‘By all means let us take some photographs after dinner,’ he said. ‘What a good idea.’
Highlights showed on his greenish eyes. No doubt he saw escape from dishing up ‘Munich’ for the thousandth time, not only with Anne Umfraville, but also with a handful of guests whose views he could not reasonably be expected to take seriously. Like so many men who have made a successful career through the will, it was hard to guess how much, or how little, Sir Magnus took in of what was going on immediately round him. Did he know that his own sexual habits were a source of constant speculation and jocularity; that Moreland was tortured by the thought of Matilda’s former status in the house; that Betty Templer made the party a very uncomfortable one; or was he indifferent to these things, and many others as well? It was impossible to say. Perhaps Sir Magnus, through his antennae, was even more keenly apprised of surrounding circumstances than the rest of us; perhaps, on the other hand, he was able to dismiss them completely from his consciousness as absolutely unessential elements in his own tranquil progress through life.
‘Let’s pose some tableaux,’ said Matilda. ‘Donners can photograph us in groups.’
‘Historical events or something of that sort,’ said Anne Umfraville. ‘The history of the castle? We could use some of the armour. Ladies watching a tournament?’
Moreland had shown signs of being dreadfully bored until that moment, expressing his own lack of enjoyment by yawns and occasional tart remarks. Now he began to cheer up. The latest proposal not only pointed to the kind of evening he liked, it also opened up new possibilities of teasing Sir Magnus, a project certainly uppermost at that moment in his mind. Anne Umfraville seemed to some extent to share this wish to torment her host.
‘Let’s do scenes from the career of Sir Magnus,’ said Moreland. ‘His eventual rise to being dictator of the world.’
‘No, no,’ said Sir Magnus, laughing. ‘That I cannot allow. It would have a bad effect on my photography. You must remember I am only a beginner. Myself as a subject would make me nervous.’
‘Hitler and Chamberlain at Godesberg?’ suggested Templer.
That proposal, certainly banal enough, was at once dismissed, not only as introducing too sinister, too depressing a note, but also as a scene devoid of attractive and colourful characters of both sexes.
‘What about some mythological incident?’ said Moreland. ‘Andromeda chained to her rock, or the flaying of Marsyas?’
‘Or famous pictures?’ said Anne Umfraville. ‘A man once told me I looked like Mona Lisa. I admit he’d drunk a lot of Martinis. We want something that will bring everyone in.’
‘Rubens’s Rape of the Sabine Women,’ said Moreland, ‘or The Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymus Bosch. We might even be highbrows, while we’re about it, and do Les Demoiselles d’ Avignon. What’s against a little practical cubism?’
Sir Magnus nodded approvingly.
‘We girls don’t want to die of cold,’ said Anne Umfraville. ‘Nothing too rough, either. I’m not feeling particularly cubistic tonight.’
‘Or too highbrow,’ said Templer. ‘Nick will get out of hand. I know him of old. Let’s stick to good straightforward stuff, don’t you agree, Magnus – Anne doing a strip-tease, for instance.’
‘Nothing sordid,’ said Anne Umfraville, her attention distinctly engaged by this last suggestion. ‘It must all be at a high intellectual level, or I shan’t play.’
‘Well-known verses, then,’ said Moreland,
I was a king in Babylon,
And you were a Christian slave. . . .
– not that I can ever see how the couple in question managed to be those utterly disparate things at the same moment in history – or, to change the mood entirely:
Now all strange hours and all strange loves are over,
Dreams and desires and sombre songs and sweet . . .
There is good material in both of those. The last would be convenient for including everyone.’
My own mind was still on the tapestries. What could be better than variations on the spectacle these already offered?
‘Why not the Seven Deadly Sins?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Anne Umfraville.
‘Modern version,’ said Moreland.
‘A good idea,’ agreed Sir Magnus. ‘A very good idea indeed.’
He nodded his head in support of the Board’s – the Cabinet’s – proposal. That was the tone of his words. He glanced round to talk. There was no dissentient voice.
‘I shall look forward to seeing some first-rate acting after dinner,’ he said.
He nodded his head again. Everything he did had about it heavy, sonorous overtones. He was entirely free from gaiety. Nothing of that kind could ever have troubled him. There was suddenly a tremendous gasp from Betty Templer, who had been quite silent while all this discussion was taking place.
‘Oh, we haven’t got to act, have we?’ she now cried out in a voice of despair. ‘I can’t act. I never was able to. Need we really?’
‘Oh, don’t be so silly, darling,’ said Templer, addressing her for the first time that evening rather sharply. ‘It’s only a game. Nothing much will be expected of you. Don’t try and wreck everything from the start.’
‘But I can’t act.’
‘It will be all right.’
‘Oh, I wish I hadn’t come.’
‘Pull yourself together, Betty.’
This call to order made her lips tremble. Again, I thought there were going to be tears. However, once more she recovered herself. She was more determined than one might suppose.
‘Yes, you must certainly play your part, Betty,’ said Sir Magnus, with just a hint, just the smallest suggestion, of conscious cruelty. ‘We are exactly seven, so everyone must do his or her bit.’
‘We’re eight,’ said Moreland. ‘Surely you yourself are not going to be sinless?’
‘I shall only be the photographer,’ said Sir Magnus, smiling firmly.
‘What are the Seven Deadly Sins, anyway?’ said Anne Umfraville. ‘I can never remember. Lust, of course – we all know that one – but the others, Pride ——’
‘Anger – Avarice – Envy – Sloth – Gluttony,’ said Isobel.
‘They are represented all round us,’ said Sir Magnus, making a gesture towards the walls, at the same time wiping his lips very carefully with a napkin, as if in fear of contamination, ‘sometimes pictured rather whimsically.’
He seemed cheered as Moreland by what lay ahead. He must also have decided either that a little more drink would improve the tableaux, or that the measure of wine up to then provided was insufficient to clear him unequivocally of the sin of Avarice, because he said in an aside to the butler: ‘I think we shall need some more of that claret.’
‘How are we to decide what everyone is going to do?’ said Anne Umfraville. ‘Obviously Lust is the star part.’
‘Do you think so, Anne?’ said Sir Magnus, feigning ponderous reproof. ‘Then to prevent argument, I must decide for you all. It will be my privilege as host. I shall allot everyone a Sin. Then they will be allowed their own team to act it. Peter, I think we can rely on you to take charge of Lust – which for some reason Anne seems to suppose so acceptable to everyone – for I don’t think we can offer such a sin to a lady. Perhaps, Anne, you would yourself undertake Anger – no, no, not a word. I must insist. Matilda – Envy. Not suit you? Certainly I think it would suit you. Lady Isobel, no one could object to Pride. Betty, I am going to ask you to portray Avarice. It is a very easy one, making no demand on your powers as an actress. Nonsense, Betty, you will do it very well. We will all help you. Hugh, don’t be offended if I ask you to present Gluttony. I have often heard you praise the pleasures of the table above all others. Mr Jenkins, I fear there is nothing left for you but Sloth. There are, of course, no personal implications. I am sure it is quite inappropriate, but like Avarice, it makes no great demands on the actor.’
If the administrative capacity of Sir Magnus Donners had ever been at all
in question before that moment, his ability to make decisions – and have them obeyed – was now amply demonstrated. Naturally, a certain amount of grumbling took place about the allotment of Sins, but only superficial. No vital objection was raised. In the end everyone bowed to the Donners ruling. Even Betty Templer made only a feeble repetition of the statement that she could not act at all. It was brushed aside for the last time. Moreland was especially delighted with the idea of portraying Gluttony.
‘Can we do them in here?’ he asked, ‘everyone in front of his or her appropriate Sin?’
‘Certainly,’ said Sir Magnus, ‘certainly. We will return after coffee.’
He had become more than ever like an energetic, dominating headmaster, organising extempore indoor exercise for his pupils on an afternoon too wet for outdoor games. A faint suggestion of repressed, slightly feverish excitement under his calm, added to this air, like some pedagogue confronted with aspects of his duties that gratify him almost to the point of aberration. The rest of dinner passed with much argument as to how best the Sins were to be depicted. All of us drank a lot, especially Moreland, Templer and Anne Umfraville, only Sir Magnus showing his usual moderation. The extravagance of the project offered temporary relief from personal problems, from the European scene. I had not expected the evening to turn out this way. There could be no doubt that Sir Magnus, genuinely exhilarated, was, as much as anyone, casting aside his worries. While the table was cleared, we had coffee in the Chinese Room, drawing lots as to the order in which the Sins should be presented. Camera and arc lamps were moved into the dining-room.
‘Do you want any companions, Hugh?’ asked Sir Magnus.
‘Gluttony at its most enjoyable dispenses with companionship,’ said Moreland, who was to lead off.
He had surrounded himself with dishes of fruit and liqueur bottles, from both of which he was helping himself liberally.
‘Be prepared for the flash,’ said Sir Magnus.
Moreland, not prepared, upset a glass of Kümmel. He must have been photographed half-sprawled across the table. It was agreed to have been a good performance.
‘I shall continue to act the Sin for the rest of the evening,’ he said, pouring out more Kümmel, this time into a tumbler.
Isobel was next as Pride. She chose Anne Umfraville as her ‘feed’. With these two a different note was struck. Moreland’s ‘turn’ was something individual to himself, an artist – in this case a musician – displaying considerable attainment in a medium not his own. With Isobel and Anne Umfraville, on the other hand, the performance was of quite another order. The two of them had gone off together to find suitable ‘properties’, returning with a metal receptacle for fire irons, more or less golden in material, the legs of which, when inverted, formed the spikes of a crown. They had also amassed a collection of necklaces and beads, rugs and capes of fur. With the crown on her head, loaded with jewels, fur hanging in a triangular pattern from her sleeves, Isobel looked the personification of Pride. Anne Umfraville, having removed her dress, wore over her underclothes a tattered motor rug, pinned across with a huge brooch that might have come from a sporran. She had partially blacked her face; her hair hung in rats’ tails over her forehead; her feet were bare, enamelled toenails the only visible remnant of a more ornamented form of existence. Here, before us, in these two, was displayed the nursery and playroom life of generations of ‘great houses’: the abounding physical vitality of big aristocratic families, their absolute disregard for personal dignity in uninhibited delight in ‘dressing up’, that passionate return to childhood, never released so fully in any other country, or, even in this country, so completely by any other class. Sir Magnus was enchanted.
‘You are a naughty girl, Anne,’ he said, with warm approval. ‘You’ve made yourself look an absolute little scamp, a bundle of mischief. I congratulate you, too, Lady Isobel. You should always wear fur. Fur really becomes you.’
‘My turn next,’ said Anne Umfraville now breathless with excitement. ‘Isobel and I can do Anger just as we are. It fits perfectly. Wait a second.’
She went off to the hall, returning a moment later with a long two-handed sword, snatched from the wall, or from one of the figures in armour. With this, as Anger provoked by Pride, she cut Isobel down in her finery.
‘That should make a splendid picture,’ said Sir Magnus, from behind the camera.
My own enactment of Sloth required no histrionic ability beyond lying on the table supported by piles of cushions. It was quickly over.
‘Leave the cushions there, Nick,’ said Templer, ‘I shall need them all for Lust.’
Matilda’s turn, good as it was in some ways, noticeably lowered the temperature of the entertainment. Once again the whole tone of the miming changed. I had the impression that, if Anne Umfraville was unexpectedly tolerant of Matilda, Matilda was less prepared to accept Anne Umfraville. Certainly Matilda was determined to show that she, as a professional actress, had a reputation to sustain. She had draped herself in a long green robe – possibly one of Sir Magnus’s dressing gowns, since Matilda’s familiarity with the castle rooms had been of help in collecting costumes and ‘props’ – a dress that entirely concealed her trousers. In this she stood, with no supporting cast, against the panel of the tapestry representing Envy. Everything was to be done by expression of the features. She stood absolutely upright, her face contorted. The glance, inasmuch as it was canalised, seemed aimed in the direction of Anne Umfraville. So far as it went, the performance was good; it might even be said to show considerable talent. On the other hand, the professional note, the contrast with what had gone before, somewhat chilled the party. There was some clapping. There appeared to be no other way of bringing Matilda back to earth.
‘Jolly good, Matty,’ said Moreland. ‘I shall know now what’s happened when I next see you looking like that.’
There was still Betty Templer to be hustled through Avarice, before her husband sustained the role of Lust, the final Sin, which, it was agreed, would make a cheerful termination to the spectacle. I was interested to see what would happen when Betty Templer’s turn came: whether Sir Magnus would take charge, or Templer. It was Templer.
‘Come on, Betty,’ he said in a soothing voice. ‘I can be a beggar by the side of the road and you can be walking past with your nose in the air.’
That was obviously a simple, kindly solution to Betty Templer’s diffidence about acting, to which no objection could possibly be taken. There was assistance from Anne Umfraville and Isobel in providing a suitably rich-looking bag, and various garments, to increase the contrast between riches and poverty. Templer himself had by then removed some of his clothes, so that only a few touches were required to turn him into an all but naked beggar seeking alms. His wife stood smiling unhappily for a second or two, taut and miserable, but carried through, in spite of everything, by her looks. She was undeniably very pretty indeed. In the unpropitious circumstances, she might be said to have acquitted herself well. Now that the ordeal was over, she would no doubt feel better. I thought that the danger of a total breakdown on her part – by no means to be disregarded until that moment – could now be dismissed from the mind. Indeed, having been forced against her will to ‘act’, Betty Templer would probably discover that she was quite pleased with herself after carrying things off with such comparative success.
‘Good, Betty,’ said Sir Magnus, perhaps himself a little relieved. ‘Now Lust, Peter. Do you want any help?’
‘Yes, of course, I do, old boy,’ said Templer, now rather tight. ‘Really, that is a most insulting remark, Magnus. I shouldn’t have thought it of you. I want all the girls I’m not married to. Married Lust isn’t decent. I’d like to do some different forms of Lust. You can photograph the one you think best.’
‘No reason not to photograph them all,’ said Sir Magnus. ‘There is plenty of film.’
‘Why not do the three ages of Lust?’ said Moreland, ‘Young, Middle-aged, Elderly?’
‘A splendid idea,’
said Templer. ‘Perhaps Lady Isobel and Mrs Moreland would assist me in the first two, and Anne in the last.’
He began to prepare a corner of the table, upon which the cushions of Sloth still remained. Templer had now entirely thrown off the distant, almost formal air he had shown earlier in the day. He was more like himself when I had known him years before. His first scene, Youthful Lust, as he saw it – an old-fashioned conception, very typical of Templer himself – was to take place in the private room of a restaurant, where a debutante had been lured by a lustful undergraduate: Isobel, in long white gloves (which Sir Magnus produced, as if by magic), with three ostrich feathers in her hair; Templer, in vaguely sporting attire, shorts and a scarf playing some part. Then, Middle-aged Lust; Matilda for some reason wearing sun-spectacles, was a married woman repelling the advances of a lustful clergyman, Templer in this role wearing an evening collar back-to-front. Neither of these two tableaux was specially memorable. For the third scene, Elderly Lust, a lustful octogenarian entertained to dinner a ballet girl – another typically nineteenth-century Templer concept – an opera-hat being produced from somewhere, white blotting-paper from the writing-table in the morning-room providing a stiff shirt. Anne Umfraville had constructed some sort of a ballet skirt, but was wearing by then little else. In his presentation of senile lust, Templer excelled himself, a theatrical performance he could never have achieved in the past. His acting might almost be regarded as one of those cases where unhappiness and frustration seem to force something like art from persons normally concerned only with the material side of life. Anne Umfraville, as the ballet girl, fell not far short of him in excellence.
Dance to the Music of Time, Volume 2 Page 57