Thrones, Dominations

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  ‘I always think,’ said Mr Warren, ‘it is a mistake to pretend that a thing has not happened. Nowadays, when I meet anybody . . .’

  ‘But, Laurence,’ objected Mrs Harwell, ‘backing plays isn’t your bread and butter. It’s only a hobby. And it’s the new writers who need the backing. Otherwise, how is one ever to discover new talent?’

  ‘My wife,’ said Harwell indulgently, ‘is always finding swans among the Bloomsbury goslings. It’s no good, darling, trying to argue me into putting on that thing of young Amery’s. It hasn’t a chance in Hades. Not even in an ordinary season, much less now.’

  ‘Amery?’ said Peter. ‘I seem to know the name.’

  ‘Claude Amery. One of those stringy lads with a forelock.’

  ‘He’s published some poems,’ added Rosamund.

  ‘Harriet may know.’ Peter detached Harriet’s attention from Mr Warren with an apology. ‘Harriet – excuse me, sir – have you ever heard of a Bloomsbury poet – slight build and floppy hair – by the name of Claude Amery?’

  ‘Yes. He wrote a thing called This Forked Plague, all rather outspoken and disillusioned, about fat bald men making love in brothels. In a very complicated verse form with inner rhymes and overriding couplets. I had it to review. And he is rather stringy, now you come to mention it. Why?’

  ‘I thought I’d seen his name about the place. Have I met him?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I ran into him once at a publisher’s party. But you might have seen the book on my table in Mecklenburgh Square about three months ago when you came back from Italy. I didn’t know you’d looked at it.’

  ‘I didn’t. I had something better to look at. But no doubt it registered itself on my subconscious. The young man has written a play.’

  ‘Yes; I saw a mention of it somewhere.’

  ‘It’s very good, I think,’ persisted Rosamund. ‘But Laurence won’t even read it.’

  ‘I looked at it,’ said Harwell. ‘It may be good. But it certainly isn’t commercial.’

  ‘I expect you’re right,’ agreed Harriet. ‘All the same, it might pay to keep your eye on that lad. I shouldn’t wonder if he did something interesting one of these days.’

  ‘Think so?’ Harwell looked dubious. Out of the corner of her eye Rosamund saw Peter leading Mr Warren away upstairs to examine a set of tapestries on the landing. ‘Well, you may be right. Perhaps if I sent you the script you’d like to give me your opinion.’

  ‘I don’t think my opinion would be much use,’ said Harriet quickly. ‘I’m a novelist. I know nothing about what would get across on the stage.’

  ‘A chacun son métier,’ observed Chapparelle approvingly. ‘To know one’s own limitations is the hallmark of competence.’ He put away his empty glass and made a tentative motion to rise. ‘Your husband promised to show me a Gainsborough.’

  ‘Yes, of course. It’s in the library. Would you like to go up?’ Harriet turned to the Harwells. ‘I don’t know whether you would care to look at the house. It’s old, of course, and Peter – there are some rather beautiful family things.’

  The move was made. Harwell, his attention caught by the suitability of the eighteenth-century tapestries for stage sets, added himself to the male section of the party, and Harriet found herself escorting Rosamund to the upper storeys.

  ‘Are you domesticated?’ enquired Rosamund, rather abruptly.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Harriet. They were standing in her bedroom, which looked down into a small garden containing a brick path and a small dried-up fountain surmounted by a small cupid struggling with a very large dolphin. ‘It does seem an absurdly big house for two people, doesn’t it? But Peter said he was tired of being cramped up in a flat. He was brought up spacious, you see.’

  ‘So was I. But I wanted to get out of it all. Servants and all that bother.’

  ‘I was rather terrified of that. I’d never had to manage a staff or anything. But we’ve got a domestic dragon who does the whole thing. She’s called Mrs Trapp, and she was Peter’s old nurse. She gave notice to the Duchess twenty-three years ago, when Peter got engaged – not to me, of course, to somebody else. He didn’t get married, so she stayed on to oblige the family. Then when he did get married, she walked out. Helen didn’t like it, but Mrs Trapp said she’d given twenty-three years’ warning, and nobody could be expected to do more. That’s the sort she is.’

  ‘I shouldn’t know how to get on with that sort. Don’t these old servants rather interfere?’

  ‘Well,’ admitted Harriet, ‘she does rather tend to tell Peter to eat up his nice bread and milk and not be fussy. But she doesn’t interfere with me, because Peter’s impressed it on her that I’m a writer and mustn’t be disturbed. I expect she thinks it all rather odd, but she sees the published volumes, you know, and people always find that impressive.’

  ‘Oh, yes. But I shouldn’t like to have an old nurse coming in between Laurence and me.’

  ‘It’s dreadful, isn’t it?’ said Harriet lightly. ‘Peter’s overrun with old servants, like mice. His man, Bunter, has been with him for twenty years. And the butler is Bunter’s brother. Only, of course, we can’t have two Bunters in one house, so we call him by his Christian name, which happens, most conveniently, to be Meredith. Goodness knows what they think of me. Mrs Trapp and Meredith run everything between them, and I look at the books and try to look as though I’d always thought in pounds instead of in pence.’

  ‘Do you have to go into all the accounts? It’s frightfully tedious. Thank goodness, we live in a service flat, and just have things up from the restaurant.’

  ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t. At least I’ve only just started, of course, but I shan’t, not unless things go over the housekeeping allowance. After all, Mrs Trapp must be trustworthy – she’s housekept at Gerald’s place at Duke’s Denver for donkeys’ years. I’ll wait till there’s a revolution and we have to live on twopence a week – that’s the only sort of housekeeping I know about, and I don’t enjoy it anyway. Still, Peter could help. He once had a job in an advertising agency and told people how to make grand family stews for fourpence.’

  Rosamund began to think she was being made fun of. Harriet saw her unbelieving expression and hastened to explain: ‘He was investigating a murder and had to go about disguised as a copy-writer. He earned four pounds a week, and was terribly proud of himself.’

  ‘Really, how absurd!’ Rosamund Harwell was seized with a sense of impatience. Something – something she had had obscurely in mind when she began the conversation had gone wrong; it was as though there was a guard up somewhere. Baffled, she returned to the commonplace of politeness. ‘It’s a beautiful house.’

  ‘Isn’t it? It’s a little frightening. One feels gravely responsible, as though it would be shocked if one lost one’s temper, or shouted things. I suppose it’s because we’ve rather lost the habit of being ceremonious, though I’ve no doubt its original eighteenth-century owner drank himself under the table every night and roared at his wife and kicked the flunkeys downstairs without a qualm.’

  (So, she thought to herself, would Peter, no doubt, if he felt like it. So far he had shown no disposition to roar. But Gerald would roar like twenty tigers. No, it was a matter of what you were used to.)

  Rosamund had gone over to the mirror and was dealing swiftly and competently with her face.

  ‘It’s a nuisance, having to go into black, isn’t it? Don’t you find it needs an entirely different make-up?’

  ‘Make-up doesn’t suit me much,’ said Harriet. ‘In fact, a stern tyrant forbids me to use it.’

  ‘Do husbands still forbid things?’

  ‘Oh, not Peter. My dressmaker. He has an artistic conscience. Says I should ruin his artistic effects. One artist must respect the other’s conscience, naturally. It’s Alcibiade – do you know him? Or are there dreadful clan feuds between him and Fanfreluche, like the Campbells and MacDonalds?’

  ‘I haven’t the least idea,’ said Rosamund, coldly furious
.

  (Help! thought Harriet, now I’ve gone and put my foot in it. And that’s why Peter – how stupid of me not to see!)

  The situation was relieved by the appearance of a maid at the door.

  ‘His lordship’s compliments, my lady, and Mr Harwell is afraid he must be going as he has an appointment. The car can come back, if madam is not quite ready.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Rosamund, ‘I’ll come at once. It was so kind of you to ask us in, Lady Peter. You must come and see us some day.’

  Harriet replied that she should be delighted.

  ‘Very decent people,’ said Laurence Harwell. ‘I’m glad we ran across them. They’re important among the stalls public, and that woman is in touch with writers and so on. We’ll have to ask them to something. Can’t throw big parties just at the moment, of course, but we could have a little dinner . . .’

  ‘No,’ said Rosamund, almost violently. ‘I’m sorry for her, but I can’t stand that man.’

  ‘My dear!’ ejaculated Mr Warren. ‘I thought he was very civil indeed. Went out of his way. As Laurence says, he’s important. Nobody more so. The Denvers—’

  ‘Yes, and he knows it. That’s what I loathe so. Look at the way he treats his wife.’

  ‘Treats his wife?’ exclaimed Harwell in amazement. Rosamund’s tone suggested at the very least public discourtesy, if not personal abuse, corporal chastisement and open infidelity, and he had noticed nothing of the kind. ‘I thought his manners to her were excellent.’

  ‘I thought they were condescending and horrible. All that business about the portrait, referring Monsieur Chapparelle to her as though it were no business of his. “I won’t interfere between one artist and another” – sneering beast! – just to remind us all that she used to have to work for her living.’

  ‘Well,’ said Harwell, ‘she needn’t go on writing now unless she wants to.’

  ‘I expect it’s the only bit of independence left her, poor thing. I don’t suppose he likes it, and that’s why he sneers. And look at that absurd great house – absolutely unnecessary except to impress her with his own grandeur. She daren’t even say we’ve got this or that. It’s Peter’s heirlooms, Peter’s money, Peter’s titled relations, Peter’s attached family retainers. She told me about it. She isn’t even allowed to run the place herself – Peter’s old nurse takes charge. I know it is so. She poured it all out to me the minute we were alone.’

  ‘I believe,’ said Mr Warren, ‘he was always rather a spoilt young man; very much his mother’s favourite.’

  ‘I must say,’ Harwell put in, having had his own perplexities to contend with, ‘I can’t see why he wanted to marry her. He might have made a far better match. She’s nobody, and she’s not even particularly good-looking; and wasn’t there something fishy about her?’

  ‘Oh, yes, there was a dreadful story. He saved her from prison or something worse. I forget exactly. That gives him a lovely opportunity to be patronising. He’s probably one of those people who always have to be king of their company.’

  ‘I can’t say I found him patronising,’ objected Mr Warren. ‘He was very pleasant. Of course, I explained to him, to both of them, I always do, about my own circumstances. I never like to leave people in the dark.’

  ‘Father, dear, why should you humiliate yourself? It’s absolutely unnecessary.’

  ‘I can’t help feeling these things,’ insisted Mr Warren. ‘He said he thought I’d had very bad luck. Well, so I did, you know. Very bad. I wasn’t fairly treated.’

  ‘Well, well, Dad,’ said Harwell, ‘we all make mistakes, and that’s how rogues manage to live. One’s got to keep one’s eyes open, that’s all. We needn’t have anything to do with these people if you don’t like them, darling. Leave it to me. We’ll ask them round some time when we know they can’t come and that’ll be an end of it. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t like.’

  ‘Of course, if you need this man to do anything . . .’

  ‘I don’t need anybody. If you dislike him, that’s quite enough. We can do without him.’

  ‘Oh, Peter, I was so grateful to you for taking Mr Warren away. Tact is your second name, isn’t it?’

  ‘Tiresome old ass. I don’t suppose he meant any harm, but there’s no reason why you should have to put up with it. He probably didn’t remember anything about it.’

  ‘Oh, that!’ (So Peter had not seen, after all. He had only been thinking of her. That was like him.) ‘I don’t mind that a bit. He did know, as a matter of fact, but he didn’t think much of my experience. Not a real convict, only a prisoner on remand; he was the real thing, and rather proud of it in an upside-down way. At least, I expect his pride is a sort of defence mechanism. Probably he’s rather made to feel his position at home. I gather he’s usually kept isolated at Beachington.’

  ‘Poor old sinner! Nothing to do with himself all day. I expect he needs an outlet. And so long as you didn’t mind; but anyhow I thought it was all getting rather trying.’

  ‘Yes. Peter, do you really want this portrait painted?’

  ‘I should like to have it, if you can spare the time and don’t mind. Not that storied urn and animated bust are exactly necessary to make me think of my blessings. But I have sometimes suspected you of an unwarrantable modesty. I should rather like Chapparelle to show you to yourself.’

  ‘Oh! Dearest, couldn’t you sometimes pay compliments a little more – frivolously? Does everything mean so much to you?’

  ‘No, not everything. Only everything to do with you.’

  ‘You’ll have to grow out of that, Peter.’

  ‘Too late. I’ve stopped growing. Henceforth I shall only become slowly ankylosed in an attitude of devotion. Time shall make me marble. The soul is its own monument. As certain also of your own poets have said. Chapparelle will have got home by now. Ring him up and make the appointment.’

  6

  Look here, upon this picture, and on this . . .

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  I would rather see the portrait of a dog that I know, than all the allegorical paintings they can shew me in the world.

  SAMUEL JOHNSON

  Dear Mrs Harwell,

  Sir Jude Shearman was here yesterday and happened to say he was looking for ‘unusual’ plays to put on at the Swan Theatre. As you know, he tries out interesting shows there for short runs, and there is always the chance of transfer for anything that looks like having commercial possibilities. I mentioned Mr Claude Amery’s name, and Sir Jude said he knew his books and should be interested to see anything he had written for the stage. Perhaps Mr Amery might think it worth while to send him a script.

  I was so sorry you and your husband were unable to lunch with us last week. We must hope for better luck another time.

  Yours sincerely,

  Harriet Wimsey

  Exasperating! thought Rosamund. It was not as though she hadn’t herself thought of the Swan as a possibility; she had several times asked Laurence to put her in touch with Shearman, but had encountered a blank wall of unwillingness. It seemed as though, for some reason, Laurence did not like the man.

  Actually, the head and front of Sir Jude’s offending was that he had made a smash hit three years previously with a highbrow poetical play that Harwell had contemptuously refused to back. Being a North Countryman, who liked to say what he thought, Sir Jude rather made a point of rubbing in his triumph every time he happened to encounter Harwell in the bar at a first night. Harwell was wont to retort that one could get away with almost anything, given a lavish production and a snob audience. That did not alter the fact that the foolish play (completely pseudo in every respect) had run eighteen months in the West End, before embarking on a successful provincial tour and a fresh career of triumph in the United States. The thing was an affront to one’s judgement. But since all this had taken place before Harwell’s marriage, Rosamund knew nothing about it. Her husband was accustomed to say that Shearman was a vulgarian and unscrupulous man of business wit
h a stranglehold on half the theatres in London; he was quite correct in saying so, and was probably sincere in supposing that these were the reasons for his distaste.

  It was really unfortunate that Rosamund should find herself under an obligation to the Wimseys, just as she had made up her mind to dislike them. And it would be a disappointment, in a way, for Claude. She would have loved to say to him, ‘Claude, my dear, I’ve got Sir Jude Shearman to promise to read your play.’ He would have loved it too; he was really so devoted – foolishly so – and so ready to be grateful for her kindness. But now the little scene of delight and gratitude would be spoiled, because she would have to add: ‘You’d better remind him that Lady Peter Wimsey spoke about it.’ Managers were all like that; nothing ever got read unless it came with some sort of memoria technica of a personal nature attached to it. Poor Claude would have to divide his gratitude between her and a stranger, which would be tiresome for him. And meanwhile, she would have to return an appreciative answer to Lady Peter, and it would be difficult not to get involved in exchanges of hospitality, always under the distinguished patronage of Peter Wimsey, whose personality affected her so disagreeably.

  ‘Laurence, what’s Sir Jude Shearman like?’

  ‘Shearman? Oh, he’s one of these domineering North Countrymen with no manners. Been divorced twice. First time it might have been the woman’s fault, but the second time there was a whiff of scandal. Not the sort of fellow you’d care for. Why do you ask?’

  She passed the letter over to him.

  ‘Good Lord!’ Harwell was conscious of a moment’s sickening disquiet. If Shearman thought there was anything in Claude Amery . . . No! This time the blighter couldn’t possibly hope to crow over him. There was a better explanation, more probable and infinitely more comforting: ‘Oh, I can see through Shearman all right. He wants to stand in with Harriet Wimsey because Harriet Vane’s got a name and might write a play some day. Anyhow she’s good snob value. He probably thinks she’s personally interested in Amery.’ He read the letter through again. ‘Obviously, that’s it. Says he knows his books, good God! Do you suppose Shearman spends his time reading little volumes by Bloomsbury poets? Tell Amery to send the thing along, by all means, but he’d better not build any hopes on Shearman.’