Bony Makes a Call
AT half past three Bony knocked upon the fly-wire door protecting the front entrance to Mrs Blake’s house. A woman he guessed was Mrs Salter, the cook, answered his summons and, having tendered his private card, he was invited to be seated in the hall. Three minutes later he rose to meet Mrs Blake.
She was dressed in a linen house frock not unlike a hospital nurse’s uniform. The dark eyes examined the visitor with steady appraisal. Her voice, when she spoke, was low and modulated.
“You wish to see me, Mr-er-Bonaparte, is it not?”
Bony bowed as though to vice-royalty, and when his head was low her eyes narrowed and then opened with an expression of gratification.
“I do hope that the hour is not inconvenient,” he said in his grand manner. “I received by this morning’s mail a letter of introduction from Miss Nancy Chesterfield. It will explain the reason for my visit.”
Without comment, Mrs Blake accepted the envelope and read the contents, at firsthurriedly, and then again with greater care. When again her eyes met Bony’s, the welcoming smile barely managed to creep into them.
“I am, Mr Bonaparte, a very busy woman,” she said. “However, I’m glad you have called to see me. Pray sit down. Anyone from another country interests me, and I am always glad to welcome a writer to Australia. Nancy says that you are the author of at least one novel.”
“My novel hasn’t been published,” he said depreciatingly. “I sent it off to the London publishers just before I left South Africa.”
“Indeed! What is the title?”
“I have called itI Walk On My Toes.”
Mrs Blake repeated it, then saying, “Titles are important. They should be arresting, and should not contain a word about the pronunciation of which anyone could be doubtful. What is the story about?”
There was a trace of eagerness in her voice that gave him courage to proceed. Only now was he beginning to gain confidence that Nancy Chesterfield’s character was not such as to betray him thus early. Mrs Blake’s eyes were empty of suspicion or hostility. They were alive with genuine interest. The liar went on with his lying-to amaze himself.
“The story concerns the life of a man of the little-known people called theN’gomo, who inhabit a corner of the country, formerly German South-west Africa. The action begins when the young man is persuaded to leave his tribe to become the personal servant of a hunter. On the death of the hunter he becomes the servant of a ne’er-do-well, who deserts him in Cape Town. Eventually he is taken into the service of a rascally fortune-teller with whom he remains for three years.
“Following the arrest of the fortune-teller in Johannesburg, he makes his way with much adventuring back to his own country, taking with him knowledge of the gullibility of human beings, and many of his last master’s tricks. Having returned to his tribe, he rises swiftly to become its witch doctor and autocratic ruler. They called him Lu-mo-lam Aye-glomph-ah-ee, which, translated, is “I Walk on my Toes.” Thereafter the story relates his rule and subsequent fall, and his influence upon the lives of a small community of white people living on the borders of his country. I have tried to portray the evil influence of white civilization on the savage mind, and how through that savage mind the evil is passed back to the members of that small white community.”
Bony could have counted slowly up to six before Mrs Blake spoke.
“The plot of your novel is certainly original, Mr Bonaparte,” she said thoughtfully. “You know, I-I rather like it. I do hope it is successful. You have studied the natives of your country?”
It was less a question than a statement, and Bony hoped that she knew little, if anything, about the natives of South Africa.
“I have always been interested in them,” he said, “chiefly, I think, for their diversity of customs and their wide range of intellectual powers.”
“You have delved a little into voodooism and that kind of thing?”
“I have merely skated over the surface,” Bony replied, adding with a smile, “The more one skates the more one is conscious of the deeps below.”
“Yes, that is so, Mr Bonaparte. Have you met Professor Armberg?”
Luck favoured Bony, for only recently had he read an anthropological work by Professor Armberg.
“Unfortunately, I have never met the professor,” he said. “I have, of course, heard a great deal about him, and my paper has published a number of his articles.”
“A learned man, Mr Bonaparte, and a charming correspondent. We have been writing to each other for some considerable time. He can have no equal in knowledge of the savage superstitions and of the practice of black magic. Are you staying long in Australia?”
“No. My return passage is timed for the end of February. By then I hope to have gathered sufficient material for a travel book about Australia. It can, of course, be only superficial. I have in mind a section devoted to the growth and status of Australian literature, and thus it was that during my conversation with Miss Chesterfield she said I must meet you. I am indebted to Miss Chesterfield.”
Mrs Blake caught the gleam in his eyes and smiled.
“Nancy Chesterfield wrote that you are staying in Yarrabo.”
“For a few days, yes,” he said, a trifle relieved that he could speak the truth-partially. “My brother was Mrs Faro’s husband, who changed his name by deed poll, and when I came to see her, I was so struck by the beauty of the locality I decided to stay for a week at least. She couldn’t put me up, and so she persuaded Miss Pinkney to take me in. A charming lady.”
The dark eyes momentarily hardened. Then, “As you say, Mr Bonaparte, Miss Pinkney is a charming woman. She is, however, a little inclined to gossip, and you will know what that means in a small place like Yarrabo.”
“I do suspect her, just a little,” Bony admitted, lightly. “I’ve had, now and then, to be a little cautious.”
Mrs Blake smiled for the first time with frankness.
“Wise man,” she said. “Well, now that we have met, I’d like you to meet a friend who has come from the city to see me. Would you care for a cup of tea?”
“I do not remember ever declining the offer of a cup of tea, Mrs Blake.”
“Then come along,” Mrs Blake urged him, rising. “We’ll go to my writing-room.”
Bony was conducted along a passage to a room that widened his eyes. It was a spacious room dominated by pale yellow and white and gleaming walnut. He received the impression of many eyes watching him, and of one pair of eyes, dark and sombre, set in the tragic face of a tall woman standing with her back to a service trolley.
“Ella, this gentleman is a novelist and journalist from South Africa. Nancy persuaded him to call. Meet Mr Napoleon Bonaparte. My friend, Mrs Ella Montrose, Mr Bonaparte.”
For the second time within the hour, Bony bowed low.
“Mrs Montrose is an established novelist, Mr Bonaparte, and so you two should have much in common,” Mrs Blake proceeded. “Poor me, I am merely a short-story writer.”
Only in colouring was Ella Montrose akin to Mrs Blake. Her eyes were softer and set in a pale and slightly over-long face. She had the figure of a young woman, though her age was probably verging on fifty. Her clothes were expensive, but a little bizarre. Her voice when she spoke was low and rich in tone.
“Welcome to Australia, Mr Bonaparte,” she murmured. “I am not going to be so silly as to ask what you think of Australia, but I do hope you like the country and will like us.”
Bony was induced to sit down and Mrs Blake served tea, at the same time telling Mrs Montrose what the visitor had related about his novelI Walk On My Toes. Mrs Montrose evinced keen interest, and her interest was not assuaged until she had gained the answers to several questions. He talked easily of cabbages and kings against the background of literature, mentioned the titles of Ella Montrose’s two novels which, regretfully, he admitted he had not read, and was cautious in his praise of the work of the late Mervyn Blake and Mr Wilcannia-Smythe. After his interview with Nancy Chesterfield, he dared not mention I. R. Watts.
He hoped he was acquitting himself well, because his mind was unsettled by the framed portraits that covered the whole of one wall of this luxurious room.
Mrs Blake evidently noted this distraction, for she said, “I see you are interested in my friends, Mr Bonaparte. Let me introduce them to you.”
They rose, and she led him to the end of the gallery nearest the door. Ella Montrose wheeled the trolley out of the room, closing the door after her, and Mrs Blake continued talking, more vivacious in manner and warmer in voice.
The pictures were not of the same size, but the frames were uniform in size and of the same wood. They were spaced along three rows, and there must have been more than forty.
“I am, Mr Bonaparte, more liberal in my views than was my late husband and Mrs Montrose,” Mrs Blake told him. “That man, for instance, had published nine novels and two volumes of verse when he died a few years ago. His name wasEdwardes. He wrote very well, but just failed to make the grade. Actually, he wrote better novels than Mr Wilcannia-Smythe is doing, but it is said of Mr Wilcannia-Smythe that his prose is exquisite in balance and rhythm. The next portrait is of Mrs Ella Montrose. Her work is much appreciated by the discerning, and we are still expecting her to produce the Great Australian Novel.”
Bony was introduced to ProfessorZadee and MrXavior Pond as “powerful friends of Australian literature”. Mrs Blake discoursed on several others, men and women who were revealing “great promise”. Then he was looking at a picture of the late Mervyn Blake, whom he recognized from the pictures of the man contained in the official file.
There was something about this picture that disturbed him. Mrs Blake spoke of her husband’s novels and literary work in general. “He was the acknowledged premier critic in Australia,” she told him, and still the picture disturbed him. For one thing it appeared to be in the wrong position in this gallery, and the thought occurred that Blake should have the place beside Wilcannia-Smythe and Mrs Montrose.
Then he was being introduced to Dr Dario Chaparral, and the Blake picture passed from his mind.
“Dr Chaparral visited this country early last year,” Mrs Blake said. “He stayed with us for a little while. A charming man, he spoke English fluently-which was fortunate for us, as he is a Colombian.”
“I have read his book, The Literature of the Western Pacific Peoples,” Bony confessed, for the first time feeling himself on firm ground. “I thought it a very sound piece of work. Miss Chesterfield commended it to me.”
“Indeed! Yes, Dr Chaparral’s study was well done, although perhaps he might have been a little less conservative in his final judgments. He could well have been more generousto little Twyford Arundal here. If it were not for a slight weakness, I could confidently predict that Twyford Arundal will become Australia’s greatest poet of all time.
“There is Mr Martin Lubers,” Mrs Blake went on. “He is a great friend, and he has done a very great deal in his own sphere to assist the growth of public appreciation of our literature. Often we need a check upon our vanities, and Mr Lubers provides the check. A country’s literature, you will agree, is a plant that must feed on the spirit of its people, and become deep-rooted in the generations of its writers. We in Australia have been inclined to force the plant to grow in accordance with our pet ideas, and therefore it tends to become a hybrid. Mr Lubers, being a Director of Wireless Talks, is distinctly valuable to the growth of our literature.”
They went on from picture to picture, every one of which was autographed. There were forty-three altogether. They came to the picture of a man who was a poor imitation of the late G. K. Chesterton, even to the black ribbon attached to the pince-nez. He was introduced as Mr Marshall Ellis, and passed by to come to Nancy Chesterfield.
“Miss Chesterfield is a beautiful woman,” Bony commented.
“And a very talented one, Mr Bonaparte,” supplemented Mrs Blake. “Nancy has always been a powerful supporter of Australian writers. She has done more, perhaps, than anyone else to bring our writers to the notice of the public.”
They were coming to the end of the gallery, and Bony thought it strange that literary people did not possess a particular cast of countenance like army officers, naval men, and churchmen. Those before whom he had passed had no common denominator. The pictured Americans, Europeans, South Americans, and Australians would have been of interest to any criminologist had they been included in a Rogue’s Gallery. Standing a little back, he wondered which of them had murdered Mervyn Blake.
Mrs Montrose came in, and he sensed a subtle change in his hostess. Mrs Blake reverted to that shade of stiffness he had felt on first meeting her, and the absurd thought entered his mind that she had revealed to him a side of her character never revealed to her friends. Mrs Montrose once again examined him with her fine eyes, seemingly trying to probe into the inner recesses of his mind.
“I do wish you would come to our next literary meeting on the twenty-fifth of the month, Mr Bonaparte,” she said. “So many people would like to meet you. May I send you a little note of reminder?”.
“The twenty-fifth!” he murmured. “I’m not sure, but it is unlikely that I shall be in Victoria on that date. However, if I should be, I’d be delighted.”
As they gravitated towards the door, Bony made another comprehensive examination of the picture gallery. The feeling that there was something not quite in order returned strongly to him.
In the hall, he said, “Permit me to offer my sympathy in your bereavement, Mrs Blake. There are other novels by your late husband I have not yet read. It will be a pleasure tinged with sadness. If it is at all possible, I’d very much like to have a portrait of him for inclusion in my book.”
Mrs Blake smiled wanly.
“I appreciate your kindness, Mr Bonaparte, as my husband would certainly have done. I’ll try to find a picture for you. The last time he sat for his portrait must have been at least ten years ago.”
They accompanied him to the shaded porch and appeared reluctant to let him go, these two handsome women with their dark eyes and positive personalities. They shook hands with him, and smilingly bade himaurevoir, and he heard them speaking of flowering shrubs as he walked along the well-kept driveway to the front gate.
Sid Walsh reached it first, opened it, and they passed out together.