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Sir Charles Maxwell-House: A Small Revelation in the Big Apple

Sir Charles Maxwell-House

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Can it really be this time of year again?’ we cried in unison, as we crossed the black and white parquet floor to shake hands, our dapper figures dwarfed beneath the imposing Neo-Gothic vaulted ceiling. Needless to say, just as the air is always rather chilly in the hushed confines of the Pratty Institute of Literary Excellence and Scholarship, New York, so the palms of the assembled professors and academics are often unpleasantly cold and clammy. But little matter, for they are all excellent fellows, I can assure you.

As an international member of the institute, I attend the P.I.L.E.S. conference every year, for it is here that the very latest in obscure literary findings are shared, discussed and debated by the finest minds from around the globe. (Most unfortunately, when I gave my long-anticipated talk on the lost language of the third-century Tampopo people of the mythical Irricrustio islands at last year’s meet, I was virtually booed off stage for my ‘disordered and prevaricating’ style – not my words, I assure you. And I have not been invited to conclude my paper, despite being the leading light on this little-understood topic.)

So be it. Besides, my aversion to – nay, my terror at the mere thought of – the head of P.I.L.E.S., one Professor Brent Aloysius Pike-Sergeant (or BAPS as I like to call him out of earshot) far outweighs my usually ardent desire to share my fascinating musings with my academic colleagues. BAPS has taken rather a serious dislike to me since last year, and whenever he is in my rather limited focal range, I tremble to see his severe, raptorial face and shudder at the awfulness of his dramatic sweep of sculpted snowy white hair. (He is a great hit with the lady academics, or so I have heard. Well, best of luck to them!) I believe it was he who referred to me as ‘a bumbling and imbecilic excuse for the representation of the idea and philosophy of a scholar, and a disgrace to the Institute’. (What on earth that first part means, I have no wish to discover.)

But, ahem, I digress. I only meant to say I found myself, mid-June, shut up in the ferociously air-conditioned Institute building overlooking Central Park, and surrounded by feverish academics, cock-a-hoop to hear the latest news concerning some rare Byzantine manuscripts, found recently (well, about fifteen years ago) in a cave somewhere. And it was BAPS himself who was to give this eagerly awaited lecture. My dear Yankee chum, Prof Victor Judi Ploom was very keen to pose a question regarding Byzantine adolescent reading habits (which he was gleefully certain BAPS would be completely unable to answer) and therefore asked me to accompany him to the very front row. I obliged, and with the help of the irresistibly luxurious cashmere cardigan that Mrs B had packed especially for the Institute’s famous chill, and the strangely soothing voice of BAPS, I was soon fast asleep. So far, everything was as usual.

However, according to Ploom (who fully enlightened me many hours later in the hotel bar) a few minutes after my enemy began to speak, I fell to twitching most violently and thence to emitting a regular phalanx of half-realised snores. A red-faced and seething BAPS was moved by this faint noise to dismount from on high, mid-phrase, and march up to where I dozed, still happily oblivious of
my crime. On reaching me, he violently prodded at my trunk with the imperious index finger of his right hand.

So shocked was I to be thus rudely awoken – and by the dreadful sight of the infuriated BAPS – that I suffered a genuine paroxysm and began to flail about most dreadfully (which played havoc with my club braces, I can assure you). Assuming a medical predicament not inconsistent with the predominantly octogenarian crowd, who whispered and mumbled excitedly as my waistcoat buttons popped into the air, assistance was quickly sought, and I was stretchered out of the hall (not failing to overplay my spasms, now that I was a little more acquainted with my situation), and leaving Ploom to ask his ridiculous question on his own. Affecting a ladylike swoon, I was able to peer out of the corner of my eye and determine that I was being carried along the Institute’s dark corridors by two young doormen. ‘This dude weighs a f***in’ ton,’ said one of them (a little unkindly perhaps, and certainly rather inarticulately). 

‘I know. Let’s dump him in Pike’s study. It’s right here.’

‘D’ya think the old duffer’s OK, then?’

‘Sure. He’ll be just fine.’ I heard the sound of a heavy door being opened and their breath coming in thick dark gasps above me, and then, just like that, they rolled me on to the cool lap of a large sofa and ran off laughing. Not offended in the least, and finding the leather to be agreeably butter-soft, I soon slipped into a rather pleasant doze.

I woke with a start an indiscernible amount of time later and found myself supine in a hot, stuffy study. Bright afternoon light was trying unsuccessfully to penetrate the blinds covering the long narrow windows, and from down below I could hear the endless churn of Park Avenue traffic, interspersed regularly with the bleating of horns.

The most striking thing about the room was that it was absolutely full of books: wall to wall, floor to ceiling, and tottering on every available surface (the boys had, in fact, shoved a large pile from the sofa on to the Turkey rug to accommodate me). Nimbly I sprang to my feet and hopped over to the shelves, noting the present and correct -academic heavyweights that BAPS had on ostentatious display. Consumed with envy, I idly began to trail my hand along the thick leather-bound volumes, tracing my merry way round the room’s periphery.

I was almost at the far end, by the second -window, when I met with an inconsistency … what was this? I tugged at the tiny interloper and it fell to the lushly carpeted floor without a sound. What I saw was a little leather book: presumably once a striking pillar-box red, but now an uneven watermarked fuchsia. I picked it up: it was a diary, an old Smythson diary. Finally, I thought, I can get one over on old BAPS! With all the guilt and delight appropriate when you’re about to read the personal thoughts of one of your (in my case, many) detractors, I tremblingly let the pages fall open in my hands at random. I read:

 

14th June, 1953

New York is boiling – almost unbearable – though the new apartment on Park A is a treat. Geoff is -delighted, though I might just have preferred our place back on E.14th. Muth and Father so impressed that G can afford it. So proud that I’m to live there. Dinner at Maria and Bill’s tonight, for my sins.

S called this afternoon. We talked for around 5 minutes.

I was utterly astonished, (especially as the date and heat rang curiously true with my present experience). So it wasn’t BAPS’s after all, but rather an archive piece, a historical record! The script was done in lovely midnight-blue ink with exquisite serif detail. The author (undoubtedly a she) had been taught very well. I read on, strangely absorbed by the sparse entries:

 

17th June, 1953

Storm tonight. G out and I feel afraid. Spent the weekend in the Hamptons with the Macys. Distinctly awful, but they have a beautiful place.

 

21st June, 1953

S still has not called.

 

22nd June, 1953

No word from S, not even a note. 

 

23rd June, 1953

Muth with me all afternoon. We talked about nothing but Cee’s wedding. Muth very excited – almost too excited. Of course, man Cee is marrying, the Brent fellow, is a terrible phoney; that goes without saying, but Muth won’t hear of it.

 

25th June, 1953

Awful last night. G presented me with a necklace for our two-year anniversary, but his face looked so sweaty and paunchy in the restaurant above his steaming mussels, I couldn’t think of anything else. Muth awestruck by necklace when I showed her today. She’s so easily impressed, it’s ridiculous.
(Finally a note from S.)

All in the same luscious and enticingly elaborate hand on the faintly lined (in turquoise) and gold-trimmed pages. I dare say it’s foolish, but even so, I felt certain I already knew this girl. She must be a girl, of course, and surely very lovely. Rather unhappy with her old husband’s sagging features, and missing her lover S …  ah, the same old tale. I felt sorry for her, the poor little creature. (And was Brent the same I knew, i.e., old BAPS? He’s certainly a ‘terrible phoney’, but sadly no other distinguishing feature was yet mentioned.)

There was a considerable smear of ash from a cigarette at the bottom of this last entry – the author had clearly been smoking at the time of writing – and it rather put me in mind of my own extensive tobacco supplies, which were close at hand. Smoking, naturally, was strictly forbidden throughout the Institute (which makes me chuckle when I think of that GI bar in old Phnom Penh so many years ago!), but in the spirit of my already undercover activities, I felt a certain ripple of rebellion run through me and thought, stuff the lot of them – even dear old Ploom! So I lit my pipe and having taken a long and satisfying puff or two on it, proceeded with my reading, skipping ahead to a slightly longer entry:

 

28th July, 1953

After everything, it’s all come to nothing. The -talking on the phone and the meeting and the endless coffee – I’m sick to the teeth of coffee. I don’t think I’ll have it anymore. Nothing was exactly bad: dinner, the opera, drinks. But it was all excruciating. Somehow I couldn’t enjoy a single minute. G was finally away for the weekend, but it made no difference. (Perhaps Muth guessed at something, as she virtually begged me to go and stay with her and Fath.) S was terribly sweet, naturally, but I could see he secretly hates me now. Hates me for wasting his time. I got into a fuss and refused a cab. In the end, S just got in and the cab drove off. I walked home ten blocks on my own, my face a mess, and at one in the morning. The doorman saw me, and I panicked, but the worst bit was he just winked, like he knew. And I tipped him $5 and he smiled even more. (Do all Park Avenue wives do this?) The oddest thing, though. When I got back to the apartment I poured myself a large gin and tonic and started to feel better – and when I caught a glimpse of my make-up stained face in the big gilt mirror, I almost sort of laughed. So I went to the bedroom to change and hang up my clothes, and the bed was all perfectly made up as I’d left it and all, but on top, sitting calmly on top of the coverlet – it hadn’t been there, I swear it hadn’t been there before – was this beautiful green balloon. Just sitting there …

At that very moment, I heard a terrible kerfuffle in the corridor and was snapped most cruelly back to my impending doom. BAPS’s voice rang out loud and clear beyond: ‘In my study? Can I smell smoke? Is that man smoking a pipe?’ He burst in. ‘Maxwell-House! You philistine! You are clearly suffering no adverse medical condition, and are proved a liar,’ he roared, ‘Get out! You are hereby banned from P.I.L.E.S. for life! Out! Out of my sight!’

Needless to say, I offered up no alternative to this suggestion, and was soon to be found on the other side of the avenue, sweating profusely and still smoking my pipe amid the verdant pastures of Central Park, where I believe it is still legal (although doubtless not for long!). I calmly considered my lifetime ban (not the first I have been issued with, I can assure you), and was most powerfully struck by what a blessed relief it was to be outside and away from the crumbly academic voices droning on self-importantly in the dimly lit lecture hall all day about this and that. Of what -possible importance was it in the least? The girl’s diary was the most interesting thing I had read or heard all week! I resolved to get away from all these terrible old farts and to seek out the pleasures of feminine company, and their less ego-driven -psyches. Perhaps I will regale you with my stories next time, who knows? I reflected that perhaps I, too, was a little out of touch with ‘normal’ human concerns. My first love affair, ah, what bliss… [The following passage has been cut at the Editor’s discretion.]

Best of all, when I arrived in the park, I discovered to my great joy that I was still tightly clutching the diary in my sweaty hands*. (Ah ha! I chuckled loudly to myself, briefly attracting the -attention of some local ‘bums’, after all these years, I had finally got something out of old BAPS that I actually wanted to read!) Toodle pip – and have a nice day now (as they do insist on saying around these parts).

[Sir Charles seems here to have momentarily forgotten that he is one of the said ‘terrible old farts’ he describes. Readers can be assured that I will do my utmost to remind him of this oversight before his next correspondence – Ed.]

 

* Naturally I have since returned to the last entry, and readers may be interested to note that our young correspondent mentions nothing more about the mysterious green balloon. I am currently seeking a publisher for this fascinating portrayal of fifties New York life, but, as the reader may know, this is curiously difficult. Please see PP8 ‘Publish If You Can’ for my thoughts on this matter