The Lord of Misrule Read online

  THE LORD OF MISRULE

  By Paul Halter

  © John Pugmire 2006

  The Lord of Misrule

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First published in French in 1994 by

  Editions du Masque – Hachette Livre as Le Roi du Desordre

  THE LORD OF MISRULE. Copyright © Editions du Masque, 1994.

  English translation copyright © by John Pugmire 2006.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For information, contact: [email protected]

  FIRST AMERICAN EDITION

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Halter, Paul

  [Le Roi du Desordre. English]

  The Lord of Misrule / Paul Halter;

  translated from the French by John Pugmire

  1

  THE TINKLING OF TINY BELLS

  “Life is full of coincidences. Now there’s a remarkable enough phrase to begin our story.”

  It was with these words that Owen Burns’ play The Importance of Being Archie Bow began; the play which had made all London cry – with laughter or anger? – several years ago, and which had caused much ink to flow, that having indubitably been the primary objective of its author. If I quote Owen here, it is not only because it gives an insight – to any reader still unaware of it – of his philosophy, but also because the first statement describes perfectly the extraordinary sequence of events I was privileged to witness some time ago and which I shall now describe.

  After some hesitation, I have opted to present the facts, not as they occurred chronologically, but in the order in which they appeared to me. The reader will thus be in the position to appreciate more readily the perplexity, the anguish, and the fear – even terror – that I, as a young man in his mid-twenties (the same age as Owen), experienced.

  As I said before, life is full of coincidences, the manner in which Owen and I met being a perfect illustration. The encounter, although occurring a year before the principal events, remains important because it was immediately followed by another which not only confirmed the celebrated phrase, but turned out to have been the true starting point of the sombre tragedy.

  It was on an afternoon just before Christmas at the turn of the last century – that is to say, the late 1890s – that I saw Owen Burns for the first time. Through the great thoroughfares of London, a joyful crowd squelched its way dexterously in the slush to admire the magnificent decorations on display in the multitude of store windows. Every kind of merchandise was festooned with holly and silvered garlands to attract the covetous gaze of the passers-by. As for myself, I watched the natives with as much interest as I watched the commercial extravaganza and marvelled at their simple contentment, certainly greater than mine.

  Two weeks earlier, I had landed in Portsmouth, after having left my native South Africa where my parents had been killed a year earlier in a tragic rail accident in Cape Province where my father had been a high-ranking government official. He had managed his private investments with the same flair he had shown in his professional life, with the result that I was able to face the future without financial concern. Why had I chosen to leave for England? To put behind me the tragedy which had turned my life upside-down? That was certainly one reason, but not the only one.

  For some time, I had felt a vague but indefinable artistic yearning growing in me. I wandered aimlessly between literature, music, architecture, and drawing. The only thing I was sure about was that I needed to discover my “voice,” which I almost certainly wouldn’t be able to do in South Africa, but in cities like London, Paris, or Rome. And that’s how, ten days after I landed, I found myself wandering the streets of London, asking myself about my future, and in search of that mysterious “voice.” I had no idea that I was about to find it, in the person of someone who cultivated art for art’s sake, and who would become my friend.

  How to describe Owen Burns? I shall always see him as he was that day, standing in front of the florist, holding a fragile rosebud in his pudgy fingers. Tall and rather corpulent, with sensuous lips and sleepy eyes, he exuded a majestic simplicity pleasantly devoid of any affectation. The lazy expression in his eyes could not completely conceal the glint of a lively intelligence lurking there. The orange-coloured woollen suit he was wearing was exceedingly difficult to ignore, as was the artificial blue carnation in his buttonhole.

  ‘This one?’ asked the girl, looking quizzically at the flower Owen was holding. ‘I’m not trying to influence your choice, sir, but if you’re only going to pick one flower, may I suggest another one. They’re all the same price and, frankly, this one –.’

  ‘I didn’t say I’d take this: I said I’d take these,’ replied Owen, pronouncing each syllable carefully. ‘The one I have in my hand is the only one I won’t take.’

  The girl stood dumbfounded for a moment, and then stammered:

  ‘I don’t understand, sir.’

  ‘This flower,’ he repeated, waving it under the poor girl’s nose, ‘is the one I’m not taking.’

  ‘I – I still don’t understand.’

  Owen Burns looked slowly all around him on the street, before his gaze lighted on me.

  ‘I am, nevertheless, speaking the King’s English, don’t you agree, my dear sir? And what I’m saying seems abundantly clear: the flower I’m holding in my hand is the one I shan’t take. Therefore it follows that I shall take all the others, all the others.’

  The little florist’s eyes opened wide in astonishment as she surveyed her entire merchandise. Meanwhile, as Owen continued to look questioningly at me, I replied without thinking:

  ‘Yes, of course. It’s clear, quite clear. You’ll buy everything but that one.’

  I was just as intrigued as all the passers-by who, having heard the conversation, had gathered around the kiosk, for it was clear that Burns would find it almost impossible to take all the flowers away with him. But the surprises had just started.

  In a majestically off-handed manner, Owen tossed a bundle of pound notes at the awestruck girl and said, casually:

  ‘That should cover it, I think. I’d be very obliged if you would have them delivered to Miss Jane Baker, at the Beltram Hotel, on behalf of Owen Burns.’

  Still unable to utter a sound, the florist merely nodded. Her customer turned to me and observed:

  ‘These roses are quite magnificent, aren’t they? I had to cover the whole of London to find such quality at this time of year.’

  ‘They’re greenhouse grown, sir,’ declared the girl proudly, as she hastened to gather the flowers into a sumptuous bouquet.

  Whereupon the rose-lover beckoned to an approaching hackney cab and, once the driver had pulled up, announced in a loud voice:

  ‘“Gray’s,” in Regent Street. And hurry!’

  For a few seconds, the cabbie’s face registered the same reaction as the florist’s and, for that matter, the faces of the increasing number of bystanders who had stopped to witness the ever more curious actions of the equally curious Owen Burns.

  The cabbie glanced over his shoulder at the opposite side of the street where, over the windows of a large store, could be seen, in vermillion letters on a dark yellow background, the word “Gray’s.”

  He looked back at his potential customer and asked, with a frown:

  ‘“Gray’s,” Regent Street? Is that what you said?’

  ‘Yes, I believe so.’

  The cabbie pointed a thumb at the store across the street.

  ‘Don’t you know it’s right opposite?’

  ‘Why all these questions?’ exclaimed Burns. ‘Of course I know. I’m not in the habit of asking to be taken to places I don’t know.’

  ‘But if you’re in such a hurry –.’

  ‘That’s what I said, isn’t it? So now tell me if you’re going to take me or not. There’s not a moment to lose!’

  The cabbie raised his eyes to the heavens. Once his fare had settled disdainfully in his seat, he cracked his whip and they were on their way. I was not the only one to watch in disbelief as the cab, reaching the nearest street corner, executed a u-turn to end up in front of the store immediately opposite the spot it had just left. Seeing Burns get out and enter the store, I assumed I had seen the end of the strange business. But I was quite wrong as, less than a minute after he had entered the store, an employee appeared at the door calling for a doctor at the top of his voice: a gentleman customer had been taken ill. A number of us pushed our way to the storefront, and I was only slightly surprised to find that it was Owen Burns who had fainted and was now lying on the floor in the middle of the salesroom. I was, however, considerably more surprised when, having recovered consciousness, he announced to all and sundry: ‘My God, how dreadful! What an abominably ill-assorted collection. It’s more than I can bear to look at. Please take me out of here immediately!’

  I must make it clear that the furniture at Gray’s, while not being a model of refinement, was perfectly presentable. So what was Owen Burns playing at? Was his artistic sensitivity so heightened that he fainted at the slightest lack of harmony? I listened to the comments of the crowd around me: ‘Those Oxford types are always trying to draw attention to the
mselves.’ ‘A poet, did you say? More like a madman.’ ‘It’s the same thing, isn’t it?’ ‘That’s him! That’s the chap we saw the other day, walking down Piccadilly contemplating a flower.’ ‘And almost caused an accident by trying to retrieve a bunch of flowers in front of an oncoming bus.’ ‘I’m not surprised he’s fallen for that American actress Jane Baker. She’s just like him: no education.’ ‘He’s a loony, that one.’ ‘What’s the world coming to?’

  I had more or less forgotten about Owen Burns when, later that afternoon, I left the tea-room replenished but still intent on discovering more of the city. I decided to leave the well-to-do areas in search of more humble surroundings.

  Gradually the houses became smaller and brick construction replaced stone. The red of the bricks became duller and dirtier as well, yet at the same time the spirit of Christmas seemed to become warmer, and perhaps simpler and more natural; more natural than in the more respectable areas, for here there were children playing in the streets, gleefully sipping and sliding on the ice. Night was falling and the gas-lamps had just been lit, their scintillating light throwing a golden halo around the window displays in the modest shops. The leaves of the holly wreaths gleamed in reflection and the pyramids of oranges seemed aglow. Even though I had partaken of several scones with my tea, I was unable to resist a succulent apple turnover from one of the pastry shops. The painted dolls and the wooden horses in the toyshops were roughly finished, but the eyes of the children pressing their noses against the glass shone with an excitement I hadn’t seen elsewhere that afternoon.

  Nonetheless, nothing could compare to the fascination on the face of a young boy, almost a child, whom I noticed a little farther on, standing in front of a poultry shop. The proprietor had just started to take down the merchandise from the window where it had been hanging. The youngster wasn’t exactly in rags, but the condition of the old black hat that kept falling over his eyes spoke volumes about his condition. He was ogling a goose: a goose so large it was doubtful he could even carry it. An expression of bitterness crossed his face when I enquired the price, but it changed to astonished delight when I paid for it and placed it in his arms, wishing him a Merry Christmas the while. Obviously fearful I might change my mind, he turned quickly to leave. But before going he offered me his oversize hat and I instinctively realised it would be a mistake on my part to refuse such a gift.

  I continued on my walk, congratulating myself on my generosity, but unable nevertheless to suppress the feeling that I had acted more for the pleasure of seeing the youngster’s surprised reaction than out of any deep-seated purity of the soul. In vain I searched my conscience, as I continued to penetrate farther and farther into the impoverished neighbourhood where the very walls oozed poverty. The sparkling whiteness of the snow which covered roofs, sheds, window frames and every projecting surface contrasted cruelly with the leprous walls of the dingy rows of houses, made even more sinister by the encroaching darkness. The streets were nevertheless animated and the shouts, the conversations and the laughter, although uncouth and shrill, were no less warm for all that. I wistfully recalled my own youth and, feeling somewhat emotional, I moved to get a closer look at an old man endlessly turning the handle of his barrel organ. Despite his top-hat, which had seen better days, he had a certain bearing and a dignity which was apparent in his clear gaze. Curiously, the same demeanour could be seen in his companion: a small monkey perched on top of the organ, from which vantage point he stared wild-eyed at the passers-by from under a lopsided cocked-hat, of which he seemed inordinately proud.

  Weary yet fascinated, I remained there watching the crowd of rosy-cheeked individuals milling around the organ player and listening to their hoary old favourites, when, suddenly, I heard a voice which seemed vaguely familiar murmuring in my ear:

  ‘You seem to be enjoying the touching spectacle as much as I…’

  I turned round and immediately recognised the fellow whose strange behaviour had intrigued so many earlier that day. Owen Burns had exchanged his orange suit for a more sporting ensemble of checked jacket and peaked cap which, despite being more classical in style, nevertheless attracted attention.

  ‘A remarkable sight,’ I stammered, surprised and disconcerted by his sudden appearance. ‘Though perhaps not exactly –.’

  ‘It was indeed you I met this afternoon in front of the florist’s, was it not? I never forget a face.’

  I acknowledged as much and introduced myself, adding with a startling lack of originality:

  ‘Life is full of coincidences.’

  He stared hard at me and replied:

  ‘That’s very profound. You must be an artist, if I’m not mistaken?’

  I was quite taken aback.

  ‘Well…that is to say… But how…?’

  ‘The master knows how to recognise a disciple. There’s more feeling and more poetry here than anywhere else in the city, don’t you think? That’s what was in your mind, wasn’t it?’

  After that somewhat unceremonious introduction, Owen Burns let me lead the conversation and I surprised myself how quickly I confided my thoughts in him, confirming his premise. As I talked, I noticed how attentively he was listening, and his exclamations and air of understanding encouraged me to continue. He was obviously eccentric, but sympathetic and with a lively mind. Having him as a friend would surely be the perfect antidote to any depression I might feel during my stay in London. That thought had just crossed my mind when I once again had cause to wonder about his mental equilibrium as he declared:

  ‘I don’t, of course, know what you believe to be your artistic calling, but in a way you’ve just found it, for Art is standing before you at this very moment. Heavens above! I’ve just remembered a most beautiful American is waiting to have dinner with me. I shall be late!’

  As he took his departure he pressed his visiting card into my hand, saying:

  ‘Come and see me whenever you wish, so we may continue this most fulfilling conversation.’

  I stood there for some time, looking at the street corner around which he had vanished at high speed, thinking about my initial impression of him and unable to persuade myself to revise it. Then, as the snow began to fall again, I decided it was time to leave. Donning the old hat the urchin had given me, I convinced myself I was less likely that way to attract attention than was Owen Burns. As I reached a side-street, a snowball hit me full in the face, and I saw two young brats running away as fast as they could go. The idea of pursuing them was farthest from my mind; I felt more like smiling, for it had crowned a day full of buffoonery. I hadn’t even made a move to wipe the snow off my face when I saw her…

  A merchant’s cart pulled by a pony bedecked with ribbons and tiny tinkling bells had just passed me. I was standing under a gas lamp not far from the intersection, so that when she came round the corner she appeared under a cone of light. I had never seen such a lovely face: bright red lips and a pearly white, almost transparent, complexion, framed by jet-black curls. She was slender and graceful and absolutely adorable, wearing a little hat decorated with a flower as delicate and fragile as herself. Three or four seconds went by as we stood still, looking silently at each other, before an expression of terror crossed her face. She let out a heartrending shriek and started to run back whence she had come.

  It was hardly credible. Was it I who had frightened her to that point? I couldn’t and wouldn’t believe it. I ran after her and only caught up with her with great difficulty, for she seemed truly afraid of me. I’d lost my hat during the chase, but that was of little importance; I was holding the adorable little bird in my arms and trying to reassure her:

  ‘For Heaven’s sake, calm down. I mean you no harm.’

  She shivered again, but her anxiety had receded and my presence seemed to comfort her. Nevertheless, her pronouncement was very strange:

  ‘The white mask…the tinkling of tiny bells…I thought it was him…’

  I couldn’t quite follow what she said after that, but I thought I heard the words “Lord” and “Misrule.”