Anglo-Saxon Attitudes

by Angus Wilson

  Gerald felt a throb at his temples. 'I think I should tell you, however,' he drawled, 'that she accepted a general commission to write on the administrative growth of Plantagenet England. We are to discuss details at the end of this week.'

  'I see,' Professor Clun's fox-terrier nose was quivering, 'there remains very little then for me to say but to wish you luck with your editorship. You will need it. And now I must leave you.'

  'Wait a minute,' Gerald said, putting his hand on his guest's rough tweed-clad arm. 'Have you seen Rose Lorimer lately?'

  Arthur Clun gave out a little bark of derision. 'Dr Lorimer and I do not seek out each other's company in Vacation. It is bad enough that I should be forced to listen to her absurdities at Faculty meetings.'

  Gerald's heavy face now had a lop-sided look, almost as though he had had a stroke. From the dark, flushed mass of flesh one brown eye glared at Clun. He was very angry. 'Normally I should not discuss an old friend like Rose Lorimer with anyone who had spoken slightingly of her, but this occasion demands peculiar forbearance. It was the greatest regret to me that in my original list - the one that you saw - I did not feel able to include her name. She has not been herself for so many years. However, I have seen her since my return, and it is clear to me that she is well on the road to recovery. Naturally, as soon as I saw that, I instantly invited her collaboration. That and no suppression on my part is the reason why you did not find her name on the list I gave you.'

  Professor Clun took out a handkerchief and began to clean his spectacles. 'I see,' he said. 'I'm sorry if I doubted your honesty with me, but there's been such a conspiracy of sentimentalism built around that woman. ... Well, I'll say no more about that. I made no secret at the time of my efforts to get her retired on grounds of health. I make none now. But when you talk about her recovery in this light way, Middleton, I'm afraid I must answer quite simply - fiddlesticks. People do not recover from insane delusions overnight. Oh!' he cried, waving a tough, sinewy little hand, his signet ring glinting in the air a moment, 'I know the supposed reasons. This story of Dr Lorimer's recovery is not new to me. Sir Edgar met me with the glad news some weeks ago. I preferred to make no comment then. If the Heligoland excavations prove to be as Pforzheim thinks, we know - that is, the sane among us - that another interesting example of a Christian missionary relapsing into some semi-pagan, semi-Christian rite will have come to join the story of Eorpwald at Melpham. Interesting, perhaps even suggestive of certain tendencies to relapse among ardent converts of forceful men like Wilfrid and Boniface. Nothing more. And by the way, we still await Pforzheim's final verdict. To be given us, I believe, at Verona. This has nothing to do with the absurd views of Dr Lorimer about the virtues of the Celtic Church. Views which, in my hearing, Middleton, have hovered on the edge of some paranoiac delusions about a general conspiracy to suppress historic truth by the Romanists. The fact that the possible discovery in Heligoland has quietened Dr Lorimer's mania may be satisfactory to her friends, it may be of interest to an alienist, I really don't know. It does not make her a fit contributor to an important historical work.'

  Gerald frowned. 'I admit,' he said, 'that there have been moments when I have felt that Rose Lorimer was in danger of losing her reason under the stress of scepticism rightly shown towards her extreme views about the Celtic Church.' He stopped and, for a moment, he appeared to have lost the thread of his remarks. Clun's statement about the Heligoland excavation threatened to loose once more the flood of his disquiet about Melpham. In the effort of securing the dam which he had so resolutely built up, he found it difficult to concentrate. 'But as I said before,' he went on rather vaguely, 'that danger is now over. In any case, we must surely give greater latitude to absurdities in a considerable scholar than ...'

  His voice tailed away. If the Heligoland discovery was as Clun described it, then Melpham ... He should have asked for full details of Pforzheim's work from Sir Edgar. To what end? To distract his attention from the work he had taken on?

  Professor Clun waited for his host to finish his sentence, then, raising his eyebrows slightly at the silence, he said, 'I'm afraid I don't think so.'

  Gerald started into attention. He smiled. 'You would be surprised,' he said, 'at the change in her. She confesses that she has given too much of her attention to ecclesiastical history. Indeed, as I said, she refused to write on the Conversion. I feel sure she is anxious not to give way to her obsessions again. Even if she were not a great scholar, I should feel it my duty to encourage her. She wants to resume the work she inherited from Tout. Do you remember at all those brilliant articles she did on the Exchequer in the mid-thirties?'

  'I remember them perfectly,' said Arthur Clun, 'as much other excellent work that she did. All a very long time ago. Perhaps we may now expect some ridiculous parti pris theory about the Privy Seal,' he laughed, 'some sinister conspiracy by historians to conceal the importance of the griffin seal in administrative development.' He got up from his chair. 'I'm afraid, Middleton, that your decision to include Miss Lorimer must clinch my decision not to be a contributor.'

  They stood on the steps of the Club as the snow fell thickly around them, incongruous in height, contrasting in costume. Gerald disliked talking to Clun from his superior height; he guessed rightly that it increased the little man's antagonism. 'Look,' he said, 'nothing's settled yet. May I ask you to reconsider your decision?'

  'You may,' said Professor Clun. 'I will give it further consideration. I seldom change my decisions, however.' He refused Gerald's offer of a lift in the Daimler. 'I shall walk through the Park,' he said. 'I have promised Mrs Clun to make some purchases at the Army and Navy Stores.'

  'I hope she is well,' said Gerald.

  'Yes,' said his guest, 'she has no reasons for ailing, I am glad to say.' As they waited for Larwood to manoeuvre the car into position, he seemed to search for some domestic comment that would soften the effect of his intransigence in the professional field. 'Both my wife and I,' he said, 'are admirers of your son's remarkable articles about this disgraceful Pelican business. We have so few such independent fighters in the country today.'

  As the car turned round the Crimean Memorial, Gerald caught a glimpse of the minute, determined figure in battered felt hat and dirty raincoat dwarfed to a speck beneath the towering column of the Duke of York. ;

  A letter from Inge was not what Gerald would have chosen to find on his return to Montpelier Square. He stared at the sprawling handwriting, the Continental script, for some minutes before he could bring himself to open it.

  Dear Gerald [he read], I am sorry that I have always to write nasty things to you, but life is not all so agreeable as Vienna and wonderful drawings. It is my fault anyway that I did not speak to you at Christmas, but you were so strange and quiet and I know you do not like to talk private things with me any more. Yes, you were most sad for a Pappi at Xmas time! But then the children are used to this, God knows. But I do not write to complain at all. You are always the scholar and I the practical one of the family, so I shall not mind to tell you quite straight - I do not feel the need for secrets after so long a time. Well, then, I received my allowance for January 1 (first quarter), but we are agreed October 1st (last quarter) that I shall need £100 more We are agreed price rises in England are quite dreadful - perhaps it is having a bad Conservative Government, how can England do such a thing? - and this is a general reason, I thought you will know this must be £100 1st January (next quarter) also and indeed all quarters. I despair when I think of working-people, for I live always in a simple housekeeping like the people - plain, good things are my way of life as you know, not waste and show - and how can they manage, these poor working-people? Perhaps there will be revolution. So please arrange £100 more for all quarters.

  Here we are very happy, for happiness, as you know, Gerald dear, is always what I think for in life. The snow makes everything so beautifid, but it is not beautiful for the birds, so that we are always reminded there are some not so fortunate as ourselves. I
have now here Johnnie's friend Larrie, a sweet Irish boy. He has had so sad a life so that he needs much love. Johnnie who works so hard will now have his Thingy's care and for Larrie I must love him too for he loves Johnnie. So we are all loving and happy and busy so that we do not care if it snows so hard in all the world outside. There are so many things I can give to this unlucky boy who has not had the advantages of our little children. He is happy and smiles when I give to him. It is like when Johnnie was young, but here is Johnnie too, so we have all ...

  Gerald sat down and instructed his lawyers to increase his wife's allowance by £500 a year. The extra one hundred pounds was typical of the many gestures he made to salve his conscience about his treatment of her. It depressed him that they were always monetary and therefore cost him so little. At least, he reflected, he never allowed himself an overt criticism of the hypocrisy of her absurd 'simple' housekeeping. Larrie's name recalled his conversation with Elvira. He had shelved the problem of John's private life, convinced that his intervention would be as fruitless as it would be resented. The presence of this young man at Inge's was, however, a different matter. He had decided that Elvira's intellect was as inadequate as her body was desirable; nevertheless, she had some experience of the more disreputable aspects of modern life and her distrust of the young man could not be completely dismissed with the rest of her muddled talk. The image of his wife's huge body came to him and as usual her clumsy size lent pathos to her foolish life. The clumsiness of her written English, too, recalled their early days together when her spoken English had been as imperfect. Here, at least, was something not entirely easy, not connected with money, that he could do for her. He would go down to Marlow to see this Irish fellow for himself; if necessary he would talk to John. He was suddenly very angry with his son - his private life, however unsavoury, was his own affair, but he had no right to take advantage of his mother's foolish adoration to involve the poor creature in such squalid things. He set about cancelling his appointments for the next day.

  He was all ready to depart the next morning when Mrs Larwood announced a visitor. There was one appointment he had forgotten to cancel. 'Miss Crane to see you, sir,' she said.

  'At last we meet,' cried Clarissa. 'I've had audiences of the Pope, I've been received by the Queen, I've met Elsa Maxwell, but that's child's play to getting hold of you, Professor Middleton. But how right you are to make yourself rare! The awful accessibility of everyone nowadays! And how delightful of you to have invited me! And for what my charlady calls elevenses! My favourite meal!'

  Gerald remembered his invitation with horror, but he saw in her last remark a means of escape. 'The embarrassing thing is that we shan't be able to have more than a brief meeting. I have to go down at very short notice to my wife's.' He crossed the room and pressed the bell.

  Clarissa had decided to look a little absurd, a little outrageously smart; she felt sure that 'her Scholar Don Juan', as she already called Gerald, would like the outrée. Alas! Gerald paid no attention to ornament once he had decided against the basic structure.

  'Your wife's Scandinavian, isn't she?' she asked. It was so fascinating; she knew Dollie and her 'Don Juan', and now this wife. For some it would just be the eternal triangle; but she knew that every such relationship had a hundred overtones, a thousand nuances that made it unique and utterly fascinating.

  'Danish,' Gerald replied shortly.

  'I'm terribly interested by the Danes,' Clarissa cried, before she had given herself time to think why, so she ended rather lamely; 'they're such a completely separate people.'

  'Oh,' Gerald demurred. 'I think they're rather more imitative than the other Scandinavians.'

  'Do you?' Clarissa asked. 'In a sense, of course, you're right.' She was unwilling entirely to relinquish her improvised opinion. 'And how was Vienna? Wonderful, of course, as always, but a little less able to hide that sad, defeated look in the wintry landscape. But, of course, you didn't go to see Vienna. You went to see Leonardo. Oh, how I envy you!' She accepted only the smallest home-made scone with her coffee, then, leaning forward a little, she said so seriously, 'I can't, you know, Professor Middleton, forgive so many bad novelists for having written about him. Wonderful many-hued Leonardo! I know I could have brought him to life. But there you are, what's done cannot be undone.' She laughed a little, bitter laugh. 'So they've found another Melpham!' she cried, 'and you missed Professor Pforzheim's dramatic revelation.' She had only subsequently learned from Rose Lorimer the importance of the Heligoland excavation. 'We were all sworn to secrecy. I haven't told a soul.' She knew no one who would be in the faintest degree interested. 'You, of course, are of the inner council.'

  This, thought Gerald, is where I begin to stonewall. 'Yes,' he said. 'Nothing's known exactly yet.'

  'I thought at first,' Clarissa said, 'that I might use it too in my novel, but I've looked up some things about Boniface, and I hardly think it would do. All about Germany, you know....'

  'Unless some of your characters are very long-lived, it might be difficult certainly,' Gerald said.

  Clarissa laughed embarrassedly. 'I'm impossible about dates,' she said, 'but now you must tell me about Melpham. Give me the atmosphere of the discovery, the excitement of it.'

  Gerald smiled. 'I arrived after the discovery was made,' he said, 'and in any case my whole memory of Melpham is rather clouded by pain. I sprained my ankle badly on my arrival.' He felt that he was being a little brusque. 'The most exciting thing for a young man was my hostess - the great Lilian Portway. A wonderful actress, you know.'

  But Clarissa was not interested in Lilian. 'Surely,' she cried, 'that can't be true. Even for a young man the presence of the brilliant Gilbert Stokesay must have been a thrill.'

  'I'm afraid not for me,' said Gerald. 'I had known Gilbert for many years - since schooldays, to be exact. In any case, I was a scholar, you know, not an intellectual. And then Gilbert kept the two sides of his life very much apart. I knew, of course, indeed I'm afraid I must say he made sure that I knew, of his acquaintance with Wyndham Lewis and T. E. Hulme, but, for the rest, I was completely ignorant. Now that his essays and poems arouse so much interest, I get numerous letters from Ph.D. students and others. I can tell them almost nothing; apart from his admiration for a painter named Wadsworth and his detestation of Roger Fry, I can't recall any of that side of his life. The awful truth is that I've never read his work.'

  Clarissa thought for a moment of looking amused, but then she reflected on how little she had learned from her host, how much time she had wasted; she decided to look shocked. 'You're as bad as Dollie,' she said.

  Gerald did not reply to the charge. He gave her a cigarette and lit it. Then he asked as casually as he could muster, 'Have you seen her lately?'

  'Dollie?' Clarissa queried without interest. 'Yes, about a fortnight ago.'

  'Is she well?'

  'Oh, I think so. She doesn't change much, you know.' Clarissa was not prepared to expand to someone who had proved so fruitless.

  'Does she go out much?' Gerald asked. He could not ask directly how much she was drinking now.

  'Oh, yes,' Clarissa replied, 'as much as her little hobby allows her.'

  Gerald was revolted. He had thought Clarissa affected, but now she seemed heartless also. He could not bring himself to discuss Dollie with such a woman, however much he longed to hear news of her. There was a silence, then Clarissa said, 'I'm sure you're bursting to get away. Actually I've got an appointment. Thank you for the lovely coffee.'

  As she moved to the door, her passion to be liked overcame her. 'And I've said nothing of your enchanting room,' she cried. 'For it is enchanting. I have known many men who had rooms of great beauty, but a man's room that is beautiful and somehow does not embarrass - that is rare!' Gerald did not answer. She felt quite angry at the lack of response, and in a mischievous mood, she said, 'You know, of course, that Dollie's affection for you is something quite fantastic still.' She had no idea if this was true. It seemed to her probable
that poor old Dollie would be unlikely to forget such a Don Juan in her dreary life; in any case it was fun to watch old flames rekindle.

  'I too,' said Gerald simply, 'am very fond of her.'

  Gerald was very late for luncheon. In his mood of sentimental remorse towards Inge, he had remembered her pleasure whenever the children paid surprise visits and he had given her no warning. He still found it difficult to realize that his wife's reaction towards their children's behaviour was no guide to her response to his. A surprise visit from her husband was only irritating to Inge; a surprise arrival late for luncheon brought a puckering frown to her broad forehead, a sulky pout to her baby mouth.

  'No, Gerald, this is too bad!' she cried. She seemed a giant Diana the huntress in her winter tweeds. 'No, everything is finished. No service today! Is that not so, Johnnie? We had a very nice meal, didn't we, Larrie? Steak and béarnaise sauce which I made myself. But that would not have been enough for Gerald, especially as the wine was only an ordinary white table wine - the same that I used for the sauce. Oh! that would not do for your father, Johnnie; that is just peasant food. But we live like peasants. And what about Larwood? Of course, you have not thought of him. Poor Larwood!' She ran from the room and her cooing noises to Larwood could be heard from the drive outside. His embarrassed responses were less audible.

  John said, 'I don't think you've met my friend Larrie Rourke, Father. This is my father, Larrie.'

  Gerald shook hands and sat down by the table with its remains of pineapple and Brie. Larrie, however, did not resume his seat. He walked about the room excitedly, cracking walnuts and devouring them with evident relish. He was all the excited and shy Irish boy and his eyes gleamed with delight. 'Well, now this is a big day for me,' he cried. 'I've never met a real live professor before. I've heard of them, mind you, I'm not that ignorant. At school they would say to us, "You'll never grow to be a professor". And to be honest I didn't much care. But now that I've seen your father, Johnnie, I see what they mean. There's a grandeur - well, I'll not flatter you, Professor Middleton. Is that right, Johnnie, do I call him that? I'll just say that I can see it's a grand thing to be.'