9
The Notebook of Nicholas Sharpe
Disaster has at last struck Charles. This morning Margaret took up where she had left off last week. She has joined some troupe which is performing a play at some minor amateur dramatic festival, God help her. The troupe leaves on Tuesday. The Commemoration Ball to which she was going with Charles is on Tuesday week. The parties and trips Charles has been planning for about six months (or so he suggests) are all off. He came to me about one o’clock this afternoon, white-faced, his car full of luxury foods. They had had a row yesterday before they came to the party. And this morning she simply gave him up. I did not listen to the full details, which would almost certainly have been painful. I just looked at the pile of paper bags. A few kumquats rolled about the bottom of the car. I took him to lunch in a pub. I did not know what to say or do. There is nothing one can say or do, of course. One’s silence is often appreciated at such times. To stop him getting drunk I took him to the cinema. This turned out to be a clever move. It was Les Jeux Interdits, extremely sad and good. Afterwards he was much more cheerful, though still white-faced. During the film he snuffled audibly, though whether this was at the story or his own misery I did not ask. I passed him my handkerchief, since he didn’t seem to have one, and he took it without a word. I nearly cried, too, but that was because children always make me want to cry. Something to do with the romantic notion of innocence, perhaps. Perhaps because I shall never have any of my own.
Me: What are you going to do?
He: Go away, I suppose.
Me: Whereto?
He: Home. I can’t leave till after this dance. I’m on the committee and am supposed to supervise various things. I shall have to find a new partner.
Me: There are many pretty girls who would be honoured to have you escort them. Let me suggest some.
He: Not on your life.
Me: Charles, you don’t know how lucky you are. You are free for the first time in two years.
He: Freedom is only possible if you know the limits within which you can exercise it.
Me: I never knew you thought about such things.
He: You said it yourself, you fool.
Me: It does sound familiar.
He: You make the mistake of supposing that no one but you ever thinks. It will be the making and ruin of your political career.
Me: I am not proposing to have a political career.
He: You will have one all the same. You’ll end up as a junior minister. Of course, you will have to join the Tory party first, as there is no hope of a Labour victory in your lifetime.
Me: Demand curves apply to political parties as to anything else.
He: You know perfectly well that you don’t know what you’re talking about, so shut up.
Me: Thank you.
He: I think you should travel, Nicholas. Let’s go to Greece, via Yugoslavia, so that you can satisfy your conscience as well as enjoy yourself. Art and politics all in one.
Me: You know I don’t have the money for that sort of jaunt.
He: Giles will lend it to you.
Me: Damn your eyes.
He: I don’t have the money either, as it happens. Why should that make any difference? One should never forget that banks exist in order to lend their depositors’ assets.
Me: Tell that to your bank manager.
He: Why don’t we go?
Me: I think you should become a stockbroker. Something very traditional and suitable for you.
He: I could never wear a bowler-hat. I’d look so silly.
Me: No sillier than anyone else. All hats are silly, except things that keep rain off your head. If you became a railway porter you would wear a cap, so why not a bowler-hat for a stockbroker?
He: I am not going to be either a porter or a stockbroker, Nicholas.
He had cheered up a lot by the time we parted. But I’m afraid he’s going to be depressed for the next few weeks, at least. It’s a pity he doesn’t leave now, instead of hanging around for the Commem. Taking someone else will only remind him that he isn’t taking Margaret. It’s not really fair to attack Margaret. She never pretended to be in love with him. She is very attractive, but she goes her own way. She won’t stay on the stage for long. Too much hard work and training. In about six months she will wake up and realize what she has lost in Charles. Then she will marry someone else. If Charles is her victim, she is a victim of the narrowness of feminine education, and the appalling disparity between the sexes, numerically, at Oxford.
The end has been in sight for a long time. Though the means were unexpected they justified both the end and its forecasters. (Ha, ha.)
*
Silence and absence still from Phi. I did not see Delta today, and do not expect to see him till after his Schools are over. If then. I’m rather afraid that he will go home and forget all about me. This will be a good thing for both of us in the long run. But sad for me now. After observing the love-affairs of my friends, I can only say that I feel blessed to be in this state of suspension. Jack and Elaine are presumably sleeping the sleep of the exhausted and innocent, after a hard day on Chaucer or whoever. How anyone can set, let alone answer, exams on literature I shall never understand.
Suppose you have two boys of equal intelligence. X says that Hamlet is a bad and boring play, second-rate Shakespeare, and gives reasoned arguments for holding this view. Y says that Hamlet is a good and fascinating play, first-class Shakespeare, and gives reasoned arguments for holding this view. How can you give the one more marks than the other? Yet one is right, I think, and the other wrong. English should be studied only by graduates, or as a branch of history or economics or philology. No one should be encouraged to express opinions about art until he has some notions about life.
Imaginary Toys Page 13