Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald
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Название: Mr American

Автор: George Fraser MacDonald

Издательство: HarperCollins

Жанр: Историческая литература

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isbn: 9780007458431

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СКАЧАТЬ been a pleasure.” He preceded Mr Franklin from the cab at the Waldorf, and when they were both on the pavement he added: “You’ll be dining out this evening, sir. A theatre, perhaps. I’ll look back in a couple of hours and help you dress. Many gentlemen dress themselves, of course, but with new clothes, sir, it’s advisable to have a second opinion, I always think, in case of any last-minute adjustments, sir.”

      He knew perfectly well that Mr Franklin had not given a thought to dining out, let alone the theatre; a sandwich in his room while he glowered uneasily at his new-bought finery would be more like it. Samson was not going to permit that if he could help it; why this quiet American had engaged him in the first place, and allowed Samson to provide him with the trappings of the fashionable metropolis, he did not bother to speculate, but since he had, Samson’s professional ethic demanded that the job be seen through. So having refreshed himself with a pie and a pint of beer at a St Clement’s tavern, he returned to the Waldorf at seven prompt and proceeded to attire his client for the evening.

      Mr Franklin submitted with a good-natured tolerance behind which there obviously lay a deal of self-consciousness; the statutory uniform of dress tails with white tie and weskit he bore without too much unease, but at the cloak, hat and cane he rebelled.

      “No.” He shook his head. “I don’t need them. I don’t need a stick.”

      “For the theatre, sir –”

      “Who says I’m going to the theatre? I could go in my street clothes, couldn’t I?”

      Samson’s raised brows suggested that he could go in a diving suit if he wished, but he merely said:

      “Then for dining out, sir …”

      “I don’t have to dine out, either. I can get supper downstairs.”

      “Of course, sir.” Samson allowed a moment of neutral silence while Mr Franklin glowered at his patent-leather shoes. “Shall I return your evening dress to the wardrobe, sir?”

      Mr Franklin regarded him steadily, prepared to speak, changed his mind, breathed through his nose, and finally squared his shoulders, Sydney Carton leaving the tumbril.

      “No,” he said heavily. “Let’s put the damned things on.”

      “Thank you, sir,” said Samson. “The cane, sir – and the cloak. If it feels more comfortable, why not carry the hat, sir?” It sounded like a concession; in fact he was a trifle uneasy about the length of his client’s hair. He stepped back, contemplating his handiwork, mentally comparing the tweeded colonial of the afternoon with the imposing and even elegant gentleman who now confronted him; quite striking, really, with that bronzed face, and the slightly raffish hair and moustache seemed to enhance the splendour of his dress. Samson made a mental note to recommend a barber of his acquaintance. “Very passable, sir,” he said, and indicated the pier glass.

      Mr Franklin looked, stared, and said softly: “I’ll be damned.” He was not a vain man, Samson knew, but he stood frowning at his image for a full minute before adding: “You tricked me into this, you know. I didn’t exactly … oh, well, never mind.” He turned to the dressing table, took up his money belt, and carefully counted out thirty sovereigns. “I’m obliged to you, Samson. You’ve given me more than I bargained for, and I’m not sure it isn’t more than I care for. But I asked for it, I guess.” He handed over the coins.

      “Thank you very much indeed, sir.” Samson flicked an invisible speck of dust from the lapel. “I have dressed several gentlemen in their first evening attire, sir. Invariably they were reluctant to put it on – but not nearly so reluctant as they were later to take it off. It grows on one, sir.” He paused. “Did I understand, sir, from what Mr Pride said, that it is not your intention to engage an attendant?”

      Mr Franklin had been sneaking another glance at the long mirror. “How’s that? No – no, I’m not.”

      “I quite understand, sir. However, if you should contemplate such a course in the future, sir, I should be happy to be considered. If you thought me suitable, sir, of course.”

      Mr Franklin looked sharply to see if he was being mocked, and saw he was not. “I’ll be damned!” he said again, and fingered his moustache thoughtfully. “Look – Samson. You don’t know the first thing about me – except,” and he jerked his thumb at the mirror in a gesture which made Samson wince, “except that the party there is a fraud, by your lights. Now – isn’t that so?”

      “I don’t know, sir,” said Samson evenly. “And, if you’ll pardon the liberty, I don’t think you know either. The cloak just a trifle back off the right shoulder, sir. Very good. I’ve known frauds, sir, and gentlemen, and some that were both, and some that were neither. I’ve even known some Americans. Will there be anything else, sir? Then if I might suggest, sir, Monico’s is very pleasant for dinner; if you were to ask for Maurice, and mention my name – Thomas Samson, sir, he would see you had a good table. Or the Cavendish, in Jermyn Street; Miss Lewis knows me, and it’s quieter.” He had taken up his own hat and coat. “I hope you have a pleasant evening, sir. Good night, sir.”

      Mr Franklin pondered him thoughtfully, and then held out his hand. Samson shook it, let himself out quickly and efficiently, and left Mr Franklin frowning at his own reflection.

       4

      The great theatrical attraction of London in that week, or in that autumn for that matter, was undoubtedly The Whip, a drama of racing and high society which in addition to a highly sensational plot also offered the astonishing spectacles of a rail crash, a pack of hounds on stage, and a thrilling horse race. Unfortunately, as the Waldorf’s porter informed Mr Franklin, it had been booked out for weeks ahead; however, he was able to provide a synopsis from an evening paper of alternative entertainments, and Mr Franklin, having concluded that since Samson had decked him out for the theatre, he might as well go, studied it as his hansom drove west along the Strand.

      To his disappointment, there was no Shakespeare available. The only performance of his father’s favourite author he had ever seen had been under canvas at the Tonopah diggings, when a travelling production of Hamlet had been broken up by a crowd of miners outraged at the prince’s cavalier treatment of Ophelia. He would have liked to see Falstaff in the flesh, for his father’s sake; the alternatives were not immediately inviting. Mrs Patrick Campbell in False Gods, and a new play badly entitled Smith, by Mr Somerset Maugham, did not sound interesting; he hesitated over an Arabian Nights comedy, The Brass Bottle, by F. Anstey, passed on to Making a Gentleman, the story of a retired pickle-maker aspiring to a place in society, decided it was a thought too close to home for comfort, and considered The Great Divide, a drama about three men in the backwoods gambling for possession of a girl. Understandably, it did not attract him, and he was left to choose between Miss Lily Elsie in The Dollar Princess, and a variety bill at the Oxford.

      On the cab driver’s recommendation he settled for the latter, and sat gravely in the middle of an uproarious audience who revelled in the drolleries of a sad-looking man in a bowler hat called George Robey; Mr Franklin found the accent and topicalities equally confusing. The popularity of the other star attraction on the bill he found much easier to understand; the fish-netted thighs and voluptuous figure of Miss Marie Lloyd, swaying suggestively across the stage, brought uproar and a chorus of whistles which almost drowned out her stentorian rendering of “Yip-aye-addy-aye-ai”. She followed it with a ballad whose unabashed ribaldry was rapturously received; Mr Franklin, although not shocked, was mildly surprised СКАЧАТЬ