Parade's End Series: Some Do Not, No More Parades, A Man Could Stand Up & Last Post (Complete Edition). Madox Ford
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On Friday I had a formal letter from your people pointing out that North-Westerns were likely to rise and asked me to reconsider my position. The same day I sent an express telling them explicitly to do as I said . . . Ever since then your nephew has been on the ‘phone begging me not to save my husband. He was there, just now, when I went out of the room. He was also beseeching me to fly with him.’
Tietjens said:
‘Isn’t that enough, Sylvia? It’s rather torturing.’
‘Let them be tortured,’ Sylvia said. ‘But it appears to be enough.’
Port Scatho had covered his face with both his pink hands. He had exclaimed:
‘Oh, my God! Brownlie again . . . ’
Tietjens’ brother Mark was in the room. He was smaller, browner, and harder than Tietjens and his blue eyes protruded more. He had in one hand a bowler hat, in the other an umbrella, wore a pepper-and-salt suit and had race-glasses slung across him. He disliked Port Scatho, who detested him. He had lately been knighted. He said:
‘Hullo, Port Scatho,’ neglecting to salute his sister-in-law. His eyes, whilst he stood motionless, rolled a look round the room and rested on a miniature bureau that stood on a writing-table, in a recess, under and between bookshelves.
‘I see you’ve still got that cabinet,’ he said to Tietjens. Tietjens said:
‘I haven’t. I’ve sold it to Sir John Robertson. He’s waiting to take it away till he has room in his collection.’
Port Scatho walked, rather unsteadily, round the lunch-table and stood looking down from one of the long windows. Sylvia sat down on her chair beside the fireplace. The two brothers stood facing each other, Christopher suggesting wheat-sacks, Mark carved wood. All round them, except for the mirror that reflected bluenesses, the gilt backs of books. Hullo Central was clearing the table.
‘I hear you’re going out again to-morrow,’ Mark said. ‘I want to settle some things with you.’
‘I’m going at nine from Waterloo,’ Christopher said. ‘I’ve not much time. You can walk with me to the War Office if you like.’
Mark’s eyes followed the black and white of the maid round the table. She went out with the tray. Christopher suddenly was reminded of Valentine Wannop clearing the table in her mother’s cottage. Hullo Central was no faster about it. Mark said:
‘Port Scatho! As you’re there we may as well finish one point. I have cancelled my father’s security for my brother’s overdraft.’
Port Scatho said, to the window, but loud enough: ‘We all know it. To our cost.’
‘I wish you, however,’ Mark Tietjens went on, ‘to make over from my own account a thousand a year to my brother as he needs it. Not more than a thousand in any one year.’
Port Scatho said:
‘Write a letter to the bank. I don’t look after clients’ accounts on social occasions.’
‘I don’t see why you don’t,’ Mark Tietjens said. ‘It’s the way you make your bread and butter, isn’t it?’ Tietjens said:
‘You may save yourself all this trouble, Mark. I am closing my account, in any case.’
Port Scatho spun round on his heel.
‘I beg that you won’t,’ he exclaimed. ‘I beg that we . . . that we may have the honour of continuing to have you draw upon us.’ He had the trick of convulsively working jaws: his head against the light was like the top of a rounded gatepost. He said to Mark Tietjens: ‘You may tell your friend, Mr Ruggles, that your brother is empowered by me to draw on my private account . . . on my personal and private account up to any amount he needs. I say that to show my estimate of your brother; because I know he will incur no obligations he cannot discharge.’
Mark Tietjens stood motionless; leaning slightly on the crook of his umbrella on the one side; on the other displaying, at arm’s length, the white silk lining of his bowler hat, the lining being the brightest object in the room.
‘That’s your affair,’ he said to Port Scatho. ‘All I’m concerned with is to have a thousand a year paid to my brother’s account till further notice.’
Christopher Tietjens spoke, with what he knew was a sentimental voice, to Port Scatho. He was very touched; it appeared to him that with the spontaneous appearance of several names in his memory, and with this estimate of himself from the banker, his tide was turning and that this day might indeed be marked by a red stone:
‘Of course, Port Scatho, I won’t withdraw my wretched little account from you if you want to keep it. It flatters me that you should.’ He stopped and added: ‘I only wanted to avoid these . . . these family complications. But I suppose you can stop my brother’s money being paid into my account. I don’t want his money.’
He said to Sylvia:
‘You had better settle the other matter with Port Scatho.’ To Port Scatho:
‘I’m intensely obliged to you, Port Scatho . . . You’ll get Lady Port Scatho round to Macmaster’s this evening if only for a minute; before eleven . . . ’ And to his brother:
‘Come along, Mark. I’m going down to the War Office. We can talk as we walk.’
Sylvia said very nearly with timidity—and again a dark thought went over Tietjens’ mind:
‘Do we meet again then? . . . I know you’re very busy . . . ’
Tietjens said:
‘Yes. I’ll come and pick you out from Lady Job’s, if they don’t keep me too long at the War Office. I’m dining, as you know, at Macmaster’s; I don’t suppose I shall stop late.’
‘I’d come,’ Sylvia said, ‘to Macmaster’s, if you thought it was appropriate. I’d bring Claudine Sandbach and General Wade. We’re only going to the Russian dancers. We’d cut off early.’
Tietjens could settle that sort of thought very quickly. ‘Yes, do,’ he said hurriedly. ‘It would be appreciated.’ He got to the door: he came back: his brother was nearly through. He said to Sylvia, and for him the occasion was a very joyful one:
‘I’ve worried out some of the words of that song. It runs:
“Somewhere or other there must surely be
The face not seen: the voice not heard . . . ”
Probably it’s “the voice not ever heard” to make up the metre . . . I don’t know the writer’s name. But I hope I’ll worry it all out during the day.’
Sylvia had gone absolutely white.
‘Don’t!’ she said. ‘Oh . . . don’t.’ She added coldly: ‘Don’t take the trouble,’ and wiped her tiny handkerchief across her lips as Tietjens went away.
She had heard the song at a charity concert and had cried as she heard it. She had read, afterwards, the words in the programme and had almost cried again. But she had lost the programme and had never come across the words again. The echo of them remained with her like something terrible and alluring: like a knife she would someday take out and with which she would stab herself.
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