The Lyre of Orpheus

by Robertson Davies

  It is the disease of genius, many people have said, because so many men of note, and many of them my contemporaries, died of it, or were hastened to the grave because syphilis underlay whatever it was the doctors said had killed them. Would I have sacrificed my genius to avoid the pain and degradation? Fortunately there is no necessity to answer that question.

  5

  “I simply adore Canada! What I’ve seen, that’s to say. Which isn’t the whole thing, of course. Really only Toronto and the Royal Winter Fair. I’m going to try for a stop-over in Montreal on my way home—try out my French, you know—but I mayn’t be able to spare the time. Must get back to my stud, you see. So much to be done at this time of year.”

  “I’m glad you approve of us,” said Darcourt. “Now, about your father—”

  “Oh, yes, Daddy. That’s what we’re here to talk about, isn’t it? That’s the reason for this lovely lunch in this absolutely super restaurant. Because you’re writing about him, aren’t you? I scribble a little myself, you know. Pony stories for children. They sell a few hundred thousand, to my surprise. But just before we get onto Daddy, there’s one thing—rather hush-hush, but I know you’re discreet—that I think isn’t just the way it should be in Canada, and unless something is done before it goes too far it could let you down fearfully. I mean, it could bring about a drop in world prestige.”

  Ah, politics, thought Darcourt. Politics, which rages like the hectic in the veins of every Canadian, and quickly infects visitors—even little Charlie, otherwise Miss Charlotte Cornish, who sat before him digging into the poached salmon.

  “And what is that?” he asked, without wanting to know.

  Little Charlie leaned forward conspiratorially, a loaded fork poised like a wand in her hand; there was a flake of salmon clinging to her lower lip.

  “It’s your farriery,” she whispered. The flake was detached by the whisper and sped across the table toward Darcourt’s plate. She was the sort of woman who combines acceptable table manners with obvious greed; the lapels of her excellent tweed jacket carried evidence of hasty, joyous gobbling.

  “Farriery?” he said, puzzled. Had Canada’s farriery gone to pot, and he had not noticed? Had the word some significance unknown to him?

  “Don’t imagine I’m faulting your vets,” said Little Charlie. “First-class, so far as I can judge. But it’s the degree below the vet; the farrier groom who is the real companion and confidant of the pony. The vet is there for the big stuff, of course: colic, and farcy, and strangles and all those dreadful things that can ruin a fine creature. But it’s the farrier who gives the hot mash when the beastie is a wee bit sicky-pussy from a chill, or a tumble. It’s the farrier who pets and comforts when things haven’t gone just the way the beastie would like at a show. I call the farrier the pony’s nurse. In fact, in my stud I have this most wonderful girl—well, she must be my age, but she’s a girl to me—her name’s Stella, but I always call her Nursie, and believe you me she lives up to her name. I’d trust Stella far beyond most vets, let me tell you.”

  “How lucky you are to have her,” said Darcourt. “Now, about the late Francis Cornish, I suppose you have some memories of him?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Little Charlie. “But just a moment; I want to tell you something that happened yesterday. I was judging—head of the judges, really—and the most exquisite little Shetland stallion was brought in. A real winner! Eyes bright and well spaced; fine muzzle and big nostrils, deep chest and splendid withers, marvellous croup—a perfect picture! I tell you, I’d have bought him, if I could raise the cash. Won’t tell you his name, because I don’t want this to get around—though of course I trust you—and at his head was this groom, not a bit the kind of fellow you’d expect to see with such a little sweetie, and when the pony tossed his head—as they’ll do, you know, because they know they’re being judged, and they have pride—he jerked the bridle and said, ‘Hold still, damn you,’ under his breath! But I heard, and I tell you my heart went out to that little creature. ‘Are you the farrier?’ I said to him—not sharply, but firmly—and he said, ‘Yeah, I look after him,’ almost insolently. And I thought, well, I’ve seen quite a lot of that this last few days, and it sickens me. Then he jerked the bridle again and the pony nipped him! And he hit the pony on the nose! Well, of course that was that as far as judging goes. Show me a biter and I’ll show you a potential bolter and probably a jibber. And all because of that brute of a groom!”

  “Distressing, certainly,” said Darcourt. They were moving on toward strawberry shortcake, made with tasteless imported strawberries, but that was what little Charlie wanted, and Darcourt was trying to prime the pump of her memory. “Was your father fond of animals, do you recall?”

  “Couldn’t say,” said Little Charlie, busy with her spoon. “It was pretty much all King and Country with him, as I was told it. But don’t imagine that because I said I might have bought that stallion I’m really keen on Shetlands. Of course they sell well to people with children, because they look so sweet. But they’re a deceiving kind of pony, you know. Such a short step. Keep a child too long on a Shetland and you may have spoiled her forever as a rider. What she needs as soon as she’s big enough is a good Welsh, with a strain of Arab. They’re the ones with style and action! They’re my bread-and-butter. Not for polo, mind you. There it’s Exmoor and Dartmoor, and I breed a lot of those. In fact—this is telling tales out of school but what the hell!—I sold an Exmoor stallion to His Royal Highness’s stable a couple of years ago, and HRH said—I was told this very much in confidence—he’d never seen a finer little stallion.”

  “I won’t tell a soul. Now, about your father—”

  “He was a four-year-old and just coming into his best. For God’s sake, I said to HRH’s man, don’t push him too hard. Give him time and he’ll get you twenty-five to forty first-class foals every year until he’s twenty. But if you push him now—! Well, you’ll never believe this, but I’ve seen a fine stallion forced to serve as many as three hundred mares a season, and after five years he’s just plain knackered! Like people. Quality, not quantity, is the root of the whole thing. Of course they can soldier on. They’re wonderfully willing, you know. But it’s the sperm. The sperm count in an overworked stallion goes down and down, and though he may look like Don Juan he’s just Weary Willie. As Stella says—she’s very broad-spoken, sometimes—his willy is willing but the trollybobs are weak. So that’s it. Never, never be greedy with your stallion!”

  “I promise you I never will. But now I really think we ought to talk about your father.”

  “Of course. Sorry, sorry, sorry. The ruling passion. I do rattle on. Stella says so. Well, as to Daddy, I never saw him.”

  “Never?”

  “Not to remember. I suppose he saw me, when I was a tiny. But not after I’d begun to notice. But he cared for me. That’s to say he sent money regularly to look after me, and all the farriery was left to my grandmother. Prudence Glasson, you know. The whole gang were related, in various distant degrees. You see, my mummy was Ismay Glasson, and her father was Roderick Glasson, who was kin to Daddy from another point of the compass. I wouldn’t have bred them that way if it had been my stud, but that’s all past and done with. My very first pony, when I was four—a sweet Shetland—had a ticket on his bridle, ‘For Little Charlie from Daddy’.”

  “You remember your mother, of course?”

  “No, not a bit. You see—this is the family skeleton—Mummy was a bolter. Not long after I was born she just took off, and left me to Daddy and my grandparents. Mind you, I think she was a sort of high-minded bolter; she went to Spain to fight in the war and I always assumed she was killed there, but nobody ever gave me any details. She was by way of being a beauty, but from pictures I’d say she was a bit over-bred; nervous and high-strung, and likely to bite, and bolt, and jib, and do all those things.”

  “Really? That’s very helpful. I tried to see your uncle, Sir Roderick, in London at the Foreign Office, to ask a few quest
ions about your mother, but it was impossible to make an appointment.”

  “Oh, Uncle Roddy would never see you, or tell you anything if he did. He’s the original Stuffed Shirt. I’ve given up all hope of seeing him, not that I’m keen. But don’t run away with the idea that I had a neglected or unhappy childhood. It was absolutely marvellous, even though St. Columb’s was running down all the time I was growing up. I believe Daddy poured a lot of money into the family place—God knows why—but my grandfather was a hopeless estate manager. Our money from Daddy was watched rather carefully by a solicitor, so it didn’t go down the drain, and it still doesn’t, let me assure you. My little stud is built on that, and since I met Stella—you’d adore Stella, though she is a bit frank-spoken and you are a parson, after all—I’ve been as happy as a lark.”

  “So you really know nothing about your father? In your letter to the Cornishes here you rather suggested that he had some Secret Service connection.”

  “That was hinted at, but not much was said. Not much was known, I suppose. But you see Daddy’s father, Sir Francis, was in that, and very deep, I believe, and how far Daddy followed in his footsteps I really don’t know. It was the spy connection that kept Daddy from coming to see me, or so it was said.”

  “Spy? Do you think he was really a spy?”

  “It’s not a word Gran would ever hear used. If they’re British intelligence agents they certainly aren’t spies, she said. Only foreigners are spies. But you know how kids are. I used to joke about him being a spy, to raise the temperature a little. You know, the way kids do. They always told me to be very secret about it but I don’t suppose it matters now.”

  “And did you know that your father was a painter, and a remarkable connoisseur, and had a reputation as an expert on pictures?”

  “Never heard a word about that. Though I was knocked endways to find out he’d left a huge fortune! I did think of asking the Cornishes if they’d like to use some of it to finance some really super breeding—you know, the very best of the best. But then I thought, shut up, Charlie; that’s greedy, and Daddy has treated you very well. So shut up! And I have. —Oh, crumbs, I must be off! Heavy afternoon ahead of me. Thanks for the super lunch. I shan’t be seeing you again, shall I? Or Arthur and Maria, either. I fly on Friday. They’re a super pair. Especially Maria. By the way, you’re a great family friend, I believe; have you heard anything about her being in foal?”

  “In foal? Oh, I see what you mean. No. Have you?”

  “No. But I have the breeder’s eye, you know. Right away there’s something about a mare that tells the tale. If the stallion’s clicked, I mean. —And now I must dash!”

  As well as a stout woman may, she dashed.

  (2)

  ARTHUR WEPT. He had not done so since his parents died in a motor accident when he was fourteen; he was stricken by the grief that overcame him as he sat in Darcourt’s study, a cluttered, booky room, into which a little watery November sun made its way cautiously, as if doubtful of its welcome. He wept. His shoulders shook. It seemed to him that he howled, although Darcourt, standing by the window, looking out into the college quadrangle, heard only deep-fetched sobs. Tears poured from his eyes, and salt downpourings of mucus streamed from his nose. One handkerchief was sodden and the second—Arthur always carried two—and the second was rapidly becoming useless. Darcourt was not the sort of man who has boxes of tissues in his study. It seemed to Arthur that his paroxysm would never end; new desolation heaved up into his heart as quickly as he wept out the old. But at last he sank back in his chair blear-eyed, rednosed, and conscious that his fine tie had a smear of snot on it.

  “Got a handkerchief?” he said.

  Darcourt threw him one. “Feel better now, do you?”

  “I feel like a cuckold.”

  “Ah, yes. A cuckold. Or as Dr. Dahl-Soot pronounces it, cookold. You’ll have to get used to it.”

  “You’re a bloody unsympathetic friend. And a bloody unresponsive priest, Simon.”

  “Not a bit of it. I am very sorry, both for you and Maria, but what good will it do if I join you in siren tears? My job is to keep a cool head and look at the thing from the outside. What about Powell?”

  “I haven’t seen him. What do I do? Beat him up?”

  “And signal to the whole world what’s wrong? No, you certainly do not beat him up. Anyhow, you’re in this opera thing up to your neck, and Powell is indispensable.”

  “Damn it, he’s my best friend.”

  “The cuckoo in the nest is often the best friend. Powell loves you, as a friend may very well love you. I love you, Arthur, though I don’t make a song and dance about it.”

  “That kind of love. You have to because you’re a priest. Like God, it’s your métier.”

  “You don’t know anything about priests. I know we are supposed to love mankind indiscriminately, but I don’t. That’s why I gave up practical priesthood and became a professor. My faith charges me to love my neighbour but I can’t and I won’t fake it, in the greasy way professional lovers-of-mankind do—the professionally charitable, the newspaper sob-sisters, the politicians. I’m not Christ, Arthur, and I can’t love like Him, so I settle for courtesy, consideration, decent manners, and whatever I can do for the people I really do love. And you are one of those. I can’t help you by weeping with you, though I respect your tears. The best I can do is to bring a clear head and an open eye to your trouble. I love Maria, too, you know.”

  “Indeed I do know. You wanted to marry her, didn’t you?”

  “I did, and in the kindest possible way she gave me the mitt. I love her even more for that, because Maria and I would have made a damned bad match.”

  “Okay, old Clear Head and Open Eye. Why did you ask her, then?”

  “Because I was in the grip of passion. There were a thousand reasons for loving Maria, and I now see there were a million for not marrying her. I love her still, but don’t worry that I want to play the role that Powell has played in your marriage.”

  “She told me she once had le coeur tendre for Hollier, and that you had proposed to her. And looked a fine ninny as you did it, what’s more. Every woman has these boss-shots in her past. But she married me, and now she’s wrecking it.”

  “Balls. You’re the one who’s wrecking it.”

  “Me! She’s pregnant, damn it!”

  “And you’re sure it’s not your child?”

  “Yes.”

  “How? You use some contraceptive, I suppose. Condoms? They’re very much in vogue at present.”

  “I hate the damned things. There they are, the morning after, leering wetly at you from the bedside table or the carpet, like the Ghost of Nooky Past.”

  “Maria uses something?”

  “No. We wanted a child.”

  “So?”

  “I had mumps, you remember. Badly. The doctors told me tactfully that henceforth I would be infertile. Not impotent. Just infertile. And it’s irreversible.”

  “You told Maria, of course?”

  “I hadn’t got around to it.”

  “So the child must have been begotten by somebody else?”

  “Yes, Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Must it have been Powell?”

  “Who else is a possibility? You see—I hate telling you this—somebody came to me—”

  “To tip you off?”

  “Yes. A security man who works at night in our apartment building.”

  “One Wally Crottel?”

  “Yes. And he said that Mr. Powell sometimes stayed late, and occasionally overnight when I was out of town, and as a convenience would it be a good idea if he gave Mr. Powell a key to the parking area?”

  “And you said no.”

  “I said no. It was just a hint, you know. But it was enough.”

  “It was a mistake to underestimate Wally. So then—”

  “Because of this opera business Powell comes and goes quite a lot, and if he stays late he uses our guest room. I didn’t know he used it when I
was away.”

  “Powell is a very using kind of man.”

  “So it seems.”

  “Have you told Maria now? About being infertile, I mean?”

  “I told her after she told me she was pregnant. I didn’t think she was as happy about a child as I would have expected, but I put it down to shyness. And I suppose I looked astonished—that’s a poor word for it—and I couldn’t say a word. She asked me what was wrong. I told her.”

  “Yes?”

  “It took a few minutes, and all the time I was talking that hint from Crottel kept swelling in my mind, and at last I came out with it. Was it Powell? I said. She wouldn’t say a word.”

  “Very unlike Maria to have nothing to say.”

  “She simply closed her mouth and looked as I’ve never seen her look before. Very big-eyed and tight-lipped. But smiling. It was enough to drive me mad.”

  “What did you expect? That she should fall at your feet and bathe them in her tears, and then wipe away the tears from your custom-made brogues with her hair? You don’t know your own wife, my boy.”

  “You’re damned right I don’t. But it drove me crazy, and as I got hotter and hotter she just smiled that bloody smile and refused to say anything. So at last I said that her silence was answer enough. And she said, ‘If that’s what you think.’ And that was all.”

  “And you haven’t spoken a word to each other since?”

  “We’re not savages, Simon. Of course we speak. Very politely about commonplaces. But it’s hell, and I don’t know what to do.”

  “So you have come to me for advice. Sensibly, I may say.”

  “Oh don’t be so bloody smug.”

  “Not smug. Don’t forget I’m an old hand at this sort of thing. So shall we get down to it?”

  “If you like.”

  “No, no; it’s got to be if you like.”

  “All right.”

  “Well, for a starter, don’t imagine I underestimate your hurt. It can’t be any fun being told that you’re not fully a man. But it’s happened before. George Washington, for instance. Another mumps casualty, it seems. No children, though he was quite a man for the ladies. But he didn’t do too badly. The Father of His Country, we are told.”