## CONVERSATION IN SOHO
O n a n April evening not many years ago a man sat in the upper room of a Soho restaurant, waiting for the arrival of his guest. She was not yet unduly late, and Mark Perry man was not impatient. He was a man approaching thirtyfive who picked up a precarious living in Fleet Street. He had lived through many excitements, and at his present advanced age he liked to think of himself as imperturbable, but he would not have denied that his mind was pleasantly warmed by the prospect of an evening with Roderick Strood's wife. The Stroods were old friends; he had dined at their house the very evening before, and had been sur prised and amused to hear Daphne say, with an engaging candour which her husband gave every sign of enjoying: "Why don't you take me to dinner some evening, Mark? No, not with Roderick. Just you and I." Only Daphne, he reflected, could do a thing like that and get away with it, by virtue of a quality rarer than beauty, and, when allied to beauty, irresistible. With this thought the sense of her was so vivid in his mind that he became suddenly impatient for her coming; and to pass the time he beckoned the waiter and ordered a cocktail. As he raised the glass to his lips he caught sight of Daphne poised in the doorway and looking for him. He waved a hand; she saw him and came forward, 3]
## THE TWELVE CONVERGING
[4 greeting him with an air of pleased surprise, as though he were the last person she had expected to see and the one she had most wanted to see.
"Hullo, Mark! How nice of you to come! May I sit here?" She looked round. "I like this place." She was a child at a party, taking it for granted that Mark himself had designed everything for her pleasure, even to the mural decorations of a public restaurant.
"Foolish, but not revolting," said Mark. She sat smiling at him, peeling off her gloves. "Do you mean me?" "I might have meant you," said Mark. "You are probably foolish, and I don't find you revolting. But what I really meant was this room, with its arcadian nonsense. I don't hold with it, but there are worse forms of humbug. The flowers. The shepherdesses." He waved his hands at the walls. "What are you going to drink?" The waiter was dis creetly hovering. "Do I want a cocktail or don't I?" asked Daphne. "You do," said Mark. "Possibly two. Possibly three." "Madame will per'aps like a cocktail a la maison," sug gested the waiter. "A secret of the 'ouse. Very beautiful." "And then," said Mark, "we'll take the table d'hote, do you think?" "Yes," agreed Daphne. "And we'll take it slowly, shall we? How long can you spare for me of your busy life, Mark?" "My dear Daphne! If the devotion of a lifetime is of any use to you . . ." She laughed. "Good!" They studied the menu, and, eager to be rid of him, set themselves to answer the waiter's catechism. When that was over Daphne gave a sigh of relief, CONVERSATION IN SOHO 5] and seeing a small secret light that shone and faded in her eyes, a visiting gleam of mystery, Mark felt his pulse quicken with expectation. "And now?" he said. She looked across at him with challenge. "And now what?" He had meant "And now for the secret!" But daunted by her look he made haste to repudiate that meaning. "And now," he repeated, "tell me what you think of everything." "Everything?" "Life. The world. The modern girl." Her smile was perfunctory. It faded quickly. "Why have you never married, Mark?" He grinned. "The more I see of marriage, the better I like my monastic cell." "And not so monastic either, I dare say," remarked Daphne, with mischievous humour. "But you haven't an swered my question. Why have you never married?" "Nine out of ten of the married couples I know wish they were single," said Mark. "It's not encouraging, is it?" "And what about the tenth?" He considered for a moment. "Well, you and Roderick can be the tenth, if you like. You're the conspicuously lucky ones of my acquaintance." "Are we? Now isn't that nice!" Daphne sounded danger ous. "Rod and I as a model couple. That's very good in deed. You've known Rod a long time, Mark. Longer even than I have. But perhaps you don't realize how much he's changed. For two years now he's made me very unhappy." Mark was surprised, but not so much surprised as he pretended to be. He had not expected this piece of informa tion, and was wary of taking it at its face value. But nothing THE TWELVE CONVERGING [6 nowadays surprised him very much. "Really? How's that? I always supposed that you and Rod . . . Here's that con founded waiter again."
The waiter continued to interrupt the conversation from time to time, but the food was pleasant, the wine exquisite, the ritual soothing: and the presence of other diners, each pair or group a self-contained neighbouring world, added to the quality of the hour. It's like a planetarium, thought Mark Perryman. It's like the constituents of the atom. It's like . . . but Daphne was telling her story, and the buzz of discreet voices about him provided a running accom paniment to that recital. The human orchestra, he said to himself. Violin concerto, with the soloist in great form. He despised these captions, but could not stop inventing them. On the whole he was enjoying his evening. He wearied of many things: boredom lay perpetually in wait for him. But he never wearied of receiving the confidences of attractive young women, and he never betrayed a confi dence. It suited his humour to take a cynical view of himself, but he was ingenuous enough to believe that there was something about him that made people tell him the story of their lives on the shortest acquaintance. It flattered him to be trusted, and it was a point of vanity to be worthy of the trust. He got more kick out of keeping a secret, he would explain, than others got out of gossip. He was a prac tised listener and seldom went unthanked for the advice he professed not to give. "Mark, I want to ask your advice," said Daphne. "You're such a wise egg." "Yes, aren't I?" said Mark. "Go ahead." She went ahead. And, while he listened, the figure of Roderick Strood moved about in his reverie, a dark, stiff, precise figure, long-faced, square-jawed, taciturn. The face of a hanging judge, thought Mark; but he repented of the phrase, remembering how the eyes could twinkle, the se vere mouth relax. And if he was a judge of anything it was not of his fellow-men but rather of the houses they lived in, for he spent his days devising such things, paying far more attention, Mark imagined, to the utilities than to the aesthetics of the matter. Mark, himself of a more mercurial temperament, liked him for his limitations as much as for his qualities-because they are his qualities, thought the journalist. He was sensitive and conservative and nowadays (Mark recalled livelier times) unambitious. Nature, in designing him, had failed to provide him with the means of emotional expression, and though he could enjoy a joke he was fundamentally unhumorous in grain, thought Mark. But his massive integrity, the loyalty of his affections, sprang from something more vital than respect for conven tional standards, though he had that too. As Daphne talked on, lowering her voice, exclaiming, pausing, making eyes of wonder and gestures of pride, looking now indignant and now distressed and always lovely in her small sleek velvet skinned fashion, Mark Perryman's quick fancy pictured the scenes she sketched for him. Going home in a taxi after the party: Daphne angrily silent, Roderick unmoved and indifferent. The bedroom quarrel, with Daphne in tears (a disturbing sight, thought Mark) and Roderick coldly reasonable, distant, stupid. And what was it all about? That, it appeared, had been precisely Roderick's reiterated question; and Daphne had not been slow to answer it. In anger she had a wonderful flow of language. He had spent too much time flirting with that notorious red-headed girl. Everyone had noticed it. Everyone was talking about it. He had danced three times in succession with someone else. He had neglected his wife. He had drunk too much champagne
CONVERSATION IN SOHO 7] THE TWELVE CONVERGING [8 and made stupid jokes. She, Daphne, had been ashamed of him. Mark's wonder grew big as he listened, and it moved him to his one indiscretion. Did Daphne really mean that poor old Roderick was running after another woman? "No such luck!" said Daphne bitterly. Mark's eyebrows invited an explanation. Instead of offering one she smiled and said: "Oh, Mark! What an idea! Staid old Rod running after a woman!" "Then what precisely is the trouble?" "He wants me to be a good girl and just stay put. He takes me for granted. He forgets I'm there. It's not good enough, Mark." "No," said Mark thoughtfully. "I see that." He waited for more, knowing by instinct that something more impor tant than these trivial domestic rumpuses was to come. "Besides," remarked Daphne, after a moment's silence, "I expect you'll think it very dreadful of me, but I've fallen in love." Mark tried to look surprised. "Really?" "Yes, really." "Do I know the gentleman?" "I mustn't tell you who it is," said Daphne. "That wouldn't be fair. Let's call him X, shall we?" "I shall be delighted to call him X," said Mark, "if you think he won't resent the liberty." Daphne dimpled. "How absurd you are! No, but this is serious, Mark. It's really no laughing matter. He's Roddy's friend as well. That makes it more difficult. He was taking me home from the theatre one night. In a taxi, you know." "Oh, I know," assented Mark. "I know what these taxis are. And then?" "Well, suddenly he was kissing me." "I see. And you?" His manner was oddly neutral. No one CONVERSATION IN SOHO 9] but he could have said whether the question was sympa thetic, ironical, or amused. Perhaps it was all three at once. "What do you mean?" asked Daphne, a dangerous gleam appearing suddenly in her eyes. "I mean, how did you take it? Were you surprised, in dignant, or what?" He observed her closely, and the tender absent smile that played about her lips was a sufficient answer. "It was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me," said Daphne. "And that's what I want your advice about. You know Rod and you know me. I can't let him down, can I? But then, it seems to me he's let me down. He has, hasn't he? I mean he's so casual, and moody, and all that. He doesn't want me any more, and . . . X does. X wants me to go away with him and have a divorce and everything." "But he hasn't got any money," said Mark. "I see the difficulty." "What makes you say that? Do you know who X is?" "Haven't the least idea." "Then why do you say he hasn't got any money?" "Well, has he?" "Not very much. But he will have, in time." "Yes, when his father dies," agreed Mark. "But his father may live another fifteen years. Have you considered that?" "Mark!" She stared in anger. "Then you do know who it is!" "My dearest Daphne, I know nothing of the kind. I'm merely helping you to tell your story. It's not exactly a new story, you know, and one can't help being familiar with the general outline. When is this Heidelberg trip going to happen? Next month, isn't it?" "You make the most surprising leaps," said Daphne. THE TWELVE CONVERGING t10 "But you're right again. You know now why I want Rod to make his sentimental pilgrimage without me. At home we can keep our distance, we need never be alone together. But a holiday a deux is a very different matter. Never out of each other's sight. It would be merely hell. It's really Heidelberg that's brought things to a head for me." "And Heidelberg may solve the whole problem," sug gested Mark. "When you get away from each other, things will fall into perspective and . . ." "But I don't like the idea of Rod being on his own like that," said Daphne, following her own thoughts. "I wish you could go with him, Mark." She became suddenly ex cited. "Yes, that would be splendid. Why didn't we think of that last night? W ill you, Mark? W ill you?" Mark shook his head. "An impecunious journalist . . ." he began. But realizing in time that an avowal of poverty would come ill from host to guest, he abandoned his sen tence and plunged back into the middle of things. "Let's get back to the point. You and Master X. You're really in love with each other?" She nodded. "You're lovers?" "Of course not." Her cheeks were suddenly scarlet. "Why not?" "Is that your advice?" she asked frigidly. "In effect, yes. Or it would be, if it weren't my strict rule never to give advice. If all you want is an adolescent ro mance, a tragic renunciation, and something to be wistful about in your middle age, I've nothing to say. But if there's more to it than that, why not try it out, put it to the test?" "Behind Rod's back? Is that your idea of honour?" "It's my idea of common sense. Of course if you think it would be kinder, kinder to Rod I mean, you could consult MARK LOOKS ON Rod first. I'm sure he'd be interested in the project." "What a cynic you are!" She had often called him a cynic, but this time there was real reproach in her voice. He glanced at her in momentary contrition. How pretty she is, he thought. How pretty and how . . . But he couldn't find the word he wanted, and his thought, swerving at the check, rode off on another tack. It would be quite fun to go to Heidelberg with old Rod. I wonder if it could be managed. " ] -2 -
## MARK LOOKS ON
O n the banks of the Neckar the chestnut trees were in full bloom, and, though he had known it well in other days, Heidelberg was now agreeably strange to Roderick Strood.
Strange, yet sufficiently familiar to induce a pang of recog nition in a heart he had supposed to be moribund. Arriving on a Tuesday afternoon he observed the brightness in the air, the pink and green of the trees, the flowing sunlight of the river; but he greeted these things with a dyspeptic eye, and feigned to ignore that hint of waking interest in his heart. For many months now he had been in a state of anger with his universe. Life had denied him what he wanted, and he was resolved to refuse all substitutes in the shape of this accidental, this incidental, this impersonal beauty. But he considered himself to be a matter-of-fact person, was a great believer in reason and common sense, and he had come away for a change of scene, not because he believed in its efficacy but because it was recognized as the sensible thing to do. He took his medicine mechanically, without believing in its power to cure hm. And his thoughts had turned towards Heidelberg for no better reason than that he had spent a student's year there eighteen years ago. A happy year? Yes, happy for two reasons. Every year that had passed before his marriage now seemed to have been a period of freedom and bliss; and in those days the supreme happiness, though not achieved, was always just round the corner. At twenty a man looks forward with expectancy: at thirty-five he looks backward with regret. With such thoughts vaguely in mind he allowed himself to be driven across the bridge to the other side of the river, and thence to the Gasthaus zur Hirschgasse. At sight of the familiar place he experienced the momentary illusion of being back in the past, but his companion, Mark Perryman, was there to remind him of sober reality. In a general way he was glad of Mark's company, but at the moment the fellow struck a jarring note. He was not sorry when Mark declined to turn out, after their early evening meal, to accompany him to the Stadthalle, where Beethoven was to be played: he went alone, leaving Mark engaged on a piece of journal ism. "I'd like to come," said Mark, "but I feel like writing this stuff before it goes cold on me. I'm always in my shop, you must remember." So in the luminous evening Roderick Strood walked back across the bridge. He noted again the beauty of the chestnuts, and said to himself: "How futile it all is! And why am I going to this concert?" . . . Twelve hours later, looking on that scene with new eyes, he found a poignant meaning in its beauty, a meaning, a revelation, and a promise. In the interval he had heard some music and had a night of broken sleep, but Mark Perryman found difficulty in believing that these things alone had caused so [12 THE TWELVE CONVERGING MARK LOOKS ON great a change in his friend. On the way out from England Strood had been an unresponsive companion, shut up in himself, moody to the point of moroseness. He had taken obscure offence at the sight of Cologne; the voyage up the Rhine had bored him almost beyond bearing ("Why the hell did we come this way?" he asked bitterly); and the arrival at Heidelberg, after so much tribulation, had seemed to give him no pleasure. Mark had never seen him so obviously out of sorts before: he could only conclude that Daphne had confessed her desire for divorce and that poor Roderick, knowing himself bereaved of her love, was in process of making terms with despair. And now, sud denly, he was friendly, gay, young again. What magic was there in Heidelberg that could work such a change? Roderick was so obliging as to tell him everything-every thing essential-in one unguarded sentence. "Has it ever occurred to you, Mark, that there's some thing rather insipid about Englishwomen?" So that's how it is, said Mark to himself. "I've noticed," he answered, "that after living in Bedfordshire, the moun tainous regions of Wales seem singularly agreeable." Roderick stared gravely, but his thoughts were elsewhere. "There was a young pianist at that concert the other night. She played some sonatas." "Good?" asked Mark. "Marvellous, I thought. I don't pretend to be a judge, but she seems to me to be in the very first class." The young pianist's name was Elisabeth Andersch. By the most miraculous chance Roderick had observed her, the very morning after the concert, strolling by the river side. He had introduced himself. "Did you, indeed!" said Mark, raising his eyebrows in admiration. "You young chaps don't lose much time, I J3] THE TWELVE CONVERGING [M must say. Did she call the police?" "I suppose," said Roderick, "it does sound an audacious thing to do. But luckily I didn't think of that at the time. It was my one chance and I took it." "What did you say?" asked Mark. "You paid a formal German tribute to her performance, and remarked, apropos of nothing in particular: Ich war zu Heidelberg Student. Was that it?" Roderick's tolerant smile could not quite conceal his surprise. "You seem to know all about it." "Far from it," said Mark modestly. "I'm only a learner." The silence that followed was so protracted that Mark began to fear that his banter had been ill received. But when at last Roderick spoke again it was made clear not only that he had taken it all in good part but that he was translated to a paradise far beyond reach of humour. "Look here, Mark. This is the most important thing that has ever happened to me." Mark was sobered by the avowal. He looked sympathetic, but answered nothing. What a trite situation, he thought. "Life is so flagrant a copy of fiction, isn't it?" he remarked. "And not the best fiction either." Roderick was not attending. "I've been waiting for this all my life," he said, in a voice at once shy and defiant. "Are you seeing her again?" asked Mark, feeling oddly at a loss for anything better to say. Roderick looked at his watch. "In half an hour. You'll forgive my running away, my dear fellow?"
Only seven days of the holiday remained, Roderick being due back in London at the end of May. Mark had hoped to renew old times by having with his friend some of those tremendous conversations, so dear to young men, in which the nature of things is endlessly and excitingly explored.
## MARK LOOKS ON
As fellow-undergraduates they had dedicated many a glori ous hour to that pursuit. And there was indeed no dearth of conversation during this holiday: the thing resolved itself into one enormous rambling discussion of love and mar riage, with special reference to Daphne Strood and Elisa beth Andersch. Mark felt his own position to be one of exquisite delicacy. Being in Daphne's confidence, he found it irksome to be prevented, by a point of honour, from assuring his friend that all would be well, and that Daphne, so far from being distressed, would sigh with relief to be rid of an unwanted husband. All that hints could do, he did: beyond that, nothing would have persuaded him to go. Roderick had reached the point of believing that his passion for Daphne had never been the real thing; he was for ever explaining his marriage away; but he seemed unable, with out more help than Mark wT as willing to give him, to leap to the idea that Daphne might be in the same state of mind about himself. He conceded the possibility that she might be generous, but he could not believe that she would release him without hesitation or distress. He was tortured by indecision, whether and when to tell her of this wonderful thing that had transfigured his life. For that this new pas sion was the real thing he couldn't for a moment doubt: he was as ingenuous about it as a schoolboy. Fraulein Andersch, by a coincidence in which it was impossible not to see the hand of a benign providence, was on the point of going to England, where she intended to give a series of recitals; and there was no reason in the world why the affair should not prosper. No reason except Daphne.
"And as for Daphne," said Mark, "she may take the whole thing more quietly than you fear. There may be aspects of Daphne's character that even you don't understand, Rod."
"And that you do, I suppose?" bantered Roderick.
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