Dance to the Music of Time, Volume 2

by Anthony Powell

  ‘We’ve been having the most awful time, Nick,’ she said, ‘trying to fix up the rows of animals that always infest the house. Sanderson, the vet, a great friend of mine, has been an angel. I talked to the sweetest man there who was trying to find a home for his cat. His wife had just left him and he’d just been turned out of the furnished flat he was living in because the owner wanted it back. He had nowhere to go and was absolutely at the end of his tether. He seemed so nice, I couldn’t leave until we’d arranged the cat’s future. The long and the short of it is he’s going to stay for a night or two here. He had his bag with him and was going to some awful hotel, because he has very little money. He seems to’ know a lot of people we all know. You probably know him yourself, Nick.’

  ‘What is he called?’

  ‘I simply can’t remember,’ she said. ‘I’ve had such a lot of things to do today that I am feeling quite dizzy and the name has completely gone out of my head. He’ll be down in a moment. He is just unpacking his things – and now I must hear how the arrangements about the cottage are getting on.’

  She joined the conversation taking place between Jeavons’s brother, Widmerpool and Widmerpool’s mother. Jeavons, who had been listening abstractedly to these negotiations, came and sat beside me.

  ‘What’s happening to all the Tollands, Nick?’ he asked. ‘I haven’t heard anything of them, except that your wife, Isobel, is going to have a baby and is staying in the country with Frederica.’

  ‘George has gone back to his regiment.’

  ‘Ex-Guardsman, isn’t he?’ said Jeavons. ‘He’ll be for a holding battalion.’

  ‘Then Hugo has become a Gunner.’

  ‘In the ranks?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hugo, regarded in general by his family as a fairly unsatisfactory figure, in spite of recent achievements in selling antique furniture, had taken the wind out of everyone’s sails by his enlistment.

  ‘One will be called up anyway,’ Hugo had said. ‘Why not have a start of everyone? Get in on the ground floor.’

  Such a view from Hugo was unexpected.

  ‘He looks a bit strange in uniform.’

  ‘Must be like that song Billy Bennett used to sing,’ said Jeavons:

  ‘I’m trooper, I’m a trooper,

  They call me Gladys Cooper.

  Ages since I’ve been to a music-hall. Aren’t what they used to be anyway. Still, it does Hugo credit.’

  ‘Robert has some idea of joining the navy.’

  ‘Plenty of water in the trenches, without going out of your way to look for it,’ said Jeavons shuddering. ‘Besides, I feel bilious most of the time, even when I’m not rolling about in a boat.’

  ‘Chips Lovell, like me, is thinking things over. Roddy Cutts, being an MP, arranged something – a Yeomanry regiment, I think.’

  While we were talking someone came into the room. I had not taken very seriously Molly Jeavons’s surmise that I should probably know the man she had picked up at the vet’s. She always imagined Isobel and I must know everyone roughly the same age as ourselves. Perhaps she liked to feel that, if necessary, she could draw on our reserves for her own purposes. I thought it most improbable that I should have met this casual acquaintance, certainly never guessed he would turn out to be Moreland. However, Moreland it was. He looked far from well, dazed and unhappy.

  ‘Good God,’ he said, catching sight of me.

  Molly Jeavons detached herself from the talk about Mrs Widmerpool’s lodger.

  ‘So you do know him, Nick.’

  ‘Of course we know each other.’

  ‘I felt sure you would.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ said Moreland. ‘Did you arrange this?’

  ‘Will you be all right in that room?’ Molly asked. ‘For goodness sake don’t touch the blackout, or the whole thing will come down. It’s just fixed temporarily to last the night. Teddy will do something about it in the morning.’

  ‘I really can’t thank you enough,’ said Moreland. ‘Farinelli . . . one thing and another . . . then letting me come here. . . .’

  He had probably been drinking earlier in the day, was still overwrought, though not exactly drunk, not far from tears. Molly Jeavons brushed his thanks aside.

  ‘One thing I can’t do,’ she said, ‘is to give either you or Nick dinner here tonight. Nor any of these other people either, except Stanley. We simply haven’t got enough food in the house to offer you anything.’

  ‘We’ll dine together,’ I said. ‘Is there anywhere in the neighbourhood?’

  ‘A place halfway up Gloucester Road on the right. It’s called the Scarlet Pimpernel. The food is not as bad as it sounds. They’ll send out for drinks.’

  ‘Do you feel equal to the Scarlet Pimpernel, Hugh?’

  Moreland, almost past speech, nodded.

  ‘Give him your key, Teddy,’ said Molly Jeavons. ‘We can find him another in the morning.’

  Jeavons fumbled in one of the pockets of his overall and handed a key to Moreland.

  ‘I’ll probably be pottering about when you come in,’ he said, ‘can’t get to sleep if I turn in early. Come back with him, Nick. We might be able to find a glass of beer for you.’

  I went across the room to take leave of Widmerpool and his mother. When I came up to her, Mrs Widmerpool turned her battery of teeth upon me, smiling fiercely, like the Wolf in Little Red Riding Hood, her shining, ruddy countenance advancing closer as she continued to hold my hand in hers.

  ‘I expect you are still occupied with your literary pursuits,’ she said, taking up our conversation at precisely the point at which it had been abandoned.

  ‘Some journalism——’

  ‘This is not a happy time for book-lovers.’

  ‘No, indeed.’

  ‘Still, you are fortunate.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘With your bookish days, not, like Kenneth, in arms.’

  ‘He seems a Happy Warrior.’

  ‘It is not in his nature to remain in civil life at time of war,’ she said.

  ‘I will say good night, then.’

  ‘Good luck to you,’ she said, ‘wherever you may find yourself in these troublous times.’

  She gave me another smile of great malignance, returning immediately to her discussions about rent. Widmerpool half raised his hand in a gesture of farewell. Moreland and I left the house together.

  ‘What the hell were you doing in that place?’ he asked, as we walked up the street.

  ‘Molly Jeavons is an aunt of Isobel’s. It is a perfectly normal place for me to be. Far stranger that you yourself should turn up there.’

  ‘You’re right about that,’ Moreland said. ‘I can’t quite make out how I did. Things have been moving rather quickly with me the last few months. Who was that terrifying woman you said good-bye to?’

  ‘Mother of the man in spectacles called Widmerpool. You met him with me at a nursing home years ago.’

  ‘No recollection,’ said Moreland, ‘though he seemed familiar. His mother began on Scriabin as soon as I arrived in the house. Told me the Poème de l’Extase was her favourite musical work. I say, I’m feeling like hell. Far from de l’extase.’

  ‘What’s been happening? I didn’t even know you’d left the country.’

  ‘The country, as it were, left me,’ said Moreland. ‘At least Matilda did, which came to much the same thing.’

  ‘How did all this come about?’

  ‘I hardly know myself.’

  ‘Has she gone off with somebody?’

  ‘Gone back to Donners.’

  The information was so grotesque that at first I could hardly take it seriously. Then I saw as a possibility that a row might have taken place and Matilda done this from pique. At certain seasons, Matilda, admittedly, had a fairly rough time living with Moreland. She might require a short spell of rich life to put her right, although (as Mrs Widmerpool could have said) wartime was hardly the moment to pursue rich life. Sir Magnus Donners, as a former lov
er, himself no longer young, would provide a comparatively innocuous vehicle for such a temporary interlude. The Moreland situation, regarded in these cold-blooded terms, might be undesirable certainly, at the same time not beyond hope.

  ‘I’ll tell the story when we get to the restaurant,’ said Moreland. ‘I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. Just had a few doubles.’

  We found the Scarlet Pimpernel soon after this. The place was not full. We took a table in the corner at the back of the room. At this early stage of the war, it was still possible to order a bottle of wine without undue difficulty and expense. The food, as Molly Jeavons had said, turned out better than might have been expected from the mob-caps of the waitresses and general tone of the establishment. After some soup and a glass of wine Moreland began to recover himself.

  ‘One always imagines things happen in hot blood,’ he said. ‘An ill-considered remark starts a row. Hard words follow, misunderstandings. Matters that can be put right in the end. Unfortunately life doesn’t work out like that. First of all there is no row, secondly, nothing can be put right.’

  ‘Barnby says he is always on his guard when things are going well with a woman.’

  ‘Still, your wife,’ said Moreland, ‘it’s bloody uncomfortable if things are not going well between yourself and your wife. I speak from experience. All the same, there may be something in Barnby’s view. You remember the business about me and – well – your sister-in-law, Priscilla?’

  ‘You conveyed at the time that a situation existed – then ceased to exist, or was stifled in some way.’

  I did not see why I should help Moreland out beyond a certain point. If he wanted to tell his story, he must supply the facts, not reveal one half and allow the other to be guessed. He had always been too fond of doing that when extracting sympathy for his emotional tangles. No one had ever known what had happened about himself and Priscilla, only that some close relationship had existed between them, which had caused a great deal of disturbance in his married life. Some explanation was required. The situation could not be pieced together merely from a series of generalisations about matrimony.

  ‘Anything you like,’ said Moreland. ‘The point is that, during that rather tricky period, Matty could not have behaved better. She was absolutely marvellous – really marvellous. It was the one thing that made the whole awfulness of life possible when . . .’

  He did not finish the sentence, but meant, I supposed, when the affair with Priscilla was at an end.

  ‘Why on earth, if Matty was going to leave me, didn’t she leave me then? I’ll tell you. She enjoyed the emotional strain of it all. Women are like that, the lame girl in Dostoevsky who said she didn’t want to be happy.’

  ‘How did it start?’

  ‘Matilda was in a show that opened in the provinces – Brighton or somewhere. She just wrote and said she was not returning home, would I send her things along, such as they were. She had already taken most of her clothes with her, so I presume she had already decided on leaving when she set out.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Two or three weeks.’

  ‘Is it generally known?’

  ‘Not yet, I think. Matilda is often away acting, so it is quite usual for her to be absent from home.’

  ‘And you had no warning that all was not well?’

  ‘I am the most modest man in the world when it is a question of trying to make a woman fall for me,’ said Moreland. ‘I never expect I shall bring it off. On the other hand, once she’s fallen, I can never really believe she will prefer someone else. These things are just the way vanity happens to take you.’

  ‘But where does Donners come in? She can’t have fallen for him.’

  ‘She has been going over to Stourwater fairly often., She made no secret of that. Why should she? There didn’t seem any reason to object. What could I do, anyway? You remember we all dined there that rather grim evening when everyone dressed up as the Seven Deadly Sins. I recall now, that was where I saw your friend Widmerpool before. Does he always haunt my worst moments? Anyway, Matilda’s visits to Stourwater were of that sort, nothing serious.’

  ‘Is Matilda living at Stourwater at this moment?’

  ‘No – staying in the flat of a girl she knows in London, another actress. The point is this: if I allow Matilda to divorce me, Donners will marry her.’

  ‘No.’

  Moreland laughed.

  ‘Indeed, yes,’ he said. ‘I see I have surprised you.’

  ‘You certainly have.’

  ‘It now turns out that Donners asked her to marry him before – when she was mixed up with him years ago.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘But will you let yourself be divorced?’

  ‘I’ve tried every way of getting her back,’ said Moreland. ‘She is quite firm. I don’t want to be just spiteful about it. If she is consumed with a desire to become Lady Donners, Lady Donners let her be.’

  ‘But to want to be Lady Donners is so unlike Matilda – especially as she turned down the offer in the past.’

  ‘You think it unlike her?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Not entirely. She can be tough, you know. One of the worst things about life is not how nasty the nasty people are. You know that already. It is how nasty the nice people can be.’

  ‘Have you no idea what went wrong?’

  ‘None – except, as I say, the Priscilla business. I thought that was all forgotten. Perhaps it was, and life with me was just too humdrum. Now I’ll tell you something else that may surprise you. Nothing ever took place between Priscilla and myself. We never went to bed.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ said Moreland slowly, ‘perhaps because there did not seem anywhere to go. That’s so often one of the problems. I’ve thought about the subject a lot. One might write a story about two lovers who have nowhere to go. They are at their wits’ end. Then they pretend they are newly married and apply to a different estate-agent every week to inspect unfurnished houses and flats. As often as not they are given the key and manage to have an hour alone together. Inventive, don’t you think? I was crazy about Priscilla. Then Maclintick committed suicide and everything was altered. I felt upset, couldn’t think about girls and all that. That was when Priscilla herself decided things had better stop. I suppose the whole business shook the boat so far as my own marriage was concerned. It seemed to recover. I thought we were getting on all right. I was wrong.’

  I was reminded of Duport telling me about Jean, although no one could have been less like Jean than Matilda, less like Moreland than Duport.

  ‘The fact is,’ said Moreland, ‘Matilda lost interest in me. With women, that situation is like a vacuum. It must be filled. They begin to look round for someone else. She decided on Donners.’

  ‘She was still pretty interested in you at the party Mrs Foxe gave for your symphony.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘She talked to me about it.’

  ‘While I was getting off with Priscilla?’

  ‘More or less.’

  Moreland made a grimace.

  ‘Surely she’ll come back in the end?’ I said.

  ‘You see, I’m not absolutely certain I want Matilda back,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I feel I can’t live without her, other times, that I can’t bear the thought of having her in the house. In real life, things are much worse than as represented in books. In books, you love somebody and want them, win them or lose them. In real life, so often, you love them and don’t want them, or want them and don’t love them.’

  ‘You make it all sound difficult.’

  ‘I sometimes think all I myself require is a quiet life,’ said Moreland. ‘For some unaccountable reason it is always imagined that people like oneself want to be rackety. Of course I want some fun occasionally, but so does everyone else.’

  ‘What does Matilda want? A lot of money?’

&n
bsp; ‘Not in the obvious way, diamonds and things. Matilda has wanted for a long time to spread her wings. She knows at last that she will never be any good as an actress. She wants power. Plenty of power. When we were first married she arranged all my life for me. Arranged rather too much. I’m not sure she liked it when I made a small name for myself – if one may be said to have made a small name for oneself.’

  ‘She will have to play second fiddle to Sir Magnus, more even than to yourself.’

  ‘Not second fiddle as an artist – as an actress, in her case. Being an artist – to use old fashioned terminology, but what other can one use? – partakes of certain feminine characteristics, is therefore peculiarly provoking for women to live with. In some way, the more “masculine” an artist is, the worse her predicament. If he is really homosexual, or hopelessly incapable of dealing with everyday life, it is almost easier.’

  ‘I can think of plenty of examples to the contrary.’

  ‘Anyway, there will be compensations with Donners. Matilda will operate on a large scale. She will have her finger in all kind of pies.’

  ‘Still, what pies.’

  ‘Not very intellectual ones, certainly,’ said Moreland, ‘but then the minds of most women are unamusing, unoriginal, determinedly banal. Matilda is not one of the exceptions. Is it surprising one is always cuckolded by middlebrows?’

  ‘But you talk as if these matters were all concerned with the mind.’

  Moreland laughed.

  ‘I once asked Barnby if he did not find most women extraordinarily unsensual,’ he said. ‘Do you know what he answered?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He said, “I’ve never noticed.”’

  I laughed too.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Moreland, ‘had you asked Lloyd George, “Don’t you think politics rather corrupt?”, he might have made the same reply. Minor factors disappear when you are absorbed by any subject. You know, one of the things about being deserted is that it leaves you in a semi-castrated condition. You’re incapable of fixing yourself up with an alternative girl. Deserting people, on the other hand, is positively stimulating. I don’t mind betting that Matty is surrounded by admirers at this moment. Do you remember when we heard that crippled woman singing in Gerrard Street years ago: