"Ивлин Во. Экскурсия в жизнь (engl) " - читать интересную книгу автора

box of preserved figs from an admirer in Fresno, California; two letters
from young ladies who said they were composing papers about his work for
their college literary societies, and would he send a photograph; press
cuttings describing him as a 'popular,' 'brilliant,' 'meteorically
successful,' and 'enviable' young novelist; a request for the loan of two
hundred pounds from a paralysed journalist; an invitation to luncheon from
Lady Metroland; six pages of closely reasoned abuse from a lunatic asylum in
the North of England. For the truth, which no one who saw into Simon Lent's
heart could possibly have suspected, was that he was in his way and within
his limits quite a famous young man.
There was a last letter with a typewritten address which Simon opened
with little expectation of pleasure. The paper was headed with the name of a
Film Studio in one of the suburbs of London. The letter was brief and
businesslike.
Dear Simon Lent (a form of address, he had noted before, largely
favoured by the theatrical profession),
I wonder whether you have ever considered writing for the Films. We
should value your angle on a picture we are now making. Perhaps you would
meet me for luncheon to-morrow at the Garrick Club* and let me know your,
reactions to this. Will you leave a message with my night secretary some
time before 8 a.m. to-morrow morning or with my day secretary after that
hour?
Cordially yours,
Below this were two words written in pen and ink which seemed to be
Jewee Meccee with below them the explanatory typescript (Sir James Macrae).
Simon read this through twice. Then he rang up Sir James Macrae and
informed his night secretary that he would keep the luncheon appointment
next day. He had barely put down the telephone before the bell rang.
'This is Sir James Macrae's night secretary speaking. Sir James would
be very pleased if Mr Lent would come round and see him this evening at his
house in Hampstead.'
Simon looked at his watch. It was nearly three. 'Well ... it's rather
late to go so far to-night...'
'Sir James is sending a car for you.'
Simon was no longer tired. As he waited for the car the telephone rang
again. 'Simon,' said Sylvia's voice, 'are you asleep?'
'No; in fact I'm just going out.'
'Simon ... I say, was I beastly to-night?'
'Lousy.'
'Well, I thought you were lousy, too.'
'Never mind. See you some time.'
'Aren't you going to go on talking?'
'Can't, I'm afraid. I've got to do some work.'
'Simon, what can you mean?'
'Can't explain now. There's a car waiting.'
'When am I seeing you-to-morrow?'
'Well, I don't really know. Ring me up in the morning. Good night.'
A quarter of a mile away, Sylvia put down the telephone, rose from the
hearthrug, where she had settled herself in the expectation of twenty
minutes' intimate explanation and crept disconsolately into bed.