‘I’m mad about Osmin,’ said Chandler.
Gossage giggled nervously, a giggle unaltered by increased age. He brought conversation back to more serious criticism.
‘The man’s more of a baritone than a bass. Some cardinal appoggiaturas went west in the last Act, I’m afraid. No harm in subordinating virtuosity to dramatic expression once in a way. Not least in a work of this kind. We can’t deny a lyrical tenderness, can we? I expect you agree with that, Mrs …’
Hesitating to call her ‘Mrs Maclintick’, after all these years of living with Moreland, at the same time, never having graduated to addressing her as ‘Audrey’, Gossage’s voice trailed gently away. Audrey Maclintick took no notice of him. She spoke quietly, but there was a rasp in her tone.
‘Have you seen the substitute Violin, Moreland?’
Moreland guessed from her manner of speaking trouble was on the way. He was plainly without a clue what form that might take, why she had asked the question.
‘Has he arrived tight, or something? I’ve conducted unshaved myself before now. One mustn’t be too critical. This one’s a substitute for the regular man, who’s ill. The orchestra wasn’t too bad. Allowing for Gossage’s just strictures on the subject of appoggiaturas.’
‘You haven’t noticed one of the Violins, Moreland?’
‘No, should I? Has he got two heads, or a forked tail emerging from the seat of his trousers?’
Moreland said that in a conciliatory manner, one he used often to employ with Matilda. Audrey Maclintick brought out the answer through her teeth.
‘It’s Carolo.’
Moreland was not at all prepared for that. It was not a contingency anyone was likely to foretell; at the same time, the musical world being what it was, one not in the least unheard of in the circumstances. At first Moreland looked dreadfully upset. Then, seeing the matter in clearer proportion, his face cleared. There were signs that he was going to laugh. He successfully managed not to do so, his mouth trembling so much in the effort that it looked for a second as if he might burst into an almost hysterical peal, similar to that brought on by news of Glober’s identity. Audrey Maclintick, for her part, showed no sign of seeing anything funny in the presence of her former lover—the man for whom she had left Maclintick—turning up in the Seraglio orchestra. Her demeanour almost suggested suspicion that Moreland himself had deliberately engineered transposition of violinists, just to disturb her own feelings. Seeing she was thoroughly agitated about what seemed to himself merely comic—another nostalgic enrichment of the Stevens party—he pulled himself together, plainly with an effort, and spoke soothingly.
‘Is this really true? Are you sure it’s Carolo? Musical types often resemble each other facially, especially violinists. I’ve noticed when conducting.’
Audrey Maclintick would have none of that.
‘I lived with the man for three years, didn’t I? Why should I say he was substitute Violin, if he wasn’t I got to know him by sight, even if he didn’t spend much time in the house.
Her fluster about the matter was unforeseen. On the whole, one would have been much more prepared for complete indifference. Objecting to the presence of Matilda was another matter. The intensity of feeling that bound Audrey Maclintick to Moreland was all at once momentarily revealed. Moreland made a face in my direction. He must have been wondering whether Matilda—actually married to Carolo for a short period in her early life—had also noticed the presence of her former husband. All this talk caused Gossage to suffer one of his most severe conjunctions of embarrassment. Like a man playing an invisible piano, he made wriggling movements in the air with fingers of both hands, while he mused aloud in a kind of aside.
‘I did hear Carolo was not so very prosperous some years ago. No reason why he shouldn’t have substituted tonight, prosperous or not. Did it to oblige, I expect.’
Chandler disagreed.
‘Who ever heard of Carolo being obliging, since the days when he was fiddling away at Vieuxtemps, in a black velvet suit and lace collar? He’s not dressed like that tonight, is he? Now that we’re none of us so young, I’m wearing quieter clothes myself.’
That gave Moreland a chance to deflect the conversation.
‘Nonsense, Norman, you’re known as London’s most eminent Teddy Boy.’
The measure was successful so far as putting an end to further discussion about Carolo, until time to return to the marquee. On the way there, Gossage was still muttering to himself.
‘They’ve got polish. Vivacity.’
That was safely to relegate Carolo to a collective group. The orchestra could not be seen from where we sat. So far as I know, direct contact was never made during the further course of the evening between Carolo and his former ladies, but, at the termination of the opera, expression was given to a kind of apotheosis of the situation. This juncture, brief but striking, to be appreciated only by those conversant with Carolo’s earlier fame, was too dramatic, too trite, to be altogether good art. Nevertheless, it had its certain splendour, however banal. This happened when, praise of the Pasha’s renunciation of revenge chanted to a close, the curtain fell to much applause; then rose again for the reappearance of the cast. The audience was enthusiastic. The curtain rose, fell again, several times. The cast bowed their way off. It was the turn of the orchestral players. They trooped on to the stage.
‘Which is Carolo?’ whispered Isobel.
I was not sure I should have recognized him among the Violins without prompting. That was not because Carolo’s appearance had become in any manner less picturesque than when younger. On the contrary, the romantic raven locks, now snow white, had been allowed to grow comparatively long, in the manner of Liszt, to whom Carolo bore some slight resemblance. His whole being continued to proclaim the sufferings of the artist, just as in days gone by, in the basement dining-room of the Maclinticks. He bowed repeatedly (without the warmth of the old singer in Venice) to the charity-performance guests, with his colleagues, the general acknowledgment of the orchestra.
Then the orchestral players turned, in unison, towards the side of the auditorium, where Rosie and Stevens sat, together with Matilda, the Cabinet Minister and his wife. To these, as begetters of the show, Carolo and his fellows now made a personal tribute, Matilda, of necessity, included in this profound obeisance. The faint smile she gave, while she clapped, was not, I think, illusory. It marked her recognition that rôles had changed since Carolo, young and promising musician, had picked up, married, a little girl from the provinces, just managing to keep afloat as an actress. Matilda’s attitude, more philosophic than Audrey Maclintick’s, had not been of the temperament to remain married to Moreland. A few minutes later, illustration was provided of unlikely ties that can, on the other hand, keep a couple together, without marriage, probably without sexual relationship. This took place on the way to the supper-room. Odo Stevens came up with two people for whom he wanted to find a place.
‘Do you remember, when you and I lived in that block of flats during the war—just before I went off with my Partisans? Of course you do. Here’s Myra Erdleigh, who was there too, and this is Mr Stripling. Jimmy Stripling is teaching me a lot about my new passion I was talking about in Venice, vintage cars. Let’s find a table.’
Age—goodness knows how old she was—had exalted Mrs Erdleigh’s unsubstantiality. She looked very old indeed, yet old in an intangible, rather than corporeal sense. Lighter than air, disembodied from a material world, the swirl of capes, hoods, stoles, scarves, veils, as usual encompassed her from head to foot, all seeming of so light a texture that, far from bringing an impression of accretion, their blurring of hard outlines produced a positively spectral effect, a Whistlerian nocturne in portraiture, sage greens, sombre blues, almost frivolous greys, sprinkled with gold.
Jimmy Stripling, certainly a lot younger than Mrs Erdleigh, had become old in a different, more conventional genre. Tall, shambling, what remained of his hair grey, rather greasy, his bulky figure, which took up more r
oom than ever, was shapeless and bent. Even so, he seemed in certain respects less broken down, morally speaking, than in his middle period. To be old suited him better, gave excuse to a bemused demeanour, pulled it together. Stevens was delighted with both of them.
‘Myra and I met again in Venice. That was after you’d left. We talked a lot about those wartime flats, and the people who lived there. All those Belgians. Myra told my fortune then. She predicted a belle guerre for me. I didn’t have too bad a one, so she prophesied right.’
Mrs Erdleigh took my hand. As in the past, her touch brought a sense of intercommunication, one conveyed by vibrations that imposed themselves almost more by not-being, than by being. They emphasized the inexistence of the flesh, rather than, by direct contact, extending its pressures and undercurrents.
‘We have not met since that night of dangers.’
She smiled her otherworldly smile, misted hazel eyes roaming over past and future, apportioning to each their substance and shadow, elements to herself one and indivisible. I asked if she had been staying at the Bragadin palace. She shook her head in a faraway manner.
‘I went only a few times to see Baby Clarini. She is a very old friend. Under Scorpio, like that other lady at the Palazzo, who is here tonight. Baby has had a sad life. She has never delved down to those eternal foundations, of which Thomas Vaughan speaks—Eugenius Philalethes, as we know him—that transform the hard stubborn flints of the world into chrysolites and jasper.’
She did not seem at all surprised when I told her Dr Brightman had also, speaking of Borage and Hellebore, invoked the name of Thomas Vaughan in Venice.
‘His spirit was moving there. The Lion of St Mark could symbolize that green lion he calls the body, the magical entity that must clip the wings of the eagle. Do you remember planchette on that dark afternoon in the country? It was Baby’s planchette that had beeen borrowed.’
I had forgotten that fact. The occasion, in any case, was not one desirable for resurrection at that moment. Better reminiscence should stop there. Mrs Erdleigh, who had perhaps been teasing, allowed that view to prevail. I followed up her astrological connotation of Baby Clarini by drawing attention to Isobel’s horoscope.
‘My wife is under Pisces. She rebels against that.’
Isobel made some complaint about the trials to which Piscians are subject. Mrs Erdleigh turned on to her a soothsayer’s gaze, friendly but all-seeing.
‘Remember always The Fishes are ruled by Jupiter—give no credence to Neptune. There is the safeguard. When first I put out the cards for your husband, I told him you two would meet, and all would be well.’
If my acknowledgment fell short of absolute agreement that Mrs Erdleigh had seen so far ahead, it also fell much farther short of truthful denial that she had said anything of the sort. Sorceresses, more than most, are safer allowed their professional amour propre. Stripling leant across the table. He had sat down opposite, next to Stevens. He was probably under permanent orders to remain directly within Mrs Erdleigh’s eye.
‘Are you one of these musical people? I expect so. I don’t know a thing about Mozart opera, or anyone else’s, but Myra wanted to come. Myra and I have been friends for years. I have to do what she wants. She’s such a wonderful person. What she knows is uncanny, far more than that. No, it is, Myra, I mean it.’
Mrs Erdleigh had made no attempt to deny omniscience, but Stripling may have felt the whole speech necessary to establish his own standing. I attempted some remark about having met him at the Templers’ years before.
‘Of course, of course. Poor old Peter.’
Stripling did not seem very capable of taking in chronological bearings about people any longer, only motor-cars, as it turned out a moment later, when I told him about seeing Sunny Farebrother some months before. Farebrother, too, then a butt of Stripling’s derision, had been at the Templer house when we first met.
‘Sunny Farebrother? Do you know I was thinking of Sunny the other day. He used to own an old Ford car years ago—thirty or forty, old even then—so much so, people like me ragged him about it. No hope he’s kept it, I suppose? He’s always been a very economical man, but I don’t expect there’s any hope of that. I’d give a lot to possess that car. Cars are the only things I know about. Are you interested in cars?’
‘I possess one, so I have to be to that extent.’
Stripling shook his head. That was not enough.
‘I’ve loved cars all my life. Love’s the only word. Passionate love. Some feel like that about them. Probably why my marriage wasn’t a success. I loved cars over well. I’m too old to race them now, but I study them, and collect them. Not a rally, not a concours d’élégance, I miss. You know Odo’s got very keen on vintage cars too.’
When people speak of a subject close to them, they can look transformed. Almost as mystically absorbed in car lore as Mrs Erdleigh in a transcendental vision, Stripling suddenly changed from his dreamy state to one of intense excitement. He had just thought of something he could not wait to communicate to Stevens, something of paramount importance to both of them.
‘I say, Odo, do you know there’s an American at this party who’s keen on vintage cars? A fellow called Glober. Told me quite by chance a minute before the opera started. It’s just come back to me. I’d mentioned I owned two Armstrong Siddeleys, ’26 and ’27, which both still go like smoke. Powerful as dreadnoughts, the pair of them. He was as keen as mustard at once. They’re 14 h.p., o.h.v., four-cylinder, sparely raked windscreens, both absolute treasures the way they pound along. What do you think Glober told me? He owns a 4½ litre supercharged ’31 Bentley, which he’s got here tonight. Only bought her last week. Of course, he wanted to see the Armstrong Siddeleys, when he’s got a chance to let up on the film he’s making—he’s a film producer—and he’s going to show me the Bentley when we leave. He’s pondering a Bugatti 35.’
Stevens took charge of Stripling at this stage.
‘Of course I know Louis Glober’s in the vintage market, Jimmy. What are you thinking about? But, look here, tell me again what you were saying the other day about the 1902, 5 h.p., Renault Voiturette. It’s the big stuff I’m getting interested in now. There was also a 1903 Panhard et Levassor, 10 h.p. tonneau, I wanted to discuss.’
They settled down to the subject.
‘Though many desire these treasures, none enter but he who knows the key and how to use it.’
For a moment, Mrs Erdleigh sounded as if he she, too, had embarked on the subject of vintage cars, but occult practices were still her theme.
‘I remember Dr Trelawney saying much the same not long before he—’
I stopped just in time, at the last minute remembering no one, least of all a mage like Dr Trelawney, should be disparaged by the statement that Death had overtaken him. Providential suspension on my lips of that misnomer was barely accepted by Mrs Erdleigh. She had already begun to shake her head at such a near lapse, congenital lack of insight, all but openly displayed.
‘You mean not long before he achieved the Eighth Sphere to which Trismegistus refers?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Where, as again Vaughan writes, the liberated soul ascends, looking at the sunset towards the west wind, and hearing secret harmonies. He calls this world, where we are now, an outdoor theatre, in whose wings the Dead wait their cue for return to the stage—an image from the opéra bouffe we have just witnessed. In a short space now, I too shall leave for the wings. Perhaps before the drama is played out, of which the opening Act was in the Bragadin palace. The rumble of wheels sounds. Once set in motion, the chariot of the soul does not long linger.’
‘What was begun at Jacky Bragadin’s?’
‘Much to disorder the hierarchy of being. Elsewhere too. Pluto disports himself in the Eighth House.’
I should have liked to continue, try to persuade Mrs Erdleigh to show herself a little more explicit, but her attention was distracted by a young Labour MP, politely sceptical, also anxious to enquire into hi
s own astrological nativity. Mrs Erdleigh’s engagement in this, other similar interrogations, took up the rest of supper. After we had moved away from the table, further opportunity came to talk to Stevens, who had for the moment renounced vintage cars, about Widmerpool, what had taken place to extricate him from his embarrassments. Stevens himself was greatly preoccupied with this question.
‘It’s been suggested he wrote an indiscreet letter. Realised he’d gone too far, then tried to withdraw. That might have been in office hours, or when he was being cultured in Eastern Europe. You can’t tell. It’s not denied now he’s a close sympathizer. Even so, he didn’t want to get in trouble with his own security authorities. A spot of blackmail seems to have been the result. I know the form. One of my own mob found himself in a tangle that way. Thought it all in the interests of “international goodwill” to hand over one or two quite important little items. They asked for more, he stalled—got cold feet—they gave him away to us.’
‘Somebody said there was a defection on their side.’
Stevens gave a sharp look.
‘Perhaps there was. Whatever happened, he’s got away with it.’
Stevens moved at ease through the world of secret traffickings of this kind. He was about to continue an exposition of what happened to such suspects, when—when not—convenient to prosecute, but was interrupted by Rosie. She came up in a state of some disquiet. Her little black eyes were popping out of her head with agitation.
‘Odo, come at once. Something rather worrying has happened.’
Stevens went off with her. Rosie’s anxiety might have any cause, the house on fire, an undesired invitation she wanted help in refusing, one of the children been sick, the degree of seriousness could not be estimated. Stevens’s comments had interest. What dreams of power, practical or phantasmic had long tantalized Widmerpool’s heart, what plans meditated to put them into effect? Stevens had spoken ironically of betrayals in the interest of ‘international goodwill’; Bagshaw, speculating on less highflown motives, satisfaction of a taste for wholesale destruction, vicarious individual revenge against society. Neither Bagshaw nor Stevens spoke without experience. Perhaps, in Widmerpool’s case, he managed to coalesce in himself both aspects. Chandler and Gossage passed. They said goodnight.
Dance to the Music of Time, Volume 4 Page 47