Listen.
The Boschettos are mad to have you, of course, but don’t let that stop you. They mayn’t be pre-war, but they’re insanely kind. Their one idea is to do their guests about fifteen times as well as they’ve ever been done before—in an inoffensive way. What’s more, they actually bring it off.
First, they leave you alone. We make up our own parties, go as we please. I get up when I like. I retire when I like. I eat and drink what I like, when I like. I do what I like. I come and go as I happen to feel inclined. In fact, so long as you sleep in, they don’t care what you do if only you’re happy. I’m one of the few who make a point of seeing the Countess about every other day just to tell her how much I’m enjoying myself. Whereupon she almost weeps upon my neck and wails that there are always sandwiches and champagne in the salon bleu from eleven a.m. on, but that if I prefer port I’ve only to ask for it.
Secondly, I thought I knew a thing or two about the contents of the top-drawer, but I didn’t. My son, I’m a blinkin’ tenderfoot. Luxury? I tell you, before I came here I couldn’t spell the word. Of course the château’s palatial—you never saw such a place. Over thirty bathrooms. My bedroom faces south and is about forty feet square. Fifteen cars all going all day long and half the night, and the stables full of ripping good ponies and hacks. Three motor-boats. As for the servants, I didn’t know there were so many in France. They literally swarm. I have a valet to myself, and so, I believe, has everyone. And the women have maids. Two private bands—three, I think. Dancing all night—if you like. If I want a car or a cocktail or a Corona or any imaginable thing, I just call the nearest wallah, and there it is. God knows what it costs—I should think about two thousand a day—pounds, not francs, pounds. But apparently that doesn’t matter. I tell you, it’s indescribable. . . .
Hospitality like this seems to be proof against abuse. Short of larceny, you can’t abuse it. Your duty towards your hostess and your duty towards yourself are synonymous terms. The most dutiful guest is the most self-indulgent. Naturally, such an establishment has attracted a motley crowd: still, there are no flagrant undesirables, and most of us mean well. Bertram Scarlet has just left—amid lamentations. The Pemburys are coming. So you see. . . .
I play golf all day, have a rubber of bridge before dinner—small tables, of course—and do a little dancing afterwards. Eleven o’clock usually sees me out. I ran into the Fairies the other day on the links and after a lot of bickering persuaded them to come along after dinner. They and Bertram and I and one or two others made up our own party and had a good evening. When they said ‘Good-night’ to the Countess, she thanked them effusively for coming and begged them to leave the Carlton and stay here instead. She’d no idea who they were. They left dazedly in a Hispano limousine with two chauffeurs, wondering whether it was all a dream, I tell you, the whole thing is incredible—has to be seen to be believed.
So COME.
Yours,
Teddy Mandeville.
Culloden lowered the letter and gazed into the street.