Date: Tue, 28 Mar 2017 20:27:02 +0000
From: Henry Hilliard <h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com>
Subject: Noblesse Oblige Book 4 (Revision) Chapter 11

From Henry Hilliard and Pete Bruno h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com This work fully
protected under The United States Copyright Laws 17 USC 101, 102(a),
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Noblesse Oblige
by Henry H. Hilliard
with Pete Bruno
Book 4
The Hall of Mirrors
Chapter 11
The Lost Generation


"Gerald, I want you to meet these divine young Englishmen," she said.
"They are just so British and they are dreadfully amusing."  Mrs Murphy
held out her hand in the direction of her husband who had just entered the
dining car.  She was a very handsome woman of about forty with a mouth that
was sad in repose and at odds with her tremendous vitality.  She possessed
a delightful way of saying unexpected things-- often very direct-- and she
was full of fun.  She had dark blond hair that was always on the verge of
being out of control, like her personality, and her eyes and complexion
spoke of a love of the outdoors.

Mr Murphy looked younger; he was a slight figure but with chubby Irish
cheeks.  His hair was thin and he had a rather weak chin, but when he spoke
he was engaging and attractive and displayed an intellectual's interest in
all aspects of modern life and especially the arts.  His tailoring was
immaculate and he carried a sort of fabric envelope in which he kept his
cigarettes, papers and handkerchief.  It was quite distinctive.

The couple had the manner of Americans accustomed to great wealth and they
ordered very good champagne in excellent French and they both radiated the
sort of bonhomie that was infectious to those around them and the boys all
found themselves drawn in to their world.  This effortless world seemed to
be one in which they had turned their back on their native land and
embraced all things avant-garde and European.  Mrs Murphy had a lively wit
and a gift for whimsy that Martin had found rare in the American character.
Murphy was a modern aesthete and spoke readily of Picasso and other artists
who were in their clearly very bohemian social circle in Paris.  All this
was of tremendous interest to The Plunger.  They were also very attractive
because of their evident affection for each other.

"We're orphans, aren't we, Gerald, from our homeland, so we live mostly in
Paris. Have you been to America Mr...

"Poole"

"...Mr Poole?"

"Stephen and I were there during the War."

"Well you would know pretty well what my country is like then.  Since the
War the blue noses are in control.  Have you read Sinclair Lewis' Babbitt?"

Martin hadn't but he knew Stephen had.

"The man doesn't write fiction, Mr Poole.  Prohibition, Sacco and
Vanzetti...that slob Harding and now that philistine Coolidge in the White
House.  It was no place for Gerald and me."

"If you take an interest in a book or an exhibition or the ballet-- in
anything that isn't down on the sidewalk, well, they look at you as if
you're screwy," interjected Murphy, with some heat.

She went on to talk about their wandering life.  "You know my family didn't
want me to marry Gerald--thought his money wasn't good enough because they
owned a store."

"Was yours an old landed family, Mrs Murphy?"

"Mercy no!  We Wiborgs were related to General Sherman but my father has an
ink and varnish factory in Ohiah.  Have you ever been to Ohiah, Mr Poole?"

Martin said that he had and was again utterly puzzled by the social
snobbery of the Americans.

The trip to Antibes this year was already different.  The south of France
had become even more popular than it had been before the War, especially
with Americans like the Murphys who didn't even have to worry about the
favourable exchange rate.

"Mr Knight-Poole and I have been coming to Antibes since before the War,
Mrs Murphy.  He has a little house there in the old town, but we've only
been back a couple of times since."

"Oh," she said, a trifle flattened, "Gerald and I thought we had discovered
it for ourselves-- at least for summer vacations.  We came over 1921 and
had been thinking of buying a villa and so now we have decided to build one
of our own at Valescure.  Gerald is designing the garden.  This year we're
stopping at the Hotel du Cap."

"But I thought that would have been closed in August?"

"Oh no, Gerald booked the whole hotel for the summer; we have lots of
visitors and who knows who will be there when we get back."

"You boys will join us, won't you?" said Gerald Murphy, leaning over.
"We'll have all sorts of interesting people for you to meet."

Apparently the Murphys also lived a great deal in Venice where they rented
a palazzo on the Grand Canal and in Paris they had a house in the Rue
Monsieur.  They were just retuning to the Riviera after having seen their
three children off to Boston where they would be resuming school in a few
weeks.

To cater for this new class of traveller, there was a new deluxe train from
Calais all the way to Italy, whose modern steel carriages were painted dark
blue and comprised only first class sleeping cars.  The food was of the
standard of the best Paris restaurants and five courses was the norm and
the Murphys' champagne was its equal. Only because it was August was the
Blue Train not full.

When the Murphys had finished talking about themselves and their
interesting circle of friends, it occurred to Gerald to ask about the boys.
He now knew that The Plunger was a graduate of the Slade School and that he
was a fellow painter.

"Craigth?" he said after learning that `Plunger' was indeed not his real
name.  "I think I heard Leger mentioning your name to the Comte de
Beaumont.  You're a friend of Guevara and Tsindis aren't you?"

The Plunger tried not to beam and instead fitted his monocle and admitted
this was so. And you, Mr Knight-Poole, have just finished University and
you too Mr Selby-Keam?"

"That's right, Mr Murphy.  The War interrupted things," said Stephen.

"You were in the War?  Gee I only made it to the dock in Hoboken.  I
wish..."

"Don't wish for that Mr Murphy, don't."

"And you, Mr Poole, did you say you were a farmer?"

Martin went red and said: "I wasn't actually very `straight' with you Mr
Murphy; my name is Martin Poole, but I'm actually Lord Branksome."

"Well hush my mouth," said Murphy jovially and turning to his wife said,
"Won't Scott tie himself up into knots; he pretends to hate the British
aristocracy but is such a snob he'll have you in one of his stories quicker
than you can wire Scribners."

"Is that the novelist Scott Fitzgerald?" asked Stephen.  The Murphys said
it was and Stephen mentioned that he had read This Side of Paradise.

"He's over here working on a draft of a new one, but it's the devil's own
job to get him to write," explained Murphy.  Stephen had also read a book
by John Dos Passos who the Murphys knew and he mentioned Sherwood Anderson
whom the Murphys hadn't met, but Stephen and Martin had.  Thus the Murphys
formed a favourable opinion of the boys and this was reciprocated.

It was now time for dinner, although the summer sun lingered in the sky.
They returned to their respective compartments to dress (de rigueur on this
train) and agreed to resume their pleasant conversation at the
deuxième séance.



The Blue Train now stopped right in Antibes and the boys alighted with
their suitcases and walked the short distance to Stephen's house, while the
Murphys were met by an enormous Voisin driven by a chauffeur who took them
down to the hotel--or rather to their hotel.

The boys put on their old clothes and dusted and swept the house.  "I hate
having to wear evening clothes when I'm here, Mala," said Stephen as he
cleaned out his bathtub, which stood on the terrace under a grape vine.
"But I need to bring them if we're to travel on that train and I suppose we
will have to dress for the Murphys now too.  The idea was supposed to be
that this was the simple life."

Martin couldn't fault his logic and shortly afterwards, in the old trousers
and stripped matelot shirts they habitually wore, they went out to buy
provisions.

That dined at the bistro.  "How is Hélias?" asked Martin.

"A new man!" exclaimed his aunt in French and went on to give a full
account of Hélias' effort to work hard and make as much money as he
could for the good of his wife and daughter.  She backed this up with a
kiss for each of Martin and Stephen.

"We met some Americans on the train, Madame, are there many here?" asked
Stephen.

"Some," she conceded, "but they don't often come to this part of the town."
Stephen and Martin assumed that this meant they patronised the more
glamorous district down on the peninsula.



 *****



"Are you coming to tuck us in, Daddy?"  The cheeky voice was that of Donald
who had slipped into The Plunger's bed rather than take the one offered
downstairs. Stephen, who was on the landing, sauntered in wearing just his
favourite lemon silk pyjama bottoms and these sat low on his hips.  He
propped on the edge of the bed and chuckled at the sight of The Plunger and
Donald sitting up and drinking champagne. "I see you too have developed a
taste of the high life like our new friends, the Murphys.  Are you looking
forward to seeing them tomorrow?"

"I am," said The Plunger.  "Gerald has taken up painting and he said that
Picasso might be there.  You do know who Picasso is, Stephen, don't you?"

"Of course; I'd be curious to meet him too.  And you, Don?"

"They seem exciting people and I don't mind a little excitement.  There's
nothing wrong with that, is there?"

"No, no, of course not.  We'll have a good time."

"Stephen, I think Archie is wearing pyjamas, I think you'd better check."



"What is it Derby?  You look troubled," said Martin when Stephen walked
back to their room.

"I just don't want Antibes to be spoilt, Mala.  I love it here because it's
a beautiful old fishing town with simple, warm-hearted people like the de
Blezons and Hélias.  I'm a bit frightened that it will become like
Le Toquet and Deauville or like Newport in America.  I mean the Murphys and
that Count de Beaumont are hardly likely to want to come to this old
house."

"I don't know about that, Mr Asquith and Mr Churchill have enjoyed it here
and the Marquess of Branksome likes it too-- even more so if you get into
bed with him."  Stephen slid off the trousers and threw himself on the bed
with a heavy sigh, nearly causing Martin to be tumbled to the floor.  "I
think the Murphys are nice, Derbs, and I'm quite sure they're real
cognoscenti-- is that the right word?  As well as being terribly glamorous
and I can't imagine that Senor Picasso would swan around down here in
evening clothes."

"I don't want us to change, Mala.  Just like you still want to ride your
bicycle at home, I don't want to have cocktails and sit on Louis chairs as
if we were at the Carlton Hotel.  We came here because it wasn't Cannes."



*****



It was late in the afternoon heat when the four boys took a taxi down to
the Hotel du Cap-Eden Roc.  The white slice of wedding cake sat as ever in
a lush tropical garden on the cliff.  On the terrace were Sara and Gerald
Murphy and their friends lounging in striped deck chairs.  They were
wearing their bathing costumes and dressing gowns.  One woman was wearing
beach pyjamas and a broad-brimmed straw hat.  The boys felt overdressed in
their suits and ties.

"Ah, les Anglais!" cried Gerald Murphy and welcomed them fulsomely.  There
was already a trolley with a cocktail shaker and several bottles of whisky.
Stephen asked if he might have beer and Martin had champagne while Donald
and The Plunger had `Bronx' cocktails, which Gerald Murphy mixed himself
with all the care that the priest takes with the sacrament.

Introductions were made and Martin felt he couldn't remember a single
name. Stephen must have felt the same because he was smiling more than
usually radiantly to avoid talking.

"We feel you have the advantage of us, Mrs Murphy," said Martin indicting
his own suit.  "We should have come calling in our bathing costumes."

"Well, why don't you go back and fetch them--Ferdie will drive you."

"Would you like that, Derbs?"

Of course Stephen would and Donald and The Plunger nodded too.  The
chauffeur was summoned and Martin disappeared with him.

"You've read my first book," said one man to Stephen.  He was a young
American, about his own age.  He was nice-looking and Stephen thought that
he would be slightly wan in complexion if it were not for his tan from the
sun.  His fair hair was wavy and parted in the centre like an American
college student and his light eyes, turned up nose and thin upper lip spoke
of Irish heritage.

"I have if you are Mr Fitzgerald," replied Stephen.  "You recommended it
too me, didn't you Donald?"

"I did.  I thought it was fresh and new.  I felt it spoke to our
generation--although I never went to Princeton University or had the
romantic adventures of Amory Blaine." Stephen shot him a look, knowing that
Donald probably had many more romantic adventures of quite a different
order at Cambridge.  "I liked Bernice Bobs Her Hair, even better.  You
wrote it beautifully with an economy of words."

Fitzgerald was actually listening quite anxiously and Stephen thought it
odd that he craved their approval.  "Mr Murphy said you were down here
working on a new novel."

"Yes, Trimelchio it will be called.  I'm afraid I only put in a comma this
morning."

"Is that all?" exclaimed The Plunger.

"Oh no, this afternoon I erased it."  Fitzgerald laughed and the others
laughed too.

The woman in the beach pyjamas came up with two glasses of whisky and ice
and handed one to Fitzgerald.  "This is Zelda," said Fitzgerald putting his
free arm about her.  They quickly became on first name terms.  "You're an
English lord, or something, z'right?" asked Mrs Fitzgerald addressing
Stephen in a charming drawl.

"No, that is my friend.  He has gone back to our house for our bathing
costumes."

Mrs Fitzgerald was small and pretty with a broad face under wavy bobbed
hair.  She had beautiful full lips, a rather slender neck and a determined
nose (if that can be imagined).  Her eyes were her most remarkable feature:
they were wide-spaced and intense and had the ability to focus on one, but
at other times they were distant and unfocussed and had a slightly haunted
look.

"Well, when he returns I think we should all go down to the beach and lie
on rubber rafts and watch the sun go down.  We can have the servants in
bathing costumes too and they can tip ice cubes in the water."  They
laughed.  "Now Scott, I must go up and do my exercises."

She left and Fitzgerald watched her intently as she walked up the stairs.
"She's a dancer," he explained.  The others looked at him.  "Ballet, not
hoochy-koo," he added with a smile.

The conversation resumed about books and Stephen asked about Dos Passos who
had apparently been here earlier in the summer.  Fitzgerald spoke of
Chicago and his home in St Paul and Stephen mentioned that he had been
there.  "It was during the War, Martin--that is Lord Branksome-- and I were
on a recruiting mission."

"You were in the War?"

"Yes, in France."

"He won the Croix du Guerre!" exclaimed The Plunger who was a little tipsy
already. "And the DSO."

"And bar," added Donald.  "He was terribly brave."

Stephen glared at them.

Fitzgerald looked troubled.  "I never got overseas, myself.  Gerald was in
the Air Corps and Dos and Ernest drove ambulances."

"It was not a good time," said Stephen in understatement.

"No," said Fitzgerald hollowly and eagerly added: "and now you're spending
the rest of your life in Europe trying to forget?"

"No, not really.  I had a stint in Australia straight afterwards, but now
I'm settled with Martin in England."

"You feel you can be settled after all that?"

"Yes," said Stephen frankly.  The Plunger admired Stephen's honesty and
freedom from cant.

From an open upstairs window came the sound of the gramophone.  It was a
jazzy paso doble.  It came to an end and there was a pause while the
machine was evidently being wound.  It was repeated.  They glanced up at
the window.

"That's Zelda doing her barre exercises."  The conversation paused and more
drinks were brought and the paso doble started up yet again.

Another man who had been on the lower terrace came up.  He was wearing a
bathing costume, sandals and a dressing gown.  He was thin and with eyes,
nose and mouth that seemed slightly too large for his face.  They were
large brown eyes, slightly hooded, but they were kind and knowing when he
offered his cigarette case around the group.  At the same time Martin
returned with the costumes and introductions were made. "This is Mr Porter,
one of our Paris friends," said Fitzgerald.  Porter croaked out a greeting
in a rather Bostonian accent.  Conversation was rather difficult as the
insane gramophone had started up yet again and Mrs Fitzgerald ballet
practice was clearly not over.

They moved away and stood next to the Murphys who were talking to a
terribly elegant and effete Frenchman with an aquiline nose who was wearing
a summer suit and carrying a tall Malacca stick.  He was introduced as
Etienne and Martin assumed correctly must be the artistic count.  He was
certainly a Nancy, thought Martin.

"Gerald and Cole have written and performed a ballet you know," said the
Count in excellent English.

"Was Mrs Fitzgerald in it?" asked Stephen in all innocence.

"No," said Fitzgerald, sparing the blushes of the others.  "Zelda has yet
to perform in public."

"This was a modern ballet about modern life in America," continued the
Count.  "It premiered in Paris and went to New York."  The boys had to
confess they had not heard of Within the Quota and, as it was explained to
them, it sounded highly innovative and very funny.  It apparently told the
story of a penniless immigrant's fantastic rise to become a Hollywood
moving picture star and Mr Porter had written the music for it.

"Cole is a very good song writer and we all think he should have another go
at Broadway," said Mrs Murphy.  "And my husband has been making a French
movie called The Inhuman One.  We have assembled all the best modern
artists to contribute to it."

The name of one, an architect, was familiar to Martin who said:
"M. Mallet-Stevens was the man who I had design the kiosk on the quay in
Antibes.  Do you know it?" They didn't.  Martin went on: "When we were in
Hollywood in 1917, Stephen was asked to audition for a moving picture
with-- who was it Derbs?"

"Theda Bara."

"Yes, that's her.  He was to play a gladiator in ancient Rome but it didn't
work out..." he trailed off not wanting to give away too many details.

"Our film is to be altogether different to Hollywood stuff, said Murphy,
"although I'm sure you would have made a swell gladiator, Mr Knight-Poole."

The others in the group seemed to agree and the Count and Mr Porter were
seen to moisten their lips slightly and Martin knew that this was a sign of
trouble.

"Perhaps we should change into our costumes before it's too late," he said.

So they did.  They marched up to the hotel and changed in the dressing
rooms, putting on gowns that a servant brought for them.  When they
returned there was another man standing talking to the group they had just
left.  He was rather short and had straight black hair and dark eyes.  He
was bare-chested and was dressed only in a pair of short trousers rolled up
at their hems for he had been in swimming and his strong physique was still
glistening.

"This is Pablo Picasso," said Murphy and introductions were made.  Picasso
did not speak much English so French was employed and translations made
where words failed.  If Picasso was a genius, he certainly didn't look like
one, but there was something about him that was both intense and child-like
at the same time.  The Plunger was disappointed that he was not painting at
present and had no canvases with him.  Murphy attempted to assuage his
disappointment, with suitable modesty, by inviting him inside to look at
the large canvas he was working on.  It was a still life with a razor,
fountain pen and a matchbox, apparently, and this was more than enough to
spark his interest, so away he and the Count went, following Murphy inside,
while the rest of the group walked down to the beach that was the property
of the hotel.

Stephen did not think this beach as fine as the nude bathing beach in the
little cove to the east, and he failed to mention it in case he should
somehow lose it to them; it was his beach, he thought.

Picasso was very enthusiastic and organised silly games with a ball.  Mr
Porter was a good swimmer as was Mrs Murphy who protected her hair under a
rubber cap. Stephen swam out the farthest and the others called out to him
to be careful, but Martin wasn't worried.  By the time he returned they had
all left the water and were now sunning themselves on the sand.  Mr Porter
was looking at Stephen in his revealing costume and said something to
Donald who was next to him.  Donald answered him and he looked over to
Martin and smiled.

Presently there was noise and they turned to see The Plunger and Murphy,
accompanied by Mrs Fitzgerald, walking down to the sand in their gowns,
which they promptly shed.  Scott and Zelda dashed into the water, laughing
and Picasso and The Plunger followed them.  Porter and Donald announced
they were going to walk up to the rocks, because it was too hot to lie for
long.  Mrs Murphy then told the servant to bring down drinks and some
umbrellas.

The swimmers and walkers came back and thirstily gulped down their
cocktails and whisky before flopping on the sand.  Then Mrs Murphy
suggested a game of baseball played with blindfolds and the oversized ball
they had been tossing about in the water. It was great fun.  Murphy then
pointed out his motorboat, which bobbed in the water at the end of the
hotel's jetty.  "I'll take you in my hydroplane tomorrow if you like." They
thought that would be marvellous and Stephen found himself inviting them to
his house on the day after.

The sun went down and the Murphys, as did the others, insisted they all
stay on to dinner as `the party was just starting', although it appeared to
Martin to have been going for some days already.

Most of the guests put some clothes on after they had bathed and showered,
but no one dressed up, for which Stephen was immensely grateful, and they
dined out on the same terrace, where the hotel staff had set out a long
table with pink candles and Sara Murphy spent a great deal of time
decorating it with lovely shells, dried seaweed and pieces of driftwood.
It looked beautiful.

More people joined them for dinner.  Whether they were new arrivals or had
merely been inside during the afternoon it was hard to tell.  The
Fitzgeralds' little daughter came out with her nurse for a few minutes
before being taken up to bed.  The Comte de Beaumont and Murphy dominated
the conversation at the starlit table, talking about modern dance and
painting.  It was all very `highbrow' as Fitzgerald said to Martin.

The charm of the evening was eroded however by the deteriorating
relationship between the Fitzgeralds.  Zelda Fitzgerald, Martin found
particularly annoying as she seemed to try to be daring and unconventional
like Sara Murphy, but with markedly less success, yet Fitzgerald seemed in
awe of her and encouraged her outrageousness, despite them niggling each
other.  She would say something unconventional and Fitzgerald would write
it down on a scrap of paper, which he would shove in his pocket. "...Mink?
I said; it looks mo' like a rancid ole skunk to me."  The others laughed.

She had a rather fey way of speaking: "When I was a yurng deb-u-tante down
in Montgom'ry I must have kissed a whole raft o' boys the white summer I
came out. You know, I can't remember their names, only parts o' their
faces."  Martin rolled his eyes and though rather nastily: Well, so have I
and I've sucked their cocks.  But he kept this thought to himself.

Both Scott and Zelda had had a lot to drink and when suddenly a fight
between husband and wife erupted it was a shock to Martin who had never
experienced such common behaviour in public, nor of the Irish with their
blood up.  Apparently Scott had accused Zelda of stopping him working.  She
retorted that he never wrote anything original and was always trying to
stop her from writing and painting.  There were other accusations and also
some slight suggestion that Zelda had been overly familiar with Stephen to
which she retorted that he was merely jealous.  The four boys burned with
embarrassment and Mrs Murphy told them not to worry as `this happens all
the time' and they were really `crazy about each other'.

The army of waiters appeared and more wine was poured and then there was
dancing to the hotel's orchestra, which had apparently been hired by the
Murphys along with all the rest.  Stephen was careful not to dance with Mrs
Fitzgerald but Martin did and decided that she had mad eyes-- an
uncomfortable conclusion.

However there were no further arguments, instead there was laughter.  Mr
Porter went to the piano inside the open windows and played a silly song he
had written about the Ritz Hotel.  Then Donald sat next to him and they
played a four-hander. There was applause. "He really very good," thought
Martin.  He looked over and saw Picasso sketching The Plunger on a napkin
with a piece of charcoal.  The Plunger's long nose was shown in profile and
his monocle was a feature of two of his three eyes.  Why have you given him
horns, Pablo?" asked Murphy.

"El es como un toro!" cried the great artist and grabbed The Plunger by the
balls causing his monocle to drop from his eye, which was tearful at the
compliment.

"What's a rhyme for `duckbilled platypus', Martin?" called Donald from over
at the piano.

Martin thought. "'London General Omnibus'?"  But no, it didn't work and
they were left with their heads together, Porter's cigarette sending a curl
of smoke to the ceiling.

"It's getting late, Mala," whispered Stephen.  They made to go, but Donald
and The Plunger wanted to stay, so Martin and Stephen were driven back to
Antibes in the Voisin by Ferdie, leaving the party still going.



"That was fun, wasn't it Derbs," said Martin as they got into bed.  "They
certainly enjoy life."

"Yes it was," said Stephen shedding his clothes and stretching his cock
meditatively.

"I don't understand modern art very much, but they certainly seem alive to
it. Fitzgerald is a fine writer.  He said to me that he wants to be
America's greatest writer.  That's ambition for you."

"I don't like his wife.  Isn't she a bit too old to be a ballerina?"

"Clearly mad, Mala, and I think I have sand under my foreskin."

"Well I think I'd like to clean it out, Derbs.  Come over here big boy."





A hammering at the front door woke them.  Stephen's cock was hard so it was
Martin who pulled on a dressing gown and went downstairs to answer it.
Stephen tried to push his cock down but it resisted so he had to listen
from concealment.

"Mrs Chadwick!" cried Martin.  "Whatever's wrong?"  The lady was a little
dishevelled and accompanied by a large French policeman.

"It is your friend, Mr Craigth."

Panic rose in Martin's throat.

"Is he alright?"

"Oui monsieur," replied the policeman.  Martin relaxed slightly and called
back to Stephen.  "It's The Plunger; he's alright but is in some sort of
trouble, Derbs".

The visitors were brought inside and a lamp was lit.  Stephen descended the
stairs in his dressing gown.  "What's happened?" he asked.

The policeman motioned to Mrs Chadwick to proceed in English.  "It seems he
went out in a motorcar with two Americans-- a husband and wife."

"Not the Murphys?" said Martin.

"They're the people who have taken the whole hotel for the summer?  No, not
them, the Fitzgeralds," she said.  "They appear to have been drunk and were
intending to drive to Monte Carlo.  The wife was driving and they fell
asleep in the car."

"Why that's very foolish of them, Mrs Chadwick.  If they are all unharmed
then it is no great matter and I'm sorry that you have..."

"No, your lordship," she continued.  "They stopped the car on the railway
line.  They would have been killed by the first train this morning had not
an employee been walking along the line to work.  The police were called,"
and here she looked at the gendarme who nodded, "and because they knew that
Mr Craigth was English and not American..."

"Half-English," thought Martin and Stephen in unison.

"...they made contact with me, naturally."

"Naturally," they murmured together.

"Where are they now?" asked Stephen.

"In the gendarmerie at Cagnes-sur-Mer.  You will have to post bail.  They
will certainly charge the woman who was driving.

"Oh dear!" said Martin to Stephen.

Thanks and apologies were distributed and the boys decided to dress and
wait until they could hire a taxi to make the trip to Cagnes-sur-Mer.

"Where's Donald?" asked Martin suddenly.  He looked into the bedroom and
the bed had not been slept in.

"Well!" was all Stephen said with raised eyebrows, but added: "We'll leave
him a note."

The sight that greeted them when they went to the police station was not
what they had been expecting.  Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald were expressionless
and were tucking in to a breakfast of buttered rolls and coffee on a table
laid with a white cloth.  This had been supplemented with small glasses of
cognac.  The Plunger was trying to look dignified behind bars and had his
monocle in, but there were signs of contrition at the margins of his eyes
and mouth.

"Hullo, Poole.  Good morning, Stephen," he said with studied evenness and
Martin hoped he wasn't going to break down.

Fitzgerald called out: "Hi ya, dook!" while his wife munched on silently.

"I will go and see them about bail," said Stephen, leaving Martin looking
through the bars at the prisoners.

"Your French and Italians are inferior types..." began Fitzgerald and
Martin wanted to tell him to shut up, but kept quiet.

"You're alright, Plunger?"

"Oh yes, I'm fine.  It's just a bit tiresome and tedious in here.  I'd like
a bath.  How did you know where to find us?"

"Mrs Chadwick."

"Oh."

Stephen came back.  "Archie you can go."  And to the Fitzgeralds: "You can
leave too, Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald, but they said you had demanded the
American Consul come over from Nice.  Do you want to wait for him?  Also
the Consul has called Mr. Murphy and he is on his way."

"You boys run along.  We'll wait for Gerald.  Tell that fat fool to bring
us some more coffee, will ya?"

"I think we'd better wait until Murphy gets here," said Stephen quietly, so
they waited out in the road.  It was getting warmer and they sought the
shade of a palm.  The Voisin was sighted and Martin went back inside to
tell the Fitzgeralds.

A few words were exchanged with Murphy and he walked inside.  "Don't forget
to come down this afternoon and I'll take the boat out," he called.  "And
are we still on for dinner the day after?"

Stephen replied that they were just as Martin emerged into the sunlight.
They walked to the main road and found a taxi, which took them back to
Antibes.

The Plunger had little to tell, although he was clearly upset.  He didn't
remember much except that the Fitzgeralds had insisted that he come out
with them in the Count's car at about two in the morning.  They had taken a
bottle of whisky wrapped up in a wet towel with them.

"You know they parked right across the railway line as a kind of dare.  She
was taunting him about being a `fairy'-- he does develop crushes on other
men, that's for sure and he's obsessed with not getting to fight in the
War.  I think they wanted me there as a sort of witness...or sacrifice," he
added with a shudder.  "They're both very `egotistical' -- it's a word they
always use--and they're careless people; they smash up things and then just
don't care.  I told Fitzgerald that."

They were home now.  "Where's Donald?" asked The Plunger.

"Here I am," called their friend who came strolling in from the
terrace. "Where have you been?"

They quickly explained. "And you, Don?" asked Stephen.

"Oh Cole and I went out and picked up some sailors-- young sailors."

"No!" said the three of them.

"Yes!" said Donald, grinning.  "I say, that Mission to Seamen is nice isn't
it?"

"Will you see him again?" asked Martin.

"Oh yes.  We'll all see him when we go out on the hydroplane this
afternoon.  But Mrs Porter will be coming down from Paris."

"His mother?" asked Martin.

"No, his wife!  And who would have thought?" said Donald breathlessly. "He
says he'll look me up in London."

"Where are you going to live, Donald?" asked Martin, changing the subject
slightly.

"I like The Ritz," announced The Plunger.  The others just looked at him.

"I think all I can afford initially is a bedsit, Archie.  It will have to
be near Whitehall."

"Is the Fulham Road too far?" asked Stephen.  "You know Charles and Jack,
they have a room to let."  Donald turned it over in his mind and said he'd
think about it.

"Now, how are you going to make it up to Mrs Chadwick, Plunger?" asked
Martin.

"Oh God!" groaned The Plunger.  "Is that how I got out so easily?"

"She's coming to England in November for a Trust meeting.  Why don't you
get her invited down to Fayette.  That would tickle her more than
chocolates or flowers."

The Plunger and Donald caught up on their sleep while Martin and Stephen
cycled in the heat the five miles to Vallauris to see Hélias.  It
was good to see him moving about with little sign of his previous injury.
"Will you come over and see us in a couple of days Hélias?"

His eyes lit up and he replied that he would and would inspect the house
for any repairs that were needed which he would do at no cost to
them--unless they preferred to go to the plage?

"We will go out in the L'espoir, Hélias, and drink wine!" said
Stephen.  Hélias liked that idea much better.

"I don't want to lose our old friends for the Murphys' set, Mala," said
Stephen as they rode slowly back.  "I will go there this afternoon and host
them tomorrow for dinner, but I don't want too many nights like last
night."

"But some aspects were great fun, weren't they Derbs?"

"Oh yes, don't misunderstand me; I like the Murphys very much and they're
very stimulating, but they'll be friends on my terms or not at all.  Is
that too harsh?"

"No, I understand what you mean.  This afternoon we will go down and when
it stops being fun, we'll come home."

And when they come to us, we will entertain them as ourselves--no
servants--and I won't put up with the Fitzgeralds if they're crazy people."



The return visit was indeed great fun and the previous evening was not even
alluded to-- perhaps it was only one of many such.  Gerald took them down
to the little wooden jetty and began to fiddle around with the
needle-shaped motorboat.  It was a beautiful, sleek `Hacker-craft' with a
wooden deck finished in glistening varnish and a tiny windscreen to protect
the driver.  As he was working, Cole Porter walked down from the hotel with
a terribly elegant woman on his arm.  They were oddly contrasted: she was
perhaps ten years his senior and she was tall; Cole was not.  He had
prominent eyes; hers were deep set and languorous.  With her long nose and
pointed chin held at a fashionable tilt, she reminded Martin of The
Plunger, who would have suited her better.  This was only confirmed when
she screwed a cigarette into a long holder which she employed like a
fashion accessory.  However, they seemed an affectionate, if sophisticated
couple.  They were introduced to Linda Lee and indeed she proved to be very
charming and lovely in conversation as well and she exhibited great poise
even when making `small talk' on the pier--apparently she knew The
Plunger's Cunningham relatives from Rittenhouse Square.  Few women could
have worn pearls on the beach with such éclat, but she did and got
away with it.

The guests went up to the hotel and changed into their bathing costumes.
Stephen strolled back to the jetty apparently oblivious to the fact that
all eyes followed him in his costume which comprised of a white-and-navy
tank suit that that scooped low on his back and chest and navy-blue short
trunks held up with a white belt that scarcely concealed his virility.
Linda Lee Porter regarded him with a cool eye.

Murphy started the little craft and took the boys out in twos.  The
hydroplane cut the water and bounced along on the crest of the waves.  It
was exhilarating.  "How fast will she go?" shouted Martin over the noise of
the motor.

"Close to 50 maybe," called back Gerald Murphy as he whipped the boat into
a wide circle and headed back.  A varnished wooden board was attached to
the back of the craft with ropes and Donald was instructed to drive the
boat slowly and steadily. Murphy lay on the board on his stomach, holding
on to a pair of rope reins.  Then he pulled himself upright and stood
there, bumping over the water.  Donald slowed down a little too much and
the board started to sink in the water and Murphy tumbled himself off.

"Sorry!" called out Donald, who circled back to retrieve him.

They all tried it and it was great fun, even if it did mean hitting the
water with great force when one slipped off the board.  At last they had
had enough and the throbbing hydroplane was once again moored at the jetty.

When they reached the landward end, there stood a magnificent table covered
in a damask cloth.  In the centre a silver ewer held roses and peonies and
it was surrounded by an elaborate silver tea service, almost as fine as the
one at Branksome House, with a kettle over a spirit lamp, sugar nips,
teaspoons, Derby porcelain, a tall cake stand and all the refinements.  It
was all so out of place as it winked and glinted in the Mediterranean sun
that Martin burst out laughing.

"I though you boys might be homesick so I had them arrange a real British
afternoon tea," called Sara Murphy who walked down to meet them in a floral
frock and sun hat. Indeed it was an English afternoon tea, save for the
pastries, which were rich and very French.  They boys partook while the
Americans looked on as if it were feeding time at Regent's Park Zoo.

"That sure looks swell," said Scott Fitzgerald who had apparently risen
from his writing desk.  "You sure know how to impress the upper classes,
Sara," he said looking at the tea table.

"Did you get much writing done today Mr Fitzgerald?" asked The Plunger.

"I write by hand, so it is slow, sir, and I am often interrupted.  Zelda
asks to be excused.  I gave her a sleeping pill and locked her in her room.
Her maid will let her out about cocktail time, but I got six pages done."

The others laughed a little nervously and made sure that they had left the
Hotel du Cap by five o'clock, but restating the invitation to dine in
Antibes the following evening.



The dinner looked to be very promising.  Archie was in charge of decoration
and had chosen a striking colour scheme.  The big table was laid with
overlapping triangles and diamonds of orange and black cloth, with yellow
as a minor note.  Orange lobster shells formed decorative sculptures and
there were Jaffa oranges and some lemons from the tree in the garden and
there were orange, yellow and black flowers-- these last being simply dyed
with India ink-- supplemented by birds' feathers.  An old fur hearthrug,
which was nearly bald, had been purchased at a second-hand clothing shop
and this was cut up to form bizarre, if rather unhygienic, place mats. "I
would have liked zebra, but it was too hard to come by," said The Plunger,
but he was handy with some white paint and soon the fur came to resemble
the hide of that African animal.  It was colourful and exciting and turned
acceptable taste on its head.

"There is to be champagne and local wines, but no cocktails--even if we did
have a shaker," ruled Stephen.

Martin was in charge of the food and he called upon their tour of France
the previous year.  There was to be a roasted garlic soup, a baked fish
with a sauce, which included the roe of the shad and a chicken dish, which
contained spicy sausages from the Basque region.  There was a cheese.  They
did not attempt a desert, instead buying delicious cakes from a shop.  Mme
de Blezon, it goes without saying, was helpful.



The guests arrived at 8:00 in two large automobiles but there was no room
to park them, so instead the chauffeurs were commanded to return at
midnight.  Martin hoped that the affair would be a success until then.

There was champagne out on the terrace. "It's a beautiful old place," said
Sara Murphy, "I can see why you fell in love with it."  Picasso said he
would like to draw the silver beet.

"We came upon it by accident, while we were still at school," explained
Martin.  "We had been living over in Cannes with my late father in the
villa that belonged to Lord Brougham, do you know it?"  She did.  "And we
came here just to go to the beach and, well, we ate in the bistro across
the way and I spotted this and Stephen bought it.

"Croome is one of the largest houses in England, Mrs Murphy, and this place
makes a pleasant contrast.  Stephen won't allow us to have a cook or a
charwoman or to bring our valet."

"It's like camping out?"

"Yes, exactly," said Martin and went to a novel he'd been reading.  He took
out a postcard he'd been using as a bookmark.  "This is Croome.  That bit
there is gone now; it was destroyed in a storm."  The card was passed
around and Croome was admired.

"You people will have to forgive us," said Scott Fitzgerald.  The Comte de
Beaumont was included in this. "Most of us are from the middle-west..."

"Speak for yourself," said Zelda.  "Linda and I are southern belles."
Fitzgerald gave them a chivalrous bow.

"Well," he continued, "This European culture is heady stuff for simple hog
farmers and dry goods merchants-- you're all so different."

"Were not so different," contended Martin.  "There can't be many people
looking at the Twentieth Century so intently as you Americans are, it's
just that people like me also have to keep one eye on the past too."

"Our other eye is always cast back to home," said Cole Porter, "but I'm
never going back to Peru Indiana; that's where the real Puritans came
ashore.  Whoever said `westward the land is bright' sure got it wrong.
We're the old fashioned country; Europe is where everything is new."

Martin didn't agree and told the story of sending his butler to America to
study modern houses.  This was considered very amusing and Martin paused to
think, for the first time, if Chilvers was alright out there all on his
own.

A topic, still apparently fresh, was the fancy dress party given by the
Count at which the Murphys appeared as parts of their motorcar.  Their
fantastic costumes were described in detail and the Count went on to
describe one he was planning where the guests must appear as modern forms
of transport-- steamships, motor bicycles, dirigibles, the Blue Train and
so on.  "You must paint the sets, Pablo."

"Have you seen The Insect Play?" asked Gerald Murphy.  Linda Lee Porter and
the Count had, but the others had missed it.  "It is by a Czech writer and
describes human society through allegory.  The ants, who are ruthlessly
disciplined, are the soldiers and take over the world while the proletarian
dung beetle and the social butterfly represent real human types.  He also
wrote a play about mechanical men-- `robots'-- who lead a rebellion against
humanity."  These sounded terribly interesting and Stephen determined to
read up on them.

As they drank their soup, Picasso asked about the paintings on the old
walls.

"They were by my brother's, Señor," said Martin.  "He was a friend
of Tsindis."

Picasso nodded but said nothing further.  They fell back onto the topic of
the weather, which was a trifle ordinary, but gave the Murphys and
Fitzgeralds a chance to say how much they loved sunbathing.  Martin told
them a little about the sunbathing on the roof at Croome.

"With the butler and the valet?" cried Sara Murphy in tears of laughter as
Martin (rather cruelly) described Chilvers' embarrassment as he was made to
undress, but he gallantly took the blame for forcing the issue upon the
poor man.  He trusted that none of the table would ever come to Croome, so
Chilvers would not have to face them.

The Comte de Beaumont declared that he would make all his servants-- it was
an all-male staff, apparently-- sunbathe when he returned to Paris,
commenting that his rooftop in the Rue Maseran was overlooked only by the
Institute for the Young Blind.

Martin and The Plunger had been up and down from the table, bringing new
courses and taking away dirty plates.  Martin returned with the little
cakes just in time to hear Mrs Fitzgerald drawl in a distant voice: "I love
those days with circus skies where the clouds are prancing horses and the
sun is a joyous red balloon."

The Olympic Games in Paris were of recent memory and conversation drifted
from the weather to the arts and, finally, to the successes of the
American, Johnny Weissmuller, in the swimming.

"You seem to be a fine swimmer yourself, Stephen," said Fitzgerald.

"I do like to swim," replied Stephen, "but boxing is my favourite sport
after cricket. Do you know about cricket?"  None of the guests did, but
they picked up their glasses and followed Stephen down into the cellar room
where the sporting equipment had been installed.  They lit the lamp.

Stephen gave a few blows to the punching bag.

"Hold it for me, Cole," he said.  Porter grasped it and Stephen pummelled
the heavy bag.  He began to hit it in a syncopated rhythm and Porter took
it up and embellished it into an amusing tune.

"Leave me have a go," said Fitzgerald, who removed his jacket and took
over.  He had a good right arm.  He swapped with The Plunger who adopted
his classical stance and jabbed at the bag with his long reach.  Picasso
also had a turn.  He would have made a nuggetty fighter, thought Stephen.

"Both of you hold it," said Stephen, who was now sweating. He removed his
shirt and tie and was standing bare-chested as he slogged at the bag.  The
Plunger and Fitzgerald found it hard to hold the bag steady.  Stephen was a
magnificent figure-- a young man in the prime of life with the muscles of
an athlete.

"Il est plus beau que Georges Carpentier," said Count de Beaumont, touching
his lips with the napkins which he had brought downstairs with him, and
indeed it was true.

"And Gene Tunney," added Cole Porter.  Stephen paused and grinned at them.

Martin led the guests back upstairs to the terrace where he had set the
coffee out.  Cole and Scott remained in the basement with Stephen where the
sound of the punching bag being hit drifted out into M. de Blezon's
vegetable garden.

Sara Murphy began to outline an idea for a fête where all the guests
had to dress as athletes and there would be a real boxing tournament staged
in the garden of their Paris villa. "Boxing dwarfs sprayed silver and
gold-- or giants-- I can't decide."

"But the Olympic Games are finished," objected her husband.  "Don't you
think that's a bit passé?"

She reluctantly agreed that this was so and outlined several more
extravaganzas that she had been turning over in her fertile mind.  Then
they fell to talking about sports they had played.  Zelda began dreamily:
"In Montgomr'y, my friend Tallulah and I cut our hair and played golf with
the young soldiers at the camp and we would sneak out in the purple ev'ning
and go swimmin' with the boys...we were more like tomboys than young
ladies, in fact some of them used to say..." Suddenly she arose from her
seat under the grapevine.  Martin realised that the sound of the punching
bag had been stopped for several minutes.  She crossed to the short flight
of stone steps and descended to the half basement where the faint light
from the lamp could be seen spilling from the window and the open door.
Just as suddenly she returned to the table where the conversation had
drifted to the Théâtre des Champs-Elysées and the
Count was describing the latest unorthodox production where a famous poet
sat concealed behind a decorated screen and, in a deadpan voice, read his
works through a megaphone.

A minute later Stephen came up the stairs.  He had his shirt on, but it was
unbuttoned and a towel was around his sweaty neck.  His black hair had
fallen forward and covered his left eye.  Behind him came Cole and Scott
who took seats at the garden table while Stephen excused himself and went
inside.  Shortly afterwards Stephen returned in a clean shirt and was
carrying two more bottles of wine and the corkscrew.

The Murphys talked about the house they were building over at Valescure
above St Raphael.  The `Villa America' was to have tennis courts and a
swimming bath and many other luxurious features.  Stephen thought of the
lovely old town situated below the peaks, where striking red rocks jutted
out into the blue Mediterranean and a spectacular viaduct carried the
railway to Nice.  "What an idyllic spot," he declared.

"But we love your house, Stephen," said Sara Murphy.  "It has real charm
and reminds me of those cabin resorts in the mountains back home where we
used to spend lovely summers when I was a girl.  And Gerald and I love
Antibes."



Zelda spoke up: "Do you have any bourbon, Lord Branksome?"  Martin and
Stephen shook their heads and apologised.  "Well I hate this stinking town.
Let's go to St Raphael right now-- or better still, back to Paris."

It was now midnight and the cars had arrived to collect the visitors and
the boys went up to bed leaving the dishes until the morning.



There was an angry hammering at the door.  Stephen sat up.  It continued
and he could hear a women's voice calling out-- an American woman--Zelda
Fitzgerald. Stephen put a restraining hand on Martin and got out of bed,
covering his nakedness with a dressing gown.  He went downstairs but not
before popping his head into the other bedroom where he saw the noise had
also woken The Plunger and Donald. "What is it?" asked Donald, sleepily.
Stephen didn't answer but continued down the stairs into the main room,
which he crossed to the old wooden front door, which was standing up well
under it pummelling.  He flung it wide.

"Why Mrs Fitzgerald, this is a surprise! Would you care...?"  Zelda pushed
past him and stood in the middle of the floor.  She was drunk and she
wheeled about, her mad eyes blazing.  "Where is he?"

"Who, Mrs Fitzgerald?"

"You know who; that damned fairy, my husband.  I know he's here."

"I haven't seen him since last night when he left with you."

"I saw him..."  She never finished her sentence but instead rushed up the
stairs before Stephen could stop her.  Martin was alarmed when she poked
her deranged visage around the doorpost.  However he managed to show great
composure at this outrage and said: "Good morning, Mrs Fitzgerald, has
Stephen given you coffee?"  She looked about the room; there was no hiding
place.  She departed without a word and dashed first to the boxroom and
then into the other bedroom.  The Plunger was still in bed and Donald was
to be seen standing against the window in his dressing gown.  She thundered
down the stairs again.

"There's the cellar too, Mrs Fitzgerald.  Would you like to inspect that--
or perhaps out in the garden?" said Stephen sweetly.

"Damn fairies.  Ernest was right."  With that she walked swiftly to the
door and out of it.

"Well, I won't detain you, Mrs Fitzgerald," called Stephen after her, "as
I'm sure you have many calls of a similar character to make in the
neighbourhood."  Oscar Wilde always had le mot juste.

To be continued. Thank you for reading.  If you have any comments or
questions, Pete and I would really love to hear from you.  Just send them
to h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and please put NOB Nifty in the subject line.