Memoirs of a Professional Cad Read online

  In my own case I feel that I am gradually succeeding in re-educating myself to the point I should have arrived at thirty years ago, and, if I live long enough, I may be able to catch up with myself.

  The first school I was sent to was called Bedales. It was a coeducational school, set in beautiful surroundings near Petersfield in Hampshire. The teachers were both male and female, the atmosphere permissive, the food good, the beds comfortable, the discipline lax. One did not learn very much, but boys and girls sat together at desks-built-for-two and some of the girls were very pretty and it was rather fun.

  One day every other week, usually Friday, was called a “free day.” It was a day on which each student could choose his own curriculum, that is, within reason. They were not allowed to choose pure idleness as of course most would have wished to do, but they were allowed to work in the workshops, which many of them did, and they were also allowed to choose a girl partner and go for a picnic ramble through the woods. This was the form of activity that I personally favored, though I used to wonder sometimes if the educational theories we put into practice on these occasions coincided with those of the school authorities. However, my instinct told me that it would be imprudent to inquire. On Saturday nights there was dancing in the great hall, dark corners of which were decorated with mistletoe.

  The permissive nature of this educational system did not, however, extend to the point of sanctioning some of my brother’s activities. On one occasion when a master was gently reminding him that it was time for classes, my brother saw fit to intimidate him with a loaded revolver and was promptly expelled. Shortly after this unfortunate incident my parents decided to remove me from Bedales and send me to the same school that my brother was to attend – Brighton College.

  It was with infinite sadness that I said farewell to my girl friends, the comfortable beds, the well-cooked meals, the indulgent teachers, the mistletoe and the beautiful scenery of Hampshire.

  Now began four years of poor food, uncomfortable beds, sordid scenery, irascible, acidulated teachers, frequent beatings, no girls, no fun, nothing but pimply-faced boys of all shapes and sizes.

  A rough-and-tumble bunch they were, the flotsam and jetsam of lower middle-class families, congregated in the cloistered, austere and somewhat moth-eaten atmosphere of a second-rate public school, of which they were incongruously proud. Proud of an institution dedicated to prepare them to be square pegs in round holes, an institution which sponsored the diurnal practice of informing the boys from the pulpit of the school chapel that they were sinners, and the nocturnal practice of beating them with canes to bring about a measure of their redemption; an institution whose main purpose seemed to be that of convincing the boys that they were dunces. I, myself, was a poor student, partly because it was the fashion and partly because the efforts of the teachers to convince me that I was a dunce were highly successful, as were also their efforts to convince me that I was a sinner.

  When I finally left the school after four years of manufacturing cigarettes out of blotting paper, which we smoked at the back of the classroom, playing practical jokes on masters and boys alike, and generally excelling at totally unnecessary activities such as football and cricket, I left with a sense of utter worthlessness and the conviction that I was too stupid to cope with life.

  Looking back across the thirty-five years that have elapsed since that memorable day, I must confess that little has happened in my life to make me feel justified in altering that opinion. Sometimes, when my spirits are depressed, I get the strong feeling that when I meet my teachers in the next world I shall be able to tell them that after all they were right.

  CHAPTER 3

  The first job I got after I left school was in a textile-producing company in the grimy city of Manchester. It was a job for which, even if I had been able to get the hang of my duties, I could not have demonstrated any aptitude, nor engendered any genuine interest.

  I can only assume that my motive in getting it in the first place sprang from an adolescent desire to prove to my parents, whom I had persuaded to let me leave school, that I was capable of supporting myself. I proved the reverse. My salary was only two pounds a week, on which of course I could not live, and which therefore had to be supplemented by an allowance from home. It was a relief to everyone including myself when after a year of this fruitless activity I was good-naturedly thrown out of the company.

  My next job, which I got through the lack of influence of my father, was with a cigarette-manufacturing company in Argentina. I worked for a while in the factory in Buenos Aires, and after that I was sent into the provinces and eventually to Patagonia to compile a survey.

  The company wanted to know what the people of Patagonia were smoking, and whether they could be induced to smoke the company’s brand. I had little heart for the latter part of my mission since I felt that whatever they were smoking would be an improvement on what I had to sell them.

  From Buenos Aires I traveled to Ingeniero Jacobacci, where the railroad came to an end and one had his choice of proceeding south on foot, on horseback or in a model-T Ford, following barely discernible wagon tracks. Choosing the model-T, I bribed an Indian guide who spoke Guarani, the native language, to accompany me into the wilds.

  And wilds they were. There were virtually no roads, no electricity, and no hotels. The custom in that part of the world at that time was that travelers would be bedded and fed, free of charge, at privately owned sheep ranches which, though few and far between, were the only means of shelter available. However, hospitality was only extended if one arrived before sundown. Because of the numerous, hardworking bandits in this area, the ranchers had a discouraging habit of opening fire with Winchester rifles on anyone approaching their property after dark.

  But the traveler arriving before the sun had set, and because he was a potential bringer of news and gossip to a community which had no other means of obtaining it, was welcomed with open arms and inexhaustible hospitality. He could stay as long as he wanted to, and never be expected to pay a farthing.

  It occurred to me at the time that by choosing his route carefully, a man could make a career of visiting sheep ranches in Patagonia. In fact I was tempted to abandon my survey and embark upon such a venture myself, but finally, and somewhat reluctantly, decided against it.

  Naturally enough we tried to reach one of those ranches each day before sundown, but on many occasions this was not possible, and we would have the tantalizing experience of getting within sight of a ranch just as it grew dark. On these occasions we would camp where we were, first digging a circular trench and filling it with the dried dung of the guanaco – a llama-like animal which abounds in Patagonia – and then lighting the dung, which would smolder all night, serving the dual purpose of keeping us warm and frightening off the wild animals.

  The guanaco, incidentally, is a paradoxical beast. Although it has many of the temperamental deficiencies of the camel, such as a proclivity for spitting and biting, it can be domesticated and then becomes docile enough to answer to its name.

  Because these creatures destroy the ranchers’ crops, the Government had put a two-dollar bounty on each guanaco head brought in. I often wondered why, in view of the ease with which the animals could be tamed, someone had not set himself up with a guanaco “ranch,” corraling and domesticating a few hundred of the creatures, and then lopping off a dozen or so heads for the bounty whenever he had need of spending money.

  After three months in the wilds, I began making my way from ranch to ranch back to civilization.

  Patagonia has a stark, moonlike topography. It is dusty and lonely, and there is a constant, irritating wind that whistles right through you.

  Buenos Aires was to me, on my return, an entirely new world. After my primitive existence in Patagonia, I was in perfect health and savored everything I saw and experienced.

  I remember standing on a corner of the Plaza de Mayo, my mouth hanging open like some country bumpkin, staring at the myriad bright lights of t
he city, the sleek powerful cars, the elegantly dressed women. For a full two weeks this wonderful feeling, almost like being born again, invested all of my activities. I was sharply aware of the worried faces of the men who hurried by me on the street, carrying the inevitable brief cases. They, on the other hand, seemed to notice nothing around them.

  After months of nearly total abstinence, one martini would make me quite lightheaded.

  So it was that from this experience I arrived at the conclusion that to enjoy one’s life to its fullest, one must build contrast into it. And the more extreme the contrast the fuller the life.

  I had thoroughly enjoyed my travels through the wilds of Patagonia, where at times I felt almost like an animal. My senses became more acute, and I virtually glowed with good health. I lived and ate simply and slept soundly. The robust state of health I was in and the kind of life I was leading would produce in me an appetite so ravenous that I would drool at the mouth like a wild beast at the mere smell of food.

  It was the custom around sundown for a couple of ranch hands to go out among the sheep and pick out a succulent-looking lamb. They would isolate this animal from the rest of the herd and then quickly, with a skill born of years of practice, plunge a knife into a vital part so that it would die immediately with neither the herd, nor itself, having sensed danger and thereby spoiling the meat by a surge of adrenalin, as happens in slaughterhouses.

  The lamb would be brought back, skinned and prepared for the spit, and would be roasting only a few minutes later.

  We would sit in a circle around the turning spit, while a gourd of hierba mate, from which we would all drink in turn through a bombilla, was passed around. Finally, the roast done, the ranch owner would turn to the guest and offer him the honor of the first cut. I would draw my knife and cut myself the choicest piece and then return to the circle, where I would eat it with my fingers as was the custom.

  The combination of my ravenous appetite and this tender, pure meat, eaten in the open air, produced a gastronomical sensation which no restaurant in the world could ever hope to provide.

  On the other hand, when I returned to Buenos Aires I enjoyed the city just as much. It became a new experience for me. I found, though, that this heightened appreciation of civilized life eventually wore thin and only a normal interest remained.

  In order to enjoy life to its fullest, one should not have too much of either the primitive or the civilized life. We all need periods of living as nearly like an animal as possible. Even living in discomfort if necessary.

  I am a man who loves his comfort devoutly, but I realize that to appreciate comfort to the full I must have periods without it. Whenever I make a motion picture on location, this need is thoroughly satisfied.

  Most people can attain this contrast in living during their annual holidays though few take advantage of the opportunity. They will not find it where they usually seek it – in a holiday spent at a seaside resort or in a populous area.

  One should live for a time as close to the soil as possible with virtually no intellectual activity. Books, radios and all creature comforts should be left at home. Merely changing the scenery doesn’t make for much of a holiday, especially if one continues to do the same things. I remember once boarding a steamer in San Pedro, California, for the trip to Catalina Island, and watching four men, complete with fat cigars, come onto the boat, go into the lounge and sit down to a game of gin rummy which continued throughout the trip and, I assume, throughout their two-week vacation. This pursuit of the same activities in changing surroundings is usually a tedious undertaking and one that is recommended only by the travel agencies.

  One’s life, it seems to me, is mainly enriched by engaging it within its surroundings and not by the distinctly trying activity of packing and unpacking across the world, plodding through those seemingly inexhaustible cathedrals.

  A person taking a vacation during which he lives simply, rigorously, and with a complete change of habits, will find on his return to city life that he enjoys the office, the smog, and the routine. And even the conversation of fellow workers he has known for years, if not exactly replete with captivating humor and wit, will at least seem quite interesting.

  It seems to me that the mistake so many of us make is that of looking for fun during a holiday when the real trick is to use a vacation to make the rest of the year fun.

  I remained with my Argentine tobacco company for the record period of three years. My association with the firm came to an end in a rather odd manner.

  The manager of the company became engaged to be married to the daughter of an important Argentine industrialist, who gave a small celebration dinner party at his home to which I was invited. I was to pick up a friend of mine, also a member of the company, and take him to the house as he did not know the address. When I arrived at my friend’s apartment with only ten minutes to spare, I found that he had not even begun to dress. He seemed reluctant to make haste and get ready, and convinced me that I was unduly concerned about the need for punctuality since I was, after all, in a Latin country.

  It was a most inaccurate and disastrous assessment of the situation, for when we finally arrived at the house – one hour late – we found that the guests numbered thirteen without us, and that they had, due to the usual superstition, been unable to sit down to dinner. The manager interpreted our belated arrival as a personal insult and refused to condone it. He held me fully responsible and succeeded in having me thrown out of the company.

  I took a train across the Andes and got myself a job with a tobacco company in Valparaiso.

  I was rather sad about leaving the Argentine; I had acquired a certain affection for the country. I had engaged in a lot of youthful high jinks there, such as swimming in a dinner jacket across the lake in the Parque Belgrano – or was it the Parque Palermo – I forget which, and keeping a pet ostrich in my apartment.

  I missed the strange way of life that was in vogue there at the time – a way of life which embraced the nocturnal custom of locking up all the decent women behind barred windows so that the only women one saw in the street at night-time were prostitutes.

  Prostitution was legal in the Argentine in those days. There was a regularly inspected government-run brothel in every block. The prevailing atmosphere in these brothels was indistinguishable from that of a dentist’s office.

  The waiting rooms were furnished in a style that contrasted strongly with the concupiscent attitude of their users. There would be a central table covered with magazines of the same vintage as that favored by the medical and dental professions, a number of chairs with their backs to the wall on which sat the sober-faced customers, perusing magazines with an air of preoccupied detachment which gave the impression that their visit was anything but hedonistic. The girls were hard working and efficient, and in some cases not unattractive.

  Each brothel would have one bedroom on either side of the waiting room. While the girl was occupied with one customer in one bedroom, the other bed would be made up and fresh towels put in the room.

  His brief moment of nirvana over, the customer would take his leave, the girl would walk into the waiting room, and at her “Next please’’ another customer would put down his magazine and disappear into the other bedroom.

  Sometimes a customer, perhaps a swarthy, mustachioed gaucho in from the pampas, perhaps a bespectacled accountant from the city, would become so interested in the magazine he was reading that he would pass up his turn until later. Sometimes he would take the magazine into the bedroom with him. The whole thing was run on a sort of assembly line basis.

  It is small wonder that the white slave traffic was so active in those days. The turnover in girls must have approximated the figures quoted by General Motors for Chevrolet.

  Most of all I missed the music of the country – the wailing, plaintive tones of the bandoneon, a large squeeze-box, which for some reason has not been played very much in any other country.

  It has been a source of regret to me that
Argentine tango music has not achieved the popularity enjoyed by Cuban dance music: there is nothing more satisfying than the sound produced by an orquesta tipica, which consists of two violins, two bandoneones, a piano and double bass. I have been told that the reason for its lack of popularity in places other than the Argentine is that the dance is too difficult for people to become proficient in. I can add to this that the dance is also not interesting. Yet I find the music more moving than any I have ever listened to.

  My new job in Chile was sales promotion of the company’s brands, an extension of the activities I had been engaged in in the Argentine.

  I was sent to the north of Chile to study the local situation and make suggestions regarding methods of improving the company’s penetration of the market. I took a train to Antofagasta and proceeded from there by car to reconnoiter the northern provinces of Chile. It would not be an exaggeration to say that the whole of the north of Chile, at that time, was one vast nitrate mining camp. There were a number of nitrate oficinas owned by various companies, which consisted of plant, machinery, and nitrate extracting and refining equipment, and housing for the personnel. Each of these oficinas had its own small theatre where amateur theatrical activities were engaged in, and its own general store, where everything including cigarettes were sold to the employees.

  The competition was solidly entrenched and very few of the oficinas carried our brands.

  I conceived the idea of putting on a little show at each of these theatres. Instead of making a normal charge for admission, anyone who showed a package of one of our brands of cigarettes to the ushers would be allowed to enter. In addition to this, I would have the box office decked out as a cigarette-vending kiosk. I suggested this idea to the company and they approved of it enthusiastically and gave me the green light to go ahead. I then hired two guitarists and a broken-down conjuror, which was all the budget would stand. I put together a show with these men and opened at one of the nitrate oficinas, while making advance bookings with the rest.