by Barbara Pym
On the evening of the party Mr Gay was decorating the hall with potted palms.
‘Angela,’ he called, ‘where are the aspidistras?’
‘Oh, we don’t want those, Uncle,’ said Miss Gay sulkily. ‘They’re such dusty old things.’
‘But I polished the leaves with oil only yesterday, and people always admire them so. We must have them in the hall.’
‘I think they’re in the conservatory,’ said Miss Gay wearily. Anyone would think we were entertaining Royalty, she thought, instead of a few couples to bridge and light refreshments. Still, Mr Paladin would be there, and Mr Morrison, a master from the Boys’ High School. She had met Mr Morrison several times and knew him to be an efficient bridge player, but a dull and silent young man. Mr Paladin was something of an unknown quantity, and Miss Gay had hopes.
Cassandra had had the greatest difficulty in persuading Adam to go to the party at all. Suddenly at the last minute he had said he wouldn’t go.
‘I shall be so bored,’ he said peevishly.
‘But you’ll be quite as bored here,’ argued Cassandra. ‘It will be a nice change for you to go out and meet people. Besides, we’ve accepted, and I don’t see what excuse we can make.’
‘Tell them I didn’t want to come,’ said Adam shortly.
‘But, dearest, it would be so rude. One simply can’t do things like that,’ said Cassandra hopelessly. ‘There’ll be nice refreshments,’ she added, feeling ashamed that she should have to coax her husband to fulfil a social obligation by such very childish means. ‘And you’ll be able to tell people about your new book, and you’ll probably win at bridge,’ she concluded, and sat down, worn out by her efforts.
‘Well,’ she said firmly, after a few moments, ‘I’m going to get ready.’ She went out of the room and Adam followed her quite meekly. He seemed to have forgotten his reluctance to go to the party. Cassandra had known for nearly five years now that his difficult moods almost always came when he was bored and had not been able to show himself off at one of the town gatherings.
‘May I wear my velvet jacket?’ he asked as they went upstairs.
‘Of course, dear, everyone expects it.’
Cassandra hoped that he would approve of the grey chiffon dress she was wearing this evening.
He looked at her critically. ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘You look very pretty. You should always wear pale colours.’ She did not remind him that the previous evening he had told her that she should always wear black velvet.
On the way, Adam drove with a fine carelessness which sometimes frightened Cassandra, but they had never had an accident yet and so she could not say anything to him about it. Only Adam was allowed to have any nerves. Cassandra had learned to keep hers in dutiful subjection.
‘I hope old Philip will like your dress,’ said Adam.
‘And I hope dear Angela will like your velvet coat,’ retaliated Cassandra.
‘Oh, she’s seen it before,’ said Adam seriously, ‘but she does like it. She said I looked like Shelley.’
‘How ridiculous,’ said Cassandra sharply. It always annoyed her when unattached women told her husband he looked like Shelley. She didn’t want any ideas put into his head. ‘Shelley had fair hair,’ she said emphatically, as if that disposed of the matter.
Mr Gay and his niece stood in the hall to receive their guests. They always did this, so that the beginning of their parties had an air of formality which some people found alarming. Miss Gay, wearing a dress of rather too bright a shade of green, was standing nearer the door, and the guests were then passed on to her uncle, a dignified figure against his background of palms and aspidistras.
As she shook hands with Adam, Miss Gay remarked that it was a long time since they had had the pleasure of seeing him.
‘Not since last Sunday at the Rectory,’ she added. ‘Now I wonder what work of genius have you given to the world since then?’
Adam replied shortly that it was hardly possible to produce a work of genius in five days. Cassandra hoped he wouldn’t be rude to anyone, or silly. It always made her feel uncomfortable, especially as everyone expected her to take her husband seriously. In places like Up Callow wives did take husbands seriously, in public anyway.
They went into the drawing room and Adam began talking to the rector about cricket. Shortly afterwards they settled down to bridge. There were just two tables without Miss Gay, who had agreed to sit out for a while. Mr Paladin had been delayed and would be arriving shortly.
‘Rockingham doesn’t believe in his curates being too frivolous,’ Mrs Wilmot confided to Cassandra, ‘and, as you know, Mr Paladin is young. He needs guidance from an older person.’
Cassandra reflected that poor Mr Paladin was such a serious young man that it was impossible to imagine him even knowing that such a thing as frivolity existed. In any case there would have been little scope for him here in Up Callow. It was Miss Gay who should be watched rather than Mr Paladin.
At this moment the front door bell rang, and Mr Paladin arrived. He was a dark, bespectacled young man, who disliked bridge parties, and would have much preferred to spend the evening in his lodgings reading Lightfoot on the Galatians, for he intended to rise above the position of parish priest, and even possessed some of those special gifts which Mrs Wilmot believed her husband had. Mr Paladin had spent his time at Oxford very studiously, and had been rewarded at the end of his three years with a First in Theology.
As he came into the room he saw with horror that of the nine persons there eight were playing bridge, and the one left over was none other than Miss Gay herself. And what made it worse was that in order not to disturb the players she began talking to him in a thrilling whisper which made it necessary for him to do the same. This gave to their conversation a kind of spurious intimacy, so that topics like the weather and the fine aspidistras were somehow pushed aside, and that most horrible of all subjects for nervous young men, themselves, was discussed.
‘I haven’t seen you for so long,’ said Miss Gay, pouting a little.
‘No, indeed … ’
‘I almost wondered whether you were avoiding me.’ This was said with such coyness that Mr Paladin drew back visibly.
‘Oh, Miss Gay, really … ’
After more in this strain Mr Paladin made a great effort to drag the conversation back to more reasonable subjects. ‘I was admiring your palms, as I came in,’ he said in a very impersonal tone of voice.
‘Yes, aren’t they lovely? But we have some even finer ones in the conservatory. Would you like to see them?’ she asked sweetly.
There was nothing Mr Paladin could do now but go quietly, for he had brought it on himself. He vowed that he would never again look on a palm without feelings of loathing, except, of course, the ones used to decorate the church on Palm Sunday, but they were comfortably dead and dried.
The conservatory was very hot and smelled strongly of arum lilies, so that Mr Paladin was appropriately reminded of a funeral.
‘Here are the palms I was telling you about,’ said Miss Gay, with triumph in her voice.
‘But they’re exactly the same as the ones in the hall!’ exclaimed Mr Paladin indignantly, for when he saw that he had been brought into the conservatory under false pretences, his anger got the better of him.
Miss Gay laughed coyly. ‘You men are all alike,’ she said, ‘so blind.’ These last words were said in tones of lingering tenderness which were most alarming to a young curate.
Mr Paladin put up a gallant fight. ‘I know I’m short-sighted, but I really cannot see any difference,’ he said politely. ‘Perhaps the ones in the hall have longer leaves though. It would be interesting to compare them.’ He made a move towards the door. ‘I expect they will be wanting to play bridge,’ he said, with a firmness unusual in him.
As they walked back to the drawing room his self-confidence came back to him. He felt like a character in The Faerie Queene, one of the characters who has successfully withstood the temptations of the Bower of
Bliss, he thought confusedly. He could afford to talk easily about the palms now, and even went with Miss Gay into the hall and solemnly measured their leaves.
Miss Gay felt that she had been snubbed. That was the worst of these inexperienced young curates, she told herself. They always read into one’s thoughts and actions far more than was meant. Now a man of the world, like Adam Marsh-Gibbon, say, would surely have made a less blundering escape from the conservatory. Miss Gay glanced angrily at Mr Paladin and went back to the bridge tables, where they played until the light refreshments were served.
As usual, Adam was the centre of attraction, and everyone was asking him questions.
‘Now, do tell us what your new novel is about,’ said Miss Gay. ‘Or is that one of the questions one just shouldn’t ask?’
Adam smiled condescendingly. ‘Well, I think I can tell you that it is about a gardener,’ he said.
There was a short silence, during which, to her horror, Janie Wilmot let out a schoolgirlish giggle. She blushed with shame, for she had been thinking of old Wilkinson their gardener, and how funny it would be to have a novel written about him. What would Mr Marsh-Gibbon think? Janie looked down at her shoes, and wished that the carpet with its design of huge brown roses would swallow her up. Then, to her relief, she heard hearty, unashamed laughter. Cassandra was laughing too.
‘Oh, Adam,’ said Cassandra weakly, ‘why can’t you be more explicit? It sounds so ridiculous just stated baldly like that. I couldn’t help thinking of Rogers and old Wilkinson. My husband is not intending to become a comic writer,’ she explained to the company. ‘You mustn’t misunderstand him.’
‘I thought it sounded rather beautiful,’ said Miss Gay, coldly.
‘It’s a very original idea, I should think,’ said Mr Morrison doubtfully. ‘Something after the style of Mary Webb perhaps?’
‘Well,’ said Adam, who was really more interested in the refreshments, ‘it’s rather difficult to explain.’
At this Miss Gay uttered a specially loud sympathetic noise, and directed a venomous look at Cassandra, who was still smiling.
‘I am endeavouring to show this gardener is affected by what Wordsworth calls “the beautiful and permanent forms of Nature”,’ said Adam.
Everyone beamed appreciatively, though not necessarily comprehendingly. This was obviously quite a different thing from mere gardening.
‘How will you show this effect?’ asked Mr Paladin earnestly. ‘If I remember rightly, Wordsworth believed that in humble and rustic life, to quote his own words, “the essential passions of the heart find a better soil in which they can attain their maturity, are less under restraint, and speak a plainer and more emphatic language …” I was wondering if you thought this too?’ he suggested deferentially, for he had never read any of Adam’s novels and did not quite know where to place him.
Cassandra was amused and touched by his humility.
‘I think there is some truth in it,’ declared Adam slowly, and then devoured an egg and cress sandwich in one mouthful. ‘Don’t you agree with me, Miss Gay?’
‘Oh, yes, I do agree. I’ve often noticed how passionate these rustic people are,’ she said seriously.
The rector looked shocked. ‘What about the language?’ he asked hurriedly. ‘Is your novel to be in dialect? I think that would put a great many people off, if I may say so.’
Adam looked at him scornfully. ‘It is to be a contemplative novel,’ he said impressively.
‘But what about the other characters, won’t they speak at all?’ asked Mr Paladin.
‘There is only one character,’ said Adam, ‘the gardener.’
There was a gloomy silence after this pronouncement, as everyone thought it sounded a dreary novel. Yet in some way they all felt that the presence of an author in their midst, even the author of unreadable novels, gave a certain cachet to Up Callow.
‘Give Mrs Marsh-Gibbon some coffee,’ said Mr Gay, breaking the silence. He thought Adam Marsh-Gibbon a fool and envied him Cassandra, a rich woman and a charming one too. He sighed and passed Cassandra’s cup to her.
Miss Gay was still interested in Adam’s novel. ‘Only one character,’ she repeated thoughtfully. ‘That’s very unusual, but don’t you think that there ought to be a love interest?’
‘My wife has told me that it would make the novel more human,’ said Adam, ‘but I feel that it would detract from the main purpose of the book.’
‘I’m sure that your wife must be a great help to you in your writing,’ said Mrs Gower warmly.
‘I’m afraid all I can do is to see that he’s well fed,’ laughed Cassandra.
‘I always think it must be a help to a writer to have a wife who can share his intellectual pursuits,’ said Miss Gay.
‘I should have thought it was more important to be well fed,’ said her uncle. ‘I imagine that the proverb about too many cooks spoiling the broth can be applied to writing as well as anything else. The poetical or literary broth is better cooked by one person.’
Cassandra smiled at Mr Gay, delighted at this charming comparison which allowed her to think of Adam’s writings as so much Irish Stew or Lancashire Hot-Pot.
‘I don’t think I really have any intellectual pursuits,’ said Adam surprisingly, coming down to earth and being suddenly more human, ‘and such as I have Cassandra shares.’
‘Well,’ said Mr Gay genially, ‘what about some more bridge? We want our revenge, you know,’ he said, rubbing his hands together.
They played on until nearly midnight, when the rector and his wife got up to go. Janie was feeling very sleepy, and she had been so frightened at having to partner Adam Marsh-Gibbon that she had not been able to enjoy the last part of the evening very much.
‘Late nights don’t agree with me,’ said the rector, glancing meaningly at Mr Paladin who had not yet made any move.
‘Now, Rector, I hope you’re not going to take Mr Paladin away with you,’ said Miss Gay. ‘Don’t forget that we’re only young once!’ she twittered.
When Mr Paladin heard this he vowed that, if he could, he would at once forgo all claims to the remaining years of his youth. Pleasure and frivolity had little appeal for him at any time, and at this moment they had never seemed so unattractive. He stood up and began to thank Miss Gay very nicely for a delightful evening. ‘No doubt I shall have the pleasure of seeing you at the Choral Society practice on Monday,’ he said easily. He judged that he was safe in saying this, for he felt that he had the upper hand now, and could afford to be gracious towards her.
Miss Gay seemed satisfied and made no attempt to detain him. Instead her thoughts leapt forward to Monday, and she planned how he should escort her home from the practice and what their conversation should be about.
With a coy smile she accompanied the ladies upstairs to get their coats. ‘Your husband tells me he has been ill,’ she said to Cassandra. ‘I thought he wasn’t looking quite himself.’
‘Oh, it was nothing really, just a light chill,’ said Cassandra shortly.
‘But we can’t have our man of genius ill. You should take better care of him,’ said Miss Gay jokingly, but with an edge of malice to her voice.
‘I do my best,’ sighed Cassandra, for she was feeling too tired to joke, and she thought Miss Gay very interfering. ‘It is sometimes difficult being married to a man of genius,’ she added, with an attempt at lightness.
‘I’m sure it is,’ agreed Miss Gay sympathetically. ‘In fact I think such men shouldn’t have wives at all.’
Cassandra looked surprised. ‘Then what should they have?’ she asked stupidly.
‘A great artist needs many women to inspire him,’ said Miss Gay evasively. ‘Take Shelley, for example,’ she said, with a sharp look at Cassandra.
Oh, please don’t let us take Shelley, thought Cassandra wearily.
‘I expect he will be waiting for me downstairs,’ she said. ‘It’s been such a nice party. I hope you will come to us some time.’
‘We must do
all we can to welcome the new tenant of Holmwood,’ said Miss Gay, leaving the subject of Adam as a dog leaves a bone, meaning to return to it later.
‘Do you know anything about him or her or them?’ asked Cassandra with a show of interest.
‘Him,’ said Miss Gay in low thrilling tones. ‘I’ve heard on good authority that it is to be a man.’
Downstairs Adam was talking to a weary-looking Mr Gay about his new novel. Perhaps if he were to have his hair cut, thought Cassandra detachedly, people would be less inclined to label him as a Great Artist.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Meanwhile the village rouses
up the fire … ’
‘I hear that a foreigner is coming to live at Holmwood,’ Mrs Wilmot announced to her husband at breakfast one morning. ‘Mrs Gower said so,’ she declared, thus putting the seal of respectability on this rumour.
The rector put down his paper. ‘We shall see all in good time,’ he said. ‘In the meantime there are better things to do than gossip.’ And he went away to his study to make a list of the village’s cricket fixtures for the season.
As the door closed behind him there was a buzz of conversation.
‘I do hope we will be asked to tea there,’ said Edith. ‘Holmwood’s got a ripping garden and a field,’ she added enviously, ‘big enough for a lax pitch I should think.’
‘It would be exciting if he really were a foreigner,’ said Janie sadly, for she hardly hoped that such a thing could possibly be true. Life here was so dull, and why should God take it into His Head to make it more exciting? she asked herself. Janie had a certain amount of faith in God; she knew that He wouldn’t let anything dreadful happen to them, but on the other hand she couldn’t imagine that He would stoop to anything like providing someone to fall in love with, at least not the God Mr Paladin preached about. Her father preached more often about The Game of Life, but his God was quite as unapproachable as Mr Paladin’s terrifyingly intelligent conception. Janie sighed.