by Barbara Pym
‘I don’t like sherry very much,’ said Miss Clovis brusquely.
‘Yes, that was it. You prefer “mother’s ruin”, as they call it.’He went into laughter in which the young people joined a little doubtfully. It did not seem quite right to be joking about Miss Clovis.
At that moment the booming of a gong was heard and Henry appeared in the doorway. ‘Luncheon is served,’ he announced gravely.
‘There need be no formality about going in to luncheon,’ declared Professor Mainwaring. ‘Perhaps Miss Clovis and I should lead the way to the table simply because we know where it is to be found.’
Digby appeared almost to choke as he drained the last drop of his sherry. Mark gave him a hearty thump on the back which hardly improved matters.
The dining-room was papered in deep crimson. On the walls were two or three oil-paintings which looked as if they might have been valuable, mainly because they were so very dark and old-looking; it was just possible to see that they were still-lifes of dead pheasants, hares, lobsters, and other raw materials of the kitchen. The round table was laid with a heavy white double damask cloth and well-cared-for silver and glass. An Edwardian epergne, filled with out-of-season fruits, stood in the centre.
‘Now I wonder what Mrs. Bush has provided for us today,’ said Professor Mainwaring in a confident tone. ‘Ah, soup, that is a good beginning. And I see that we have Barbara to wait on us. She is good enough to come up from the village when I have guests,’
A tall awkward-looking girl with red hands began to serve the soup.
‘My mother had a maid called Barbara,’ said the Professor in a thoughtful tone.
There was a polite expectant silence round the table.
‘She had a song of willow,’ he continued, perhaps surprisingly, but Mark managed to catch the allusion, though he hardly knew what he was expected to do with it.
‘Othello,’ he muttered.
A haunch of venison was brought on to a side table.
‘During the last war,’ the Professor went on, ‘we had American troops stationed here in the village,’
Barbara put a hand up to her mouth to stifle a giggle.
‘Well, perhaps I had better not continue my story here,’ he broke off regretfully. ‘Now, have you everything you want?’ Roast potatoes and brussels sprouts had been served with the venison, also red currant jelly and a thick dark gravy tasting of port wine.
Let’s get on with the eating and not talk so much, thought Digby desperately. He and Mark had found almost nothing in the kitchen for breakfast that morning, and his hunger was formidable.
‘I wonder what you will think of this wine?’ asked Professor Mainwaring genially, as Henry came round with a bottle. ‘I should be interested to have your opinion of it,’
I bet you would, thought Mark, and yet the old man did not appear to be speaking sarcastically.
‘Very full-bodied,’ he murmured.
Digby did not venture an opinion, but Vanessa said that it tasted like the smell of incense.
‘Are you a Catholic, then, Miss Eaves?’ asked Miss Clovis sharply.
‘Oh, no, I’m not anything, but I adore Catholic churches, don’t you?’ said Vanessa, turning her head in Professor Mainwaring’s direction so that her long jade ear-rings swung in a rather provocative way.
‘We have not asked for details of the candidates’ religious views on the application forms,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It might have been interesting if we had. It is perhaps a mistake to concentrate exclusively on academic achievements. In my young days it was rather different, though the light had been seen in certain quarters. It took courage, I can tell you, not perhaps of the very highest order, but courage nonetheless, to proclaim oneself a Rationalist. Now, it seems more courageous to be a Baptist or a Methodist. There is something chic is there not, about Roman and Anglo-Catholicism?’
‘High church services are more interesting,’ Digby ventured. ‘The ritual is more colourful.’
‘Do you believe in the celibacy of the clergy?’ rapped out Miss Clovis suddenly.
‘I don’t know. I’m afraid I’ve never really thought about it,’ said Digby.
‘Well, then, what about the celibacy of the anthropologist in the field?’
‘Oh, surely a man needs a companion out there,’ said Digby warmly.
‘A woman can be such a great help in his work,’ said Vanessa in her soft tones, ‘and men do need loving, after all.’ She seemed to enfold Professor Mainwaring, as well as Mark and Digby, in a glance from her melting eyes.
‘Then you don’t regard the anthropologist as a dedicated being very much like a priest?’ went on Miss Clovis.
The young men did not answer immediately, for although they regarded themselves in their role of anthropologists as superior to most other men and certainly to priests, they did not consider that it was necessary for them to forego any of the pleasures enjoyed by these lesser men.
‘After all, there’re some things a man’s just gotta have,’ said Mark, in imitation of his American colleague Brandon J. Pirbright.
‘I believe that to be a fallacy,’ declared Professor Mainwaring. ‘It is like the idea that one should drink more alcohol in the tropics, which is quite erroneous. Indeed, the less you drink there the better you will be.’
This pronouncement seemed to plunge the young men into a gloomy silence. Deprived of love and of drink, a spell of fieldwork seemed less delightful.
‘I don’t think anthropologists should be married. There might be the complication of children and all that,’ said Primrose, rather red in the face.
‘Of course the great ones have been in some way dedicated beings,’ mused the Professor. He then went on to name one or two who had been and rather more who, in his opinion, had not, whose names it would be invidious to mention here.
‘I always think Mr. Mallow is in some way dedicated to his work,’ declared Miss Clovis. ‘He has that look about him. I was very much afraid that he was going to marry Miss Swan, but I see that it has come to nothing. Of course I am all for bringing people together where it is likely to be of lasting benefit to anthropology, but in this case I felt the girl was really much too young.’
‘A fanatical light shines in his eyes when he speaks of the mother’s brother,’ said Mark, who was becoming a little tipsy.
An apple tart and a dish of mince pies were brought to the table.
‘Shall we say then that we are aspiring rather than dedicated beings?’said the Professor, seeming to sum up. ‘You remember Pope’s line, And little less than angel, would be more — of course his argument is not altogether appropriate here and it would take too long to go into it now, though I am sure we could have a most interesting and fruitful discussion. Now what would your plans for fieldwork be, should you be awarded a grant?’ he asked, suddenly almost businesslike. ‘Shall we go round the table? Miss Eaves?’
The candidates were by this time considerably mellowed by the food and drink, so that they were able to expand and even embroider the bare schemes they had thought out. It seemed as if each one was going to benefit some primitive people so enormously that it would be difficult to decide who was not to be awarded a grant. The mysteries of secret societies were to be unveiled, so that grievances could be set right and the task of the harassed Administration lightened an hundredfold; primitive agricultural methods, after a careful study of the indigenous social systems and rules of land tenure, were to be revolutionized, so that the desert should indeed blossom like the rose; the position of women was to be so vastly improved that they could take their place as equal citizens with men to the benefit of all. And finally, reports and articles were to flow forth for the glory of pure knowledge and the swelling of the learned journals.
Professor Mainwaring listened with attention, but it did seem to Digby, who was the last to speak, that by the time his turn came the old man was beginning to grow a little sleepy. Once his eyes seemed to close and his head to droop forward on to his chest.
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br /> ‘I suppose we shall have coffee in the smoking-room?’ asked Miss Clovis sharply, for Henry was hovering near, awaiting instructions.
‘What was that? Coffee?’ The silver beard jerked up ‘By all means, wherever you like. I shall retire to my study now,’
‘He will have a rest,’ said Miss Clovis confidentially, as she poured the coffee, spilling it in the saucers. ‘I expect you would like to explore the grounds. I have one or two things to see to so I shan’t come with you.’
‘Do you think that manservant has been mocking us?’ asked Digby as they strolled by an ornamental lily pond. ‘And what has he done with our luggage? I hope nobody has unpacked for us. I believe that used to be the custom in some houses before the war.’
‘I hope not,’ giggled Vanessa. ‘I can guess what newspaper Primrose will have wrapped her bedroom slippers in.’
‘The Times is best for wrapping things,’ said Mark seriously. ‘The sheets are larger and more durable. There seems to be a moral there.’
‘All that talk about celibacy was rather unnerving for you boys,’ said Vanessa. ‘Strange, isn’t it, that Felix has never married, and he’s still so attractive. I wonder if I could make him happy? There’s only about fifty years’ difference in our ages, less really.’
‘Seventy weds twenty,’ said Mark. ‘You can imagine the headlines.’
‘Do you think Clovis is after him?’ asked Digby. ‘Or even old Minnie Foresight?’
They discussed these possibilities for some time in a rather frivolous and unsuitable manner and then, as it was getting near the time when they might expect tea and the air was becoming too chilly to make walking enjoyable any more, they went back to the house. They found Miss Clovis waiting in the morning-room, Professor Mainwaring still apparently ‘resting’. Tea was brought and Miss Clovis, unused to the rather elaborate apparatus which it seemed to entail here, asked if one of the young women would like to pour out. But in the end it was Digby, slow, but careful and efficient, who managed the complications of the silver teapot and the kettle with a little flame underneath it.
‘We don’t change for dinner here,’ said Miss Clovis. ‘I don’t suppose you have brought anything with you to change into,’ she added, remembering the smallness of their luggage.
‘I have a clean shirt,’ said Mark jokingly, ‘but perhaps it won’t be necessary to put it on? Do you think Professor Mainwaring would expect it?*
‘Oh, no, he is taking you as you are,’ said Miss Clovis rather obscurely. ‘And in any case, the dining-room is not particularly well lit. I shall see you anon,’ she added with a touch of gaiety.
Dinner was as elaborate as luncheon had been, and the candidates almost wondered whether they were being put through an ordeal by eating and drinking. When the meal was over they went to have coffee in the drawing-room which they had not yet seen. It was a nobly proportioned room and the walls were hung with more oil-paintings whose dense brownish texture, made it seem, like those in the dining- room, that they might be of some value. Some were portraits, presumably of the Professor’s ancestors, though no immediate likenesses were discernible.
One was especially interesting and seemed to have some direct bearing on the art or science of anthropology. It was of a gentleman in eighteenth-century dress, attended by a turbanned negro servant. The man held a skull in his hands and was gazing down at it thoughtfully. In the murky background two or three dim forms, men or even apes, could just be seen leaning against a ruined column.
‘What a lovely romantic picture!’ exclaimed Vanessa, striking an attitude in front of it. ‘ How I wish I could be right inside it.’
‘My dear, I wonder if you would really like that,’ said Professor Mainwaring benevolently. ‘The man in the picture, Robert Wyverne Mainwaring, was addicted to fits of deep melancholy, you know it was a fashionable cult at the end of the eighteenth century—and I fear he would have been a most unpleasing companion. Who reads those great poets—Wharton, Blair and Young—now?’ he suddenly rapped out.
‘I’m afraid we don’t have much time for reading poetry,’ said Digby with a slight air of priggishness.
‘A pity, but I suppose it is a sign of the times. I see that you are examining my books,’ he added, speaking to Mark.
‘I suppose the anthropological books are in your study?’
‘Anthropological books?’ chuckled the Professor. ‘You won’t find any in this house. I have given them all to the Foresight Research Centre.’
‘But surely …’ Digby was too shocked to finish his sentence.
‘I am an old man now, I can do very well without them. They are not the kind of reading to see me into my grave.’
‘But what do you read?’ asked Mark.
‘Well, there are other books. I find myself turning to Shakespeare and the Bible—those classic desert island choices there is a good deal of reading in them. And at the moment I am quite engrossed in Anthony a Wood’s Athenae Oxoniensis do you know it?’
‘Oh, it is not a book for young people,’ said Miss Clovis quickly. ‘Wood’s obsession with mortality wouldn’t be at all their cup of tea and one wouldn’t wish it to be.’
‘Ah, tea!’ said the Professor, giving her an almost roguish look.
‘Of course we do read Shakespeare and the Bible sometimes,’ said Digby, feeling that they had given an impression of cultural narrowness which it might be well to dispel. ‘It’s only that one finds it difficult to fit in all the wider reading one would like to do.’
‘And Miss Cutbush has read a good deal of Marx,’ said Vanessa rather spitefully.
‘And now, what about some music?’ said Professor Mainwaring, going over towards the piano. ‘We are told that it has charms to soothe a savage breast and that seems very suitable, does it not. Perhaps you would care to do some jigsaw puzzles while you are listening. Now here is one of the Grand Canal at Venice-“over four hundred pieces, fully interlocking”,’ he read from the box. ‘That should keep your hands and brains occupied while you are listening to the music.’
‘How lovely—we went to Venice on our holiday this year,’ said Vanessa.
‘Then you will find the puzzle easier. Travel is a great medium of education, as we know.’
‘Do you play the piano, Professor?’ asked Digby.
‘Well, perhaps I don’t, really, but I have the illusion that I do. You see, this is a pianola.’ He took some music rolls out of a box and consulted the tides. ‘Now, I wonder what would be suitable for this evening? Miss Clovis, what do you think?’
‘Oh, I’m quite indifferent. You know I can’t tell one piece from another.’
The young people settled themselves round a table with the jigsaw puzzle. Digby, characteristically, took up a handful of pieces of sky and began trying to fit them together, leaving the more interesting sections of gondolas, water and buildings to Mark and the girls.
Professor Mainwaring put a roll into the pianola and began peddling vigorously. An Edwardian musical comedy tune, no doubt a favourite of his youth, rang out. As he peddled he hummed and occasionally sang a snatch in a light tenor voice. One tune followed another, but all were of the same kind—Two little girls in blue, I wouldn’t leave my little wooden hut, The optimist and the pessimist, and others.
‘Quite a vivid picture of Felix’s salad days,’ mumured Mark ‘Can you imagine him haunting the stage door of the Gaiety or Daly’s?’
‘No wonder he didn’t publish much in those days,’ said Digby.
‘How handsome he must have looked in evening dress,’ sighed Vanessa.
‘It seems a contradiction in his character,’ said Primrose, ‘to think of him leading that kind of life and then going to Africa to study a tribe. I wonder what made him do it?*
‘Perhaps an unhappy love affair,’ mused Vanessa.
‘But young anthropologists now are quite gay when they can afford to be,’ said Mark, remembering his triumphs at the dance. ‘I don’t see anything unusual in that. It’s this crippling la
ck of money.*
‘Yes, Felix would have private means,’ said Digby sadly.
‘Well, that is done away with now,’ said Primrose rather hody.
‘Hush, Miss Clovis might hear,’ warned Digby.
They were startled by the shrill sound of the telephone ringing somewhere outside the room. Nobody made any attempt to answer it, but after a moment Henry appeared in the doorway.
‘It’s a call for Miss Clovis,’ he said.
Miss Clovis went out of the room.
‘Oh, oh, Antonio,
He’s gone away. Left me alonio,
All on my ownio .. .’
sang the Professor. ‘Delightful! And Fioradora—do you know that? It seems to me that young people are not as light- hearted as they used to be,’ he went on, making them wondter if he had overheard their conversation. ‘I wonder why that is?’
‘Two wars, motor-cars, and newer and more frightful bombs being invented all the time,’ said Mark. ‘One feels there is something not quite right in being gay. A gloomy evening in the cheap seats at the pictures, but no stage door afterwards or drinking champagne out of slippers. Did you ever do that, Professor Mainwaring?’ he inquired, boldly, but at the same time with an air of deference.
‘Ah, those days,’ said the Professor, seeming to evade the question. ‘What is it, Esther?’ he asked, as Miss Clovis came back into the room. ‘Not bad news I hope? You look somewhat distraite.’
‘Felix, I must have a word with you in private,’ said Miss Clovis, who certainly seemed to be both agitated and angry.
‘Very well, then.’ He rose from the pianola and followed her out of the room.
A buzz of conversation broke out and there was much speculation as to the news Miss Clovis could have received. It was difficult to guess what event would be likely to produce such an effect upon her; even the death of a near relative or friend was thought to be unlikely to upset her very much, so lacking in the ordinary human emotions did they judge her to be.
‘Perhaps the Folly has been burnt down, or a thief has broken in and stolen the horsehair couch,’ suggested Mark.