Dance to the Music of Time, Volume 2

by Anthony Powell

  Mrs Maclintick snatched facetiously at him.

  ‘You know perfectly well I should hate any of those places,’ she said gaily, ‘and I believe you are only trying to get me there to make me feel uncomfortable.’

  Miss Weedon remained unruffled.

  ‘I had no idea you were planning anything like that, Charles.’

  ‘It wasn’t exactly planned,’ said Stringham. ‘Just one of those brilliant improvisations that come to me of a sudden. My career has been built up on them. One of them brought me here tonight.’

  ‘But I haven’t agreed to come with you yet,’ said Mrs Maclintick, with some archness. ‘Don’t be too sure of that.’

  ‘I recognise, Madam, I can have no guarantee of such an honour,’ said Stringham, momentarily returning to his former tone. ‘I was not so presumptuous as to take your company for granted. It may even be that I shall venture forth into the night – by no means for the first time in my chequered career – on a lonely search for pleasure.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it really be easier to accept my offer of a lift?’ said Miss Weedon.

  She spoke so lightly, so indifferently, that no one could possibly have guessed that in uttering those words she was issuing an order. There was no display of power. Even Stringham must have been aware that Miss Weedon was showing a respect for his own situation that was impeccable.

  ‘Much, much easier, Tuffy,’ he said. ‘But who am I to be given a life of ease?

  Not for ever by still waters

  Would we idly rest and stay . . .

  I feel just like the hymn. Tonight I must take the hard road that leads to pleasure.’

  ‘We could give this lady a lift home too, if she liked,’ said Miss Weedon.

  She glanced at Mrs Maclintick as if prepared to accept the conveyance of her body at whatever the cost. It was a handsome offer on Miss Weedon’s part, a very handsome offer. No just person could have denied that.

  ‘But I am not much in the mood for going home, Tuffy,’ said Stringham, ‘and I am not sure that Mrs Maclintick is either, in spite of her protests to the contrary. We are young. We want to see life. We feel we ought not to limit our experience to musical parties, however edifying.’

  There was a short pause.

  ‘If only I had known this, Charles,’ said Miss Weedon.

  She spoke sadly, almost as if she were deprecating her own powers of dominion, trying to minimise them because their very hugeness embarrassed her; like the dictator of some absolutist state who assures journalists that his most imperative decrees have to take an outwardly parliamentary form.

  ‘If only I had known,’ she said, ‘I could have brought your notecase. It was lying on the table in your room.’

  Stringham laughed outright.

  ‘Correct, as usual, Tuffy,’ he said.

  ‘I happened to notice it.’

  ‘Money,’ said Stringham. ‘It is always the answer.’

  ‘But even if I had brought it, you would have been much wiser not to stay up late.’

  ‘Even if you had brought it, Tuffy,’ said Stringham, ‘the situation would remain unaltered, because there is no money in it.’

  He turned to Mrs Maclintick.

  ‘Little Bo-Peep,’ he said, ‘I fear our jaunt is off. We shall have to visit Dicky Umfraville’s club, or the Bag of Nails, some other night.’

  He made a movement to show he was ready to follow Miss Weedon.

  ‘I didn’t want to drag you away,’ she said, ‘but I thought it might save trouble as I happen to have the car with me.’

  ‘Certainly it would,’ said Stringham. ‘Save a lot of trouble. Limitless trouble. Untold trouble. I will bid you all good night.’

  After that, Miss Weedon had him out of the house in a matter of seconds. There was the faintest suspicion of a reel as he followed her through the door. Apart from that scarcely perceptible lurch, Stringham’s physical removal was in general accomplished by her with such speed and efficiency that probably no one but myself recognised this trifling display of unsteadiness on his feet. The moral tactics were concealed almost equally successfully until the following day, when they became plain to me. The fact was, of course, that Stringham was kept without money; or at least on that particular evening Miss Weedon had seen to it that he had no more money on him than enabled buying the number of drinks that had brought him to his mother’s house. He must have lost his nerve as to the efficacy of his powers of cashing a cheque; perhaps no longer possessed a cheque-book. Otherwise, he would undoubtedly have proceeded with the enterprise set on foot. Possibly fatigue, too, stimulated by the sight of Miss Weedon, had played a part in evaporating desire to paint the town red in the company of Mrs Maclintick; perhaps in the end Stringham was inwardly willing to ‘go quietly’. That was the most likely of all. While these things had been happening, Moreland and Priscilla slipped away. I found myself alone with Mrs Maclintick.

  ‘Who was she, I should like to know,’ said Mrs Maclintick. ‘Not that I wanted all that to go wherever it was he wanted to take me. Not in the least. It was just that he was so pressing. But what a funny sort of fellow he is. I didn’t see why that old girl should butt in. Is she one of his aunts?’

  I was absolved from need to explain about Miss Weedon to Mrs Maclintick, no easy matter to embark upon, by seeing Carolo drifting towards us. A dinner jacket made him look more melancholy than ever.

  ‘Coming?’ he enquired.

  ‘Where’s Maclintick ?’

  ‘Gone home.’

  ‘Full of whisky, I bet.’

  ‘You bet.’

  ‘All right.’

  Stringham had made no great impression on her. She must have seen him as one of those eccentric figures naturally to be encountered in rich houses of this kind. That was probably the most judicious view of Stringham for her to take. Certainly there was no way for Mrs Maclintick to guess that a small, violent drama had been played out in front of her; nor would she have been greatly interested if some explanation of the circumstances could have been revealed. Now – in her tone to Carolo – she re-entered, body and soul, the world in which she normally lived. The two of them went off together. I began to look once more for Isobel. By the door Commander Foxe was saying goodbye to Max Pilgrim.

  ‘Well,’ said Commander Foxe, when he saw me, ‘that was neatly arranged, wasn’t it?’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘Persuading Charles to go home.’

  ‘Lucky Miss Weedon happened to look in, you mean?’

  ‘There was a good reason for that.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I rang her up and told her to come along,’ said Commander Foxe briefly.

  That answer was such a simple one that I could not imagine why I had not guessed it without having to be told. Those very obvious tactical victories are always the victories least foreseen by the onlooker, still less the opponent. Mrs Foxe herself might feel lack of dignity in summoning Miss Weedon to remove her own son from the house; for Buster, no such delicacy obstructed the way. Indeed, this action could be seen as a beautiful revenge for much owed to Stringham in the past; the occasion, for example, when Buster and I had first met in the room next door, and Stringham, still a boy, had seemed to order Buster from the house. No doubt other old scores were to be paid off. The relationship between Commander Foxe and Miss Weedon herself was also to be considered. Like two rival powers – something about Miss Weedon lent itself to political metaphor – who temporarily abandon their covert belligerency to combine against a third, there was a brief alliance; but also, for Miss Weedon, diplomatically speaking, an element of face-losing. She had been forced to allow her rival to invoke the treaty which demanded that in certain circumstances she should invest with troops her own supposedly pacific protectorate or mandated territory. In fact there had been a victory for Commander Foxe all round. He was not disposed to minimise his triumph.

  ‘Pity about poor old Charles,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll have to say good night.’

&
nbsp; ‘Come again soon.’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  A general movement to leave was taking place among the guests. Mrs Maclintick and Carolo had already disappeared. Gossage still remained deep in conversation with Lady Huntercombe. There was no sign of the Morelands, or of Priscilla. Isobel was talking to Chandler. We went to find our hostess and say goodbye. Mrs Foxe was listening to the famous conductor, like Gossage, unable to tear himself away from the party.

  ‘I do hope the Morelands enjoyed themselves,’ said Mrs Foxe. ‘It was so sad Matilda should have had a headache and had to go home. I am sure she was right to slip away. She is such a wonderful wife for someone like him. As soon as he heard she had gone, he said he must go too. Such a strain for a musician to have a new work performed. Like a first night – and Norman tells me first nights are agony.’

  Mrs Foxe spoke the last word with all the feeling Chandler had put into it when he told her that. Robert joined us in taking leave.

  ‘It was rather sweet of Charles to look in, wasn’t it?’ said Mrs Foxe. ‘I would have asked him, of course, if I hadn’t known parties were bad for him. I saw you talking to him. How did you think he was?’

  ‘I hadn’t seen him for ages. He seemed just the same. We had a long talk.’

  ‘And you were glad to see him again?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I think he was right to go back with Tuffy. He can be rather difficult sometimes, you know.’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘I do hope everyone enjoyed themselves,’ said Mrs Foxe. ‘There was a Mr Maclintick who had had rather a lot to drink by the time he left. I think he is a music critic. He was so sweet when he came to say goodbye to me. He said: “Thank you very much for asking me, Mrs Foxe. I don’t like grand parties like this one and I am not coming to another, but I appreciate your kindness in supporting Moreland as a composer.” I said I so much agreed with him about grand parties – which I simply hate – but I couldn’t imagine why he should think this was one. All the same, I said, I should arrange it quite differently if I ever gave another, and I hoped he would change his mind and come. “Well, I shan’t come,” he said. I told him I knew he would because I should ask him so nicely. He said: “I suppose you are right, and I shall.” Then he slipped down two or three steps. I do hope he gets home all right. Such a relief when people speak their minds.’

  ‘What’s happened to Priscilla?’ Isobel asked Robert.

  ‘Somebody gave her a lift.’

  At that moment Lord Huntercombe broke in between us. Carrying a piece of china in his hand, he was delighted by some discovery he had just made. Mrs Foxe turned towards him.

  ‘Amy,’ he said, ‘are you aware that this quatrefoil cup is a forgery ?’

  4

  IF SO TORTUOUS a comparison of mediocre talent could ever be resolved, St John Clarke was probably to be judged a ‘better’ writer than Isbister was painter. However, when St John Clarke died in the early spring, he was less well served than his contemporary in respect of obituaries. Only a few years before, Isbister had managed to capture, perhaps helped finally to expend, what was left of an older, more sententious tradition of newspaper panegyric. There were more reasons for this than the inevitably changing taste in mediocrity. The world was moving into a harassed era. At the time of St John Clarke’s last illness, the National Socialist Party of Danzig was in the headlines; foreign news more and more often causing domestic events to be passed over almost unnoticed. St John Clarke was one of these casualties. If Mark Members was to be believed, St John Clarke himself would have seen this unfair distribution of success, even posthumous success, as something in the nature of things. In what Members called ‘one of St J.’s breakfast table agonies of self-pity’, the novelist had quite openly expressed the mortification he felt in contrasting his old friend’s lot with his own.

  ‘Isbister was beloved of the gods, Mark,’ he had cried aloud, looking up with a haggard face from The Times of New Year’s Day and its list of awards, ‘R.A. before he was forty-five – Gold Medallist of the Paris Salon – Diploma of Honour at the International Exhibition at Amsterdam – Commander of the Papal Order of Pius IX – refused a knighthood. Think of it, Mark, a man the King would have delighted to honour. What recognition have I had compared with these?’

  ‘Why did Isbister refuse a knighthood?’ Members had asked.

  ‘To spite his wife.’

  ‘That was it, was it?’

  ‘Those photographs the Press resurrected of Morwenna standing beside him looking out to sea,’ said St John Clarke, ‘they were antediluvian – diluvian possibly. It was the Flood they were looking at, I expect. They’d been living apart for years when he died. Of course Isbister himself said he had decided worldly honours were unbefitting an artist. That didn’t prevent him from telling everyone of the offer. Absolutely everyone. He had it both ways.’

  In those days Members was still anxious to soothe his employer.

  ‘Well, you’ve had a lot of enjoyable parties and country house visits to look back on, St J.,’ he said. ‘Rather a different life from Isbister’s, but a richer one in my eyes.’

  ‘One week-end at Dogdene twenty years ago,’ St John Clarke had answered bitterly. ‘Forced to play croquet with Lord Lonsdale . . . Two dinners at the Huntercombes’, both times asked the same night as Sir Horrocks Rusby . . .’

  This was certainly inadequate assessment of St John Clarke’s social triumphs, which, for a man of letters, had been less fruitless than at that moment his despair presented them. Members, knowing what was expected of him, brushed away with a smile such melancholy reminiscences.

  ‘But it will come . . .’ he said.

  ‘It will come, Mark. As I sit here, the Nobel Prize will come.’

  ‘Alas,’ said Members, concluding the story, ‘it never does.’

  As things fell out, the two most alert articles to deal with St John Clarke were written, ironically enough, by Members and Quiggin respectively, both of whom spared a few crumbs of praise for their former master, treating him at no great length as a ‘personality’ rather than a writer: Members, in the weekly of which he was assistant literary editor, referring to ‘an ephemeral, if almost painfully sincere, digression into what was for him the wonderland of fauviste painting’; Quiggin, in a similar, rather less eminent publication to which he contributed when hard up, guardedly emphasising the deceased’s ‘underlying, even when patently bewildered, sympathy with the Workers’ Cause’. No other journal took sufficient interest in the later stages of St John Clarke’s career to keep up to date about these conflicting aspects of his final decade. They spoke only of his deep love for the Peter Pan statue in Kensington Gardens and his contributions to Queen Mary’s Gift Book. Appraisal of his work unhesitatingly placed Fields of Amaranth as the peak of his achievement, with E’en the Longest River or The Heart is Highland – opinion varied – as a poor second. The Times Literary Supplement found ‘the romances of Renaissance Italy and the French Revolution smacked of Wardour Street, the scenes from fashionable life in the other novels tempered with artificiality, the delineations of poverty less realistic than Gissing’s’.

  I was surprised by an odd feeling of regret that St John Clarke was gone. Even if an indifferent writer, his removal from the literary scene was like the final crumbling of a well-known landmark; unpleasing perhaps, at the same time possessed of a deserved renown for having withstood demolition for so long. The anecdotes Members and Quiggin put round about him had given St John Clarke a certain solidity in my mind; more, in a way, than his own momentary emergence at Lady Warminster’s. This glimpse of him, then total physical removal, brought home, too, the blunt postscript of death. St John Clarke had merely looked ill at Hyde Park Gardens; now, like John Peel, he had gone far, far away, with his pen and his press-cuttings in the morning; become one of those names to which the date of birth and death may be added in parentheses, as their owners speed to oblivion from out of reference books and ‘litera
ry pages’ of the newspapers.

  As an indirect result of Mrs Foxe’s party, relations with the Morelands were complicated by uncertainty and a little embarrassment. No one really knew what was happening between Moreland and Priscilla. They were never seen together, but it was very generally supposed some sort of a love affair was in progress between them. Rather more than usual Priscilla conveyed the impression that she did not want to be bothered with her relations; while an air of discomfort, faint but decided, pervaded the Moreland flat, indicating something was amiss there. Moreland himself had plunged into a flood of work. He took the line now that his symphony had fallen flat – to some extent, he said, deservedly – and he must repair the situation by producing something better. For the first time since the early days when I had known him, he seemed interested only in professionally musical affairs. We heard at second-hand that Matilda was to be tried out for the part of Zenocrate in Marlowe’s Tamburlaine. This was confirmed by Moreland himself when I met him by chance somewhere. The extent of the gossip about Moreland and Priscilla was revealed to me one day by running into Chips Lovell travelling by Underground. Lovell had by now achieved his former ambition of getting a job on a newspaper, where he helped to write the gossip column, one of a relatively respectable order. He was in the best of form, dressed with the greatest care, retaining that boyish, innocent look that made him in different ways a success with both sexes.

  ‘How is Priscilla?’ he asked.

  ‘All right, so far as I know.’

  ‘I heard something about her and Hugh Moreland.’