The famous Swiss remembered. That luncheon was the talk of Oxford for many a day.
It deserved its fame. The décor of Gaveston’s room, of course, was a technical masterpiece that an S. Diaghilev or a B. Dean might well have envied. The richly figured curtains were closely drawn. The air was pregnant with frankincense and chypre. The apartment was delicately illuminated, partly by a score of nightlights floating in tall Venetian glasses abrim with many-hued liqueurs, partly too by the votive tapers that always burned before Gav’s private altar of St. Symphorosa and his veiled image of Astarte Mammifera of the Kabbalists.
“Wear which you like!” said the charming host to his arriving guests, giving them their choice of kimono or cowl. Some chose one, others the other, but his forethought was appreciated by all.
So too was the rich repast. And when its seven finely modulated courses were over, Gaveston handed round an exquisite pouncet-box of rather late Sienese design. Pointing to the two divisions of its elegant interior, he offered his happy guests their choice.
“Caramels or coco?” he asked with a hospitable gesture, and soon the party was in the fullest swing.
When the merriment was at its height, Gaveston rose abruptly and recited in poignant tremolo tones two litanies of his own composition, both of haunting beauty and addressed to Satanas Athanatos and the Blessed Curé d’Ars respectively. The severed heads of vermilion poppies were thrown lavishly over the recumbent guests, who, chewing them appreciatively, were soon transformed into new De Quincies. And suddenly, from a curtained recess, stole out the sombre, blood-curdling strains of Sibelius’ Vale Triste and Rachmaninov’s Prelude. The eerie witchcraft of the concealed gramophone, exacerbating their nerves, made repose intolerable, and soon half the party was afoot, swinging in frantic rhythms between the voluptuous divans in the mad inebriation of the dance.
“Après nous le déluge!” cried the host, in a tone that seemed to defy both Paradise and Limbo, and ecstasy followed ecstasy in orgiastic sequence.
At last the party dispersed, half fearful perhaps lest some anti-climax should end the lengthening afternoon. In merry groups the guests went their ways, to meditative teas in Keble or in Magdalen.