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By Nicholas Monsarrat

About the author: Lieutanant Commander Nicholas John Turney Monsarrat (1910 -1979) was a UK novelist known today for his sea stories, particularly “The Cruel Sea” (1951) and “Three Corvettes” (1942-45), but perhaps best known internationally for his novels, “The Tribe That Lost Its Head” and its sequel, “Richer Than All His Tribe”. Born in Liverpool, Monsarrat was educated at Winchester and Trinity College, Cambridge. He intended to practice law. The law failed to inspire him, however, and he turned instead to writing, moving to London and supporting himself as a freelance writer for newspapers while writing four novels and a play in the space of five years (1934–1939). He commented in his autobiography later that the 1931 Invergordon Naval Mutinyinfluenced his interest in politics and social/economic issues after college.Though a pacifist, Monsarrat served in World War II, first as a member of an ambulance brigade and then as a member of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve. His lifelong love of sailing made him a capable naval officer, and he served with distinction in a series of small warships assigned to escort convoys and protect them from enemy attack. Monsarrat ended the war as commander of a frigate, and drew on his wartime experience in his postwar sea stories.

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 fiction1 that rich people lead dull, boring and frustrated lives; compelled to listen to unintelligible chamber music every other night, to sit through interminable operas which they do not understand, to bow unwillingly to royalty and to force down their gullets such dietary dross 2 as pate de foie gras, 3 trout in aspic, and champagne.

Please be assured that many of them lead lives of particu­lar pleasure; 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.

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

Let me tell you one such a problem, which beset4 my uncle Octavian a 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 manhood. 5

He was (as any suitable contemporary will confirm) a charming and accomplished host whose villa on the Cote d'Azur was an accepted rendezvous 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. " 8 (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. ")9

I, myself, aged fifteen, was deeply privileged. I was stay­ing with my uncle at his exquisite villa near Cap d'Antibes10; 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 exceptional intelligence and his fabulous American wife; a recent prime-minister of France and a monumental elder statesman of post-war Germany, 11 and a Habsburg12 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, 13 that they were all old and intimate friends of my uncle Octavian.

Towards the end of a wonderful dinner when dessert had been brought in and the servants had left, my uncle leant forward to admire a magnificent solitaire 14 diamond ring on the princess's hand. She was a handsome woman, of regal bearing; 15 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 I also have a look, Therese? " She smiled and nodded. Then she took off the ring and held it out to him, " It was my grandmother's—the old empress, " she said. " I have not worn it for many years. It is said to have once be­longed to Genghis Khan." 16

There were exclamations of delight and admiration. The ring was passed from hand to hand. For a moment it rested on my own palm, gleaming splendidly with that wonderful interior yellow glow that such jewels can command.17 Then I passed it on to my next-door18 neighbor. 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 Jove! 19 Mustn't forget that! " and one of the women laughing.

Then there was a pause, while each of us looked expectantly at his neighbor. 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 port." 20

When no one answered her, and the silence continued, I still thought that it could only be a practical joke, 21 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 and shattering, of the guests—all of them old and valued friends. There was the freezing politeness of the prince, the near-tears of the princess. There were the demands to be searched, the 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 Ociavian's cherished friends.

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 a mortal blow. " There will be no searching, " he commanded. " Not in my house. You are all my friends. The rings can only be lost. If it is not found" —he bowed towards the princess—" I will naturally make amends22 myself."

The dreadful and fruitless search began again.

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 lace, 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 fact, a few weeks ago, and that is why I feel I can tell the story.

It would be wrong to say that he died a broken man, but he did die a profoundly sad one, with the special sadness of a hospitable host who never gave a single lunch or dinner party for the last thirty years of his life.