove over from the city in the middle of the day.
"Here's old Paul grumbling13 again!" said Sims of Downing Street. "After all, this is the best club in London."
"It certainly is," said Mr. Prohack, "when it's closed. During the past four weeks this club has been the most perfect institution on the face of the earth."
They all laughed. And they began recounting to each other the unparalleled miseries14 and indignities15 which such of them as had remained in London had had to endure in the clubs that had "extended their hospitality" to members of the closed club. The catalogue of ills was terrible. Yes, there was only one club deserving of the name.
"This club," said Mr. Prohack, "like all other clubs, is managed by a committee of Methuselahs who can only digest prunes and rice." And after a lot more talk about the idiosyncrasies of clubs he said, with a casual air: "For myself, I belong to too many clubs."
"But I thought you only had two clubs, Arthur."
"Only two. But it's one too many. In fact I'm not sure if it isn't two too many."
"Are you getting disgusted with human nature?" Sims suggested.
"No," said Mr. Prohack. "I'm getting hard up. I've committed the greatest crime in the world. I've committed poverty. And I feel guilty."
And the truth was that he did feel guilty. He was entirely18 innocent; he was a victim; he had left undone19 nothing that he ought to have done; but he felt guilty, thus proving that poverty is indeed seriously a crime and that those who in sardonic20 jest describe it as a crime are deeper philosophers than they suppose.
"Never say die," smiled the monocled Mixon, a publisher of scientific works, and began to inveigh21 against the Government as an ungrateful and unscrupulous employer and exploiter of dutiful men in an inferno22 of rising prices. But the rest thought Mixon unhappy in his choice of topic. Hunter of the Treasury said nothing. What was there to say that would not tend to destroy the true club atmosphere? Even the beloved Prohack had perhaps failed somewhat in tact23. They all understood, they all mildly sympathised, but they could do no more—particularly in a miscellaneous assemblage of eight members. No, they felt a certain constraint24; and in a club constraint should be absolutely unknown. Some of them glanced uneasily about the crowded, chattering25 room.
III
It was then, that a remarkable26 coincidence occurred.
"I saw Bishop at Inverness last week," said Sir Paul Spinner to Mr. Prohack, apropos27 of nothing whatever. "Seems he's got a big moor28 this year in Sutherlandshire. So I suppose he's recovered from his overdose of shipping29 shares."
Bishop (Fred Ferrars) was a financier with a cheerful, negligent30 attitude towards the insecurities and uncertainties31 of a speculative32 existence. He was also a close friend of Prohack, of Sir Paul, and of several others at the table, and a member of Prohack's secondary club, though not of his primary club.
"That's strange," said Mr. Prohack. "I hear he's in London."
"He most positively33 isn't in London," said Sir Paul. "He's not coming back until November."
"Then that shows how little the evidence of the senses can be relied upon," remarked Mr. Prohack gently. "According to the hall-porter he called here for me a few minutes ago, and he may call again."
At the same moment a page-girl, the smart severity of whose uniform was mitigated35 by a pig-tail and a bow of ribbon, approached Mr. Prohack's chair, and, bending her young head to his ear, delivered to him with the manner of a bearer of formidable secrets:
"Mr. Bishop to see you, sir."
"There he is!" exclaimed Mr. Prohack. "Now he's bound to want lunch. Why on earth can't we bring guests in here? Waitress, have the lunch I've ordered served in the guests' dining-room, please.... No doubt Bishop and I'll see you chaps upstairs later."
He went off to greet and welcome Bishop, full of joy at the prospect36 of tasting anew the rich personality of his old friend. It is true that he had a qualm about the expense of standing37 Bishop a lunch—a fellow who relished38 his food and drink and could distinguish between the best and the second best; but on the other hand he could talk very freely to Bishop concerning the crisis in which he found himself; and he knew that Bishop would not allow Bishop's affairs, however troublesome they might be, unduly40 to bother him.
Bishop was not on the bench in the hall where visitors were appointed to wait. Only one man was on the bench, a spectacled, red-faced person. Mr. Prohack glanced about. Then the page-girl pointed41 to the spectacled person, who jumped up and approached Mr. Prohack somewhat effusively42.
"How d'ye do, Prohack?"
"Well, Bishop!" Mr. Prohack responded. "It's you!"
It was another Bishop, a Bishop whom he had forgotten, a Bishop who had resigned from the club earlier and disappeared. Mr. Prohack did not like him. Mr. Prohack said to himself: "This fellow is after something, and I always knew he was an adventurer."
"Funny feeling it gives you to be asked to wait in the hall of a club that you used to belong to!" said Bishop.
The apparently43 simple words, heavy with sinister44 significance, sank like a depth-charge into Mr. Prohack's consciousness.
"Among other things," said Mr. Prohack to himself, "this fellow is very obviously after a free lunch."
Now Mr. Prohack suffered from a strange form of insincerity, which he had often unsuccessfully tried to cure, partly because it advantaged unsympathetic acquaintances at his expense, and partly because his wife produced unanswerable arguments against it with mortal effect. Although an unconceited man (as men go), and a very honest man, he could not help pretending to like people whom he did not like. And he pretended with a histrionic skill that deceived everybody—sometimes even himself. There may have been some good-nature in this moral twist of his; but he well knew that it originated chiefly in three morbid45 desires,—the desire to please, the desire to do the easiest thing, and the desire to nourish his reputation for amiability46.
So that when the unexpected Mr. Bishop (whose Christian47 name was Softly) said to him: "I won't keep you now. Only I was passing and I want you to be kind enough to make an early appointment with me at some time and place entirely convenient to yourself," Mr. Prohack proceeded to persuade Mr. Bishop to stay to lunch, there being no sort of reason in favour of such a course, and various sound reasons against it. Mr. Prohack deceived Mr. Softly Bishop as follows:
"No time and place like the present. You must stay to lunch. This is your old club and you must stay to lunch."
"But you've begun your lunch," Bishop protested.
"I've not. The fact is, I was half expecting you to look in again. The hall-porter told me...." And Mr. Prohack actually patted Mr. Bishop on the shoulder—a trick he had. "Come now, don't tell me you've got another lunch appointment. It's twenty-five to two." And to himself, leading Mr. Bishop to the strangers' dining-room, he said: "Why should I further my own execution in this way?"
He ordered a lunch as copious48 and as costly49 as he would have ordered for the other, the real Bishop. Powerful and vigorous in some directions, Mr. Prohack's mentality50 was deplorably weak in at least one other.
Mr. Softly Bishop was delighted with his reception, and Mr. Prohack began to admit that Mr. Bishop had some personal charm. Nevertheless when the partridge came, Mr. Prohack acidly reflected:
"I'm offering this fellow a portion of my daughter's new frock on a charger!"
They talked of the club, Mr. Bishop as a former member being surely entitled to learn all about it, and then they talked about clubs in the United States, where Mr. Bishop had spent recent years. But Mr. Bishop persisted in giving no hint of his business.
"It must be something rather big and annoying," thought Mr. Prohack, and ordered another portion of his daughter's new frock in the shape of excellent cigars.
"You don't mean to say we can smoke here," exclaimed Mr. Bishop.
"Yes," said Mr. Prohack. "Not in the members' coffee-room, but we can here. Stroke of genius on the part of the Committee! You see it tends to keep guests out of the smoking-room, which for a long time has been getting uncomfortably full after lunch."
"Good God!" murmured Mr. Bishop simply.
IV
And he added at once, as he lighted the Corona51 Corona: "Well, I'd better tell you what I've come to see you about. You remember that chap, Silas Angmering?"
"Silas Angmering? Of course I do. Used to belong here. He cleared off to America ages ago."
"He did. And you lent him a hundred pounds to help him to clear off to America."
"Who told you?"
"He did," said Mr. Bishop, with a faint, mysterious smile.
"What's happened to him?"
"Oh! All sorts of things. He made a lot of money out of the war. He established himself in Cincinnati. And there were opportunities...."
"How came he to tell you that I'd lent him anything?" Mr. Prohack interrupted sharply.
"I had business with him at one time—before the war and also just after the war began. Indeed I was in partnership52 with him." Mr. Bishop spoke53 with a measured soothing2 calmness.
"And you say he's made a lot of money out of the war. What do you mean—a lot?"
"Well," said Mr. Bishop, looking at the tablecloth54 through his glittering spectacles, "I mean a lot."
His tone was confidential55; but then his tone was always confidential. He continued: "He's lost it all since."
"Pity he didn't pay me back my hundred pounds while he'd got it! How did he lose his money?"
"In the same way as most rich men lose their money," answered Mr. Bishop. "He died."
Although Mr. Prohack would have been capable of telling a similar story in a manner very similar to Mr. Bishop's, he didn't quite relish39 his guest's theatricality56. It increased his suspicion of his guest, and checked the growth of friendliness57 which the lunch had favoured. Still, he perceived that there was a good chance of getting his hundred pounds back, possibly with interest—and the interest would mount up to fifty or sixty pounds. And a hundred and fifty pounds appeared to him to be an enormous sum. Then it occurred to him that probably Mr. Bishop was not indeed "after" anything and that he had been unjust to Mr. Bishop.
"Angmering? No. He never married. You know as well as anybody, I expect, what sort of a card he was. No relations, either."
"Then who's come into his money?"
"Well," said Mr. Bishop, with elaborate ease and smoothness of quiet delivery. "I've come into some of it. And there was a woman—actress sort of young thing—about whom perhaps the less said the better—she's come into some of it. And you've come into some of it. We share it in equal thirds."
"The deuce we do!"
"Yes."
"How long's he been dead?"
"About five weeks or less. I sailed as soon as I could after he was buried. I'd arranged before to come. I daresay I ought to have stayed a bit longer, as I'm the executor under the will, but I wanted to come, and I've got a very good lawyer over there—and over here too. I landed this morning, and here I am. Strictly59 speaking I suppose I should have cabled you. But it seemed to me that I could explain better by word of mouth."
"I wish you would explain," said Mr. Prohack. "You say he's been rich a long time, but he didn't pay his debt to me, and yet he goes and makes a will leaving me a third of his fortune. Wants some explaining, doesn't it?"
Mr. Bishop replied:
"It does and it doesn't. You knew he was a champion postponer60, poor old chap. Profoundly unbusinesslike. It's astonishing how unbusinesslike successful men are! He was always meaning to come to England to see you; but he never found time. He constantly talked of you—"
"But do you know," Mr. Prohack intervened, "that from that day to this I've never heard one single word from him? Not even a picture-postcard. And what's more I've never heard a single word of him."
"Just like Silas, that was! Just!... He died from a motor accident. He was perfectly conscious and knew he'd only a few hours to live. Spine61. He made his will in hospital, and died about a couple of hours after he'd made it. I wasn't there myself. I was in New York."
"Well, well!" muttered Mr. Prohack. "Poor fellow! Well, well! This is the most amazing tale I ever heard in my life."
"It is rather strange," Mr. Bishop compassionately62 admitted.
A silence fell—respectful to the memory of the dead. The members' coffee-room seemed to Mr. Prohack to be a thousand miles off, and the chat with his cronies at the table in the window-embrasure to have happened a thousand years ago. His brain was in anarchy63, and waving like a flag above the anarchy was the question: "How much did old Silas leave?" But the deceitful fellow would not permit the question to utter itself,—he had dominion64 over himself at any rate to that extent. He would not break the silence; he would hide his intense curiosity; he would force Softly Bishop to divulge65 the supreme66 fact upon his own initiative.
"Yes. Thanks to the exchange being so low, you stand to receive at the very least a hundred thousand pounds clear—after all deductions68 have been made."
"Do I really?" said Mr. Prohack, also musingly.
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1
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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sieve
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| n.筛，滤器，漏勺 | |
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consummated
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| v.使结束( consummate的过去式和过去分词 )；使完美；完婚；（婚礼后的）圆房 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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monetary
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| adj.货币的，钱的；通货的；金融的；财政的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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vaulted
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savagely
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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indignities
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| n.侮辱，轻蔑( indignity的名词复数 ) | |
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prunes
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| n.西梅脯，西梅干( prune的名词复数 )v.修剪（树木等）( prune的第三人称单数 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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treasury
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entirely
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undone
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sardonic
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inveigh
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inferno
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tact
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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remarkable
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apropos
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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shipping
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negligent
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uncertainties
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speculative
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positively
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grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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mitigated
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prospect
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standing
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relished
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relish
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unduly
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pointed
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effusively
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apparently
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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mentality
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corona
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partnership
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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tablecloth
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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theatricality
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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postponer
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| 延迟者，使延缓者 | |
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spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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compassionately
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63
anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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64
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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65
divulge
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| v.泄漏(秘密等)；宣布，公布 | |
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66
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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67
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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68
deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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