THE DINNER PARTY

by Nicolas Monsarrat

NIKOLAS MONSARRAT, in full NIKOLAS JOHN TURNEY MONSARRAT (born March 22, 1910, Liverpool, England - died August 8, 1979, London) is a popular English novelist whose best-known work, "The Cruel Sea ", vividly captured life aboard a small ship in wartime. Monsarrat took a bachelor's degree in law at Trinity College, Cambridge, and then spent two years in a solicitor's office. His first book, "Think of Tomorrow", appeared in 1934, but he had not fully established his reputation when World War II broke out. From 1940 to 1946 he served with the Royal Navy, chiefly on the dangerous Atlantic convoy runs. He afterwards put his experiences aboard ship to brilliant account, first in "H.M. Corvette" (1942) and then in "The Cruel Sea " (1951). The latter novel became a huge best-seller, also made into a successful film. Monsarrat died before completing what he considered his major work.— "The Master Mari­ner", a projected three-volume novel of seafaring life from Napole­onic times to the present, the first part appeared in 1978 and the second (unfinished) after his death.

There are still some rich people in the world; and there were very many more, in the enjoyable world of thirty years ago. I hope that no one will be led astray by the fiction that rich people lead dull, boring and frustrated lives; compelled to listen to unintelligible chamber music every other night, to sit trough interminable operas which they do not understa:^.: to bow unwill­ingly to rcy-l"v and to force down their gullets such diet -<; dices' as pate de

Please be assured that many of

commanding the finest artists to play and sing exactly what they wish to hear, greeting royalty on terms of pleasure and intimacy, and eating and drinking precisely what they want — often pate de foie gras, trout in aspic, and champagne.

But rich people do have their problems. They are seldom problems of finance, since most rich people have sufficient sense to hire other people to take care of their worries — whether they are concerned with taxes, poli­tics, the education of their children, the estrangement of their wives, or the greed of their servants.

THE DINNER PARTY

But there are other, more genuine problems. They are the problems of behaviour.

Let me tell you one such a problem, which beset³ my uncle Octavian;> full thirty years ago.

A full thirty years ago, I myself was fifteen. That is not really important, though it was important to me at the time, on the threshold of the dazzling adult world. More important to this story, my uncle Octavian, was then (in 1925) a rich man in the lavish pride of manhood⁴.

He was (as any suitable contemporary will confirm) a charming and accomplished host whose villa on the Cote d'Azur⁵ was an accepted rende* vous of the great; and he was (as I will confirm) a hospitable, contented, and most amiable man — until January 3, 1925.

There was nothing special about that day, in the life of my uncle Octavian. except that it was his fifty-fifth birthday. As usual on such a day, he was giving a dinner party, a party for twelve people. All of them were old friends; two of them, indeed were what were then called, unambiguously. "old flames.⁶" My uncle, aged fifty-five, would scarcely have found it pos­sible to give a birthday dinner party not attended by at least two such guests. He had long been addicted to what was then called, with equal unambiguity, a "full life.⁷"

I, myself, aged fifteen, was deeply priviledged. I was staying with my uncle at his exquisite villa near Cap d'Antibes⁸; and as a special concession on this happy day, I was allowed to come down to dinner. It was exciting to me to be admitted to such company, which included besides the two "old flames," and their respective husbands, a newspaper proprietor of excep tional intelligence and his fabulous American wife; a recent prime-ministei of France and a monumental elder statesman of post-war Germany, and a Habsburg⁹ prince and princess.

At that age, on holiday from school, you will guess that I was dazzled Even today, thirty years later, one may fairly admit that the company was distinguished. But I should also stress, to give point to the story, that they were all old and intimate friends of my uncle Octavjan.

"■^JT')V/ard3 rile end оГя wonrirrful uinnci when £&%qjc\\\i-* £?*" trough¹ in and the servants tiad left, my uncle leant forward to admire a magnifies ru-. solitaire¹⁰ diamond ring on the princess's hand. She was a handsome woman, of regal bearing"; I remember the candlelight flashing on, and within, the canary-yellow stone as she turned her hand gracefully towards my uncle.

Across the table, the newspaper proprietor leant across and said: "May 1 also have a look, Therese?" She smiled and nodded. Then she took off the

THE DINNER PARTY

ring and held it out to him. "It was my grandmother's — the old Empress," • she said. "1 have not worn it for many years. It is said to have once belonged to Genghis Khan¹²."

There were exclamations of delight and admiration. The ring was passed from hand to hand. For a moment it rested on my own ра1т„ gleaming splendidly with that wonderful interior yellow glow that such jewels can command. Then I passed rt on to my next-door neighbour. As I turned away again, I thought I saw her pass it on. At least I was almost sure I saw her.

It was some twenty minutes later when the princess stood up, giving the signal for the ladies to withdraw. She looked round us with a pleasant smile. Then she said: "Before we leave you, may I have my ring back?"

I remember my uncle Octavian murmuring: "Ah yes — that wonderful ring!" I remember the newspaper proprietor saying: "By Jove¹³! Mustn't forget that!" and one of the women laughing.

Then there was a pause, while each of us looked expectantly at his neighbour. Then there was silence.

The princess was still smiling, though less easily. She was unused to asking for things twice. "If you please," she said, with a touch of hauteur. "Then we can leave the gentlemen to their port¹⁴".

When no one answered her, and the silence continued, I still thought that it could only be a practical joke, and that one of us — probably the prince himself — would produce the ring with a laugh and a flourish, perhaps chiding her for her carelessness. But when nothing happened at all, I knew that the rest of the night would be dreadful.

I am sure that you can guess the sort of scene that followed. There was the embarrassment, immediate ano shattering of the guests — all of them old ~,;c -^rz\'J^ fri***iir. "• hco was the freezing po'iter¹?¹^ of ^fhg r?rmce the near-tears of the рг;г--"3э. there were trie demands iu be search^u, uie overturn­ing of chairs, the minute scrutiny of the carpet, and then of the whole room. There was the fact that presently no one would meet anyone else's eye.

All these things happened, but they did not bring the princess's ring back again. It had vanished — an irreplaceable heirloom, worth possibly two hundred thousand pounds — in a roomful of twelve people, all known to each other.

No servants had entered the room. No one had left it for a moment. The thief (for now it could only be theft) was one of us, one of my uncle Octavian's cherished friends.

THE DINNER PARTY

I remember it was the French cabinet minister who was most insistent on being searched; indeed, in his excitement he had already started turning out his pockets, before my uncle held up his hand and stopped him.

Uncle Octavian's face was pale and tremendously tense, as if he had been dealt^va* mortal blow. "There will be no searching," he commanded. "Not in my house. You are all my friends. The ring can only be lost. If it is not found" — he bowed towards the princess — "I will naturally make amends¹' myself."

The dreadful and fruitless search began again

f The ring was never found, though the guests stayed nearly till dawn unwilling to be the first to leave, wishing to comfort my uncle (who though deadly calm was deeply stricken), and still hoping that, from the shambles of the dining-room, the ring would somehow appear.

It never did appear, either then or later. My uncle Octavian, to the last, remained true to his rigid code, and adamant that no one was to be searched.

I myself went back to England, and school, a few days later. I was very glad to escape. The sight of my uncle's face, and the knowledge of his overturned world, were more than I could bear. All that he was left with among the ruins of his way of life, was a question mark: which of his intimate friends was the thief?

I do not know how, or on what scale, my uncle Octavian "made amends I know that he never returned to his lonely house near Cap d'Antibes, and that he remained a recluse for the rest of his days. I know that, to our family's surprise, he was a comparatively poor man when he died. He died, in facv: few weeks ago, and that is why I feel I can tell the stop.

It would be wrong ⁺o say that he died a broken man, but he cVJ «lie a profb-ffiiib-:^u one, wui) list: special ^iiftess of -, ^«хз^аЫе host wbt> \iev^r gave a single lunch or dinner party for the last thiuy yeais of his life.

Notes:

1. dietary dross f 'daiatan] — food unfit for eating (dross — impurities, rubbish)

2. pate de foie gras (Fr.)f'pffitei da fwa: gra:s] — паштет из печенки

3. to beset — to perplex, to worry

4. the pride of (or the prime of) one's manhood (life youth) — the best part of...
the period of strength and vigour.

5. Cote d'Azur f'kout ^-det33] — part of the Mediterranean coast of France, the
French name for the Riviera

6. "old flame" = old love

t&JAi, ' ■ -

V

REVISION AND EXTENSION______________

do/does or am/is/'are doing². > GS 13-1

A The writer of the following letter works in a travel agency. Which form of the verbs in brackets do you need to complete her letter, the present simple [do/ does) or the present progressive [am/is/are doing)! For example, is the first answer write or am writing! Notice that sometimes the verb in brackets does not need to be change¹ at all. Dear Sally,

I (write) just to let you know that I've arrived and that everything's fine.

At the moment I (stay) at a hotel in Athens and I (do) quite a lot of sightseeing. Next week, I (move) to the island of Crete which is where most of the people in the company (live). I (rent) a villa there for the summer, which should be nice.

The weather's net particularly good - as a matter of fact, it (rain) at the moment. Still, it (get) better slowly, and I'm sure it'll be fine when you (come) in the summer. I (look) forward to it already.

The job (not seem) to be too demanding. Most of the time I (deal) with bookings and (answer) inquiries. But I (suppose) it'll be different when the tourist season (start) next month. Even now the restaurants (begin) to get busier.

See you soon,

Love,

Jenny

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