As if by Magic

by Angus Wilson

  As she reached the drawing-room door, He was braying again.

  “My dear fellow, they’re obviously kicking you upstairs. A very good thing, too. The more creative men make the policy . . .”

  But Mama did one of those things. She came over and kissed the forehead.

  “It looks quite lovely, darling. Oh dear! Why was my generation so unenterprising? Doesn’t she look enchanting, Hamo?”

  And Hamo, looking anywhere but at her:

  “Very with it.”

  “Dear Hamo! What words from the past! No one says that now, do they, darling? I appeal to you. But never mind, even if he doesn’t look at your sequins, he approves the tights.”

  All this fuss and innuendo, and now the Hamster making a coy little smile, as though to say to Mama, “Thank you for accepting. But not before the children,” and burrowing into his armchair (in so far as Ompierre could be burrowed into), making Her drawing-room his nest. As if it mattered. And when Rodrigo had lain on the rug at the party kissing Douglas White, she had been pleased not jealous, because it had only been for effect, and as Douglas was so pretty the effect had been good. And between Ned and Rodrigo, too, there was mutual physical feeling, but what it was and how, and, no, she would not think of that; if they lived as they felt, it would come out right. But an old whiskered hamster would surely do better to keep his flirtatious looks for the privacy of that vast desolate swimming-bath flat of his. And whoever with anyway? Perhaps another whiskered hamster, the two of them together there, like some wonderful nineteen-hundred ad for gymnastic belts or trusses or whatever, probably in those long woollen things like tights that came down to the ankles. Marvellous for collage.

  Yet this sort of jokey thought she must banish, for bitching about sex was unforgivable—worse even than all this nasty suggestiveness and coyness. Though it drove the blood to her head, made her ears ring, she tried to form in her mind some sentence to meet him, hamster or no hamster. But what?—as for example quite boldly, “I hope you have a nice lover”; but then, suppose he hadn’t—certainly the lover wouldn’t be nice to her view, for he’d have to be pretty old, and probably there wasn’t anyone at all, and then one would have been kind only to be cruel. Anyway from all Leslie had said, the Hamster had been pining away ever since Leslie and Martin had been together. “Cheer up” would seem to be the friendliest thing, but even that seemed hardly worth saying when somebody’s been determined to pine away for what must be years and years.

  Remembering all his expensive, embarrassing presents, and his more than embarrassing devotion, she tried to think worldly Ottoline Morrell sort of thoughts about slaves at one’s feet and so on. Playing with the long string of beads, even tossing them to and fro a little, one still could not forget that handing it down in love was a beastly uptight sort of woman’s fake and, anyway, far too close to “how to comfort Ned” and even “how not to let Rodrigo hurt”. Nevertheless, as the Hamster was going half or all round the world, she must make some contact, show some feeling (sincerity, after all, can be a heartless luxury), as though he (nicer to say Wilfred Owen than that awful Rupert Brooke person) were going to that blood-soaked front. And, of course, although it was only air flights, there must be hundreds who never return. “No, I’m afraid they’re not in. I’m their daughter. Of course. He’s my godfather. Oh no! No!”

  No survivors, and probably he’d leave everything to her, and she’d find porn pictures, moustachioed sergeants facing each other with dumb-bells for some obscene use, wearing long woollen—she remembered the word now—combinations. Well, at least she’d never let Them see.

  But she’d got nowhere in such circular thoughts and now it was too late, for His blaring had filled the room again, brushing aside beads and bugles and innuendoes.

  “They’ll try to run you, of course. Keep half the evidence concealed. Feed you only the facts they choose. All the same, not to worry, you know. They can be beaten if you’re dogged enough. I’ve found that out at the Corporation. And if I can do it, you certainly can with all that scientific persistence.”

  With much whisker-touching and an air of distaste for the food offered him, the Hamster refused it. Research scientist. Own field-work in India, Ceylon. Visits to plant genetic centres; additional work undertaken for F.A.O. Reported observations, not policy. Contacts I.R.R.I. And, no doubt, O.A.C.D. And purring now, not mumbling. Just those groups of letters making him into a sleek, proud pussycat. But then that was the scientist’s life—letters, letters and numbers—look at Alan Grayson’s room with all those chemical equations or Nickie Culmer’s desk covered in weird-looking economists’ graphs—

  A=2q+σν(AL)²/2, B= σν/2

  or whatever it all meant. So to throw letters at them, even these awful organizational letters, no doubt, brought him out of his hamster cage, or rather brought them in so that there they were—humanist Him and Her—thinking they’d gone on a charming visit to a pet hamster’s cage, but, in fact, faced with a purring tiger.

  And really that was what he seemed now, for he’d left those organizational letters for formulæ and his purr must be audible to his caged brother tigers a quarter of a mile away at the Zoo. Anxious to discuss A.2 P.5 with a chap in Tokyo, and B.3 L.7 with another chap in . . . Roaring he was now, despite the prim Cheshire grin—a smile on the face of the Tiger, so that She could only bleat.

  “But surely, Hamo, you care about what happens to your work?”

  And He: “You’ll find yourself caught up in it all. The admin men will get you.”

  No good, the great striped Hamster drove all before him.

  But not herself, for she knew exactly where she stood about letters, letters and numbers, graphs and equations, figures and fractions, that threatened the humanity of words. Everything worthwhile would fall, if the letters and numbers conquered instead of words and visions and sounds. Of that they were all sure—Ned above all, of course, but even Rodrigo who, after all, cared so intensely about style in living, dandy rebellion. Oh God! let the roaring striped Hamster have shrunk to his mumble again before Ned arrived, otherwise Ned would sense him at once as an enemy of magic, of its glory and its terror.

  But now they had shifted on to numbers of a different kind—pounds and pence, but especially pounds—the old bourgeois standby numbers; hence He and She felt once more at ease (a guilty ease).

  “It’s the one part of taxation that I feel really happy about paying. Well, that, and schools of course, and health.”

  “Yes. But I doubt if much of Hamo’s dwarf wheat and hybrid rice came out of our pockets. Mostly American dollars, wasn’t it, Hamo?”

  “Oh, Hamo, do say not, because that would mean . . .”

  “In point of fact the major programmes are financed by the countries themselves, I believe.”

  “What, Zambia, Gambia and Anyoldambia? You’re joking.”

  “Perry, don’t be so vulgar.”

  “Sorry. Penitent old Hector. All the same, they surely just don’t have that sort of money. Or else they’ve been telling the story very smartly.”

  And the Hamster, now amused, an on-looking sort of hamster.

  “Good heavens, I had no idea that Number 8 was such a fund-raising centre. I must put James Kepple and Sir Alec Jardine in touch with you. The financing of world projects is the refuge they’ve taken in their inability to keep up with the new projects themselves. Myself, as long as I get my adequate thousands for my own work, the millions may be left to you fund-raisers. However, if the honesty of the under-developed countries’ claims to be under-developed troubles you, Perry, I can assure you that that much is done by international funds. In my own case, for example, by the Rapson.”

  “The Rapson. Good God! That means your villainous great-uncle James.”

  “Hamo! Your work surely doesn’t get money from him. The monster uncle! He must be draining millions away from the starving.”

  And now the Hamster preening himself in a new way, a hamster modestly connected with prize hamsters.


  “Among the innumerable and world-wide financial enterprises with which I am concerned, the Rapson Fund is, I assure you, only a drop in the ocean.”

  And, oh Lord! could it be? the Hamster was now imitating another hamster; yet, apart from blowing out his cheeks, he was, voice, look and all, exactly the same as if he had never tried to imitate.

  Seeking a reflection of her embarrassment in Mama and Him, she found none. It was obviously some old joke of their long-ago youth, for there was laughter and filling-up of glasses.

  “I do wish that just for once I could actually meet the wicked uncle. Not to speak to, of course, because I’m no good with tycoon monsters.”

  “I have, Zoe. I passed him in a corridor at Television Centre. He’s a monster B.B.C. Trustee, you know, as well, only, thank God, too busy to do much harm.”

  “Exactly, as I said, my interests are world-wide and innumerable. Four hundred and eight in all.”

  And Mama glancing now as if to say, listen, see the Hamster doing his tricks; and even He had a little smile, that said, it takes time to unfreeze hamsters, but we do know how to do it. A great longing for Rodrigo to put them down, to break up their superior talk with his real ease and worldliness came over her; or, if not that, for Ned with his integrity to batter through their satisfied glow of memory, as they invited her to come into the circle by the warm fireside of past jokes even though, of course, being still a child, she could hardly have a proper adult palate for the roast chestnuts (that was good—she would remember that for Rodrigo) and mulled claret.

  “I’m afraid his arithmetic will become worse now, for his new occult interests include Atlantean mathematics. My poor aunt is supposed to be revealing the significance of Stonehenge measurements through some medium. Although as far as I remember her computing interests never went any further than a very proper control of the household accounts in her lifetime.”

  They were sparkling now—this was how it used to be, those were the days, my friends, and we’re going to see they never end. Mama’s ear-rings a-glitter, and His liquid eyes aglow, and even the Hamster’s little nose twinkling. Twinkle, twinkle, little wits, you’ll never send me into fits. To tell to Ned, for there was always Lewis Carroll to fall back on.

  “Has he still got that tame medium, Hamo? I always remember your description of her—the fat one with mauve hair that put him in touch with Piero della Francesca or was it Leonardo? You made us laugh so much.”

  And, looking up at the Moroni portrait as though to ask for post-grave news at a rather cheaper rate, and then twisting her handkerchief again because could one, should one in view of everything and all that was suffered everywhere, hoard away nuts even so comparatively modest as the Moroni? As if life could be measured by the modesty of one’s store of nuts.

  But the Hamster was almost chattering now. So this was what the mysterious words meant that she had heard all her life. “Hamo can still be wonderfully funny. If only Leslie . . .”

  “I’m afraid the extra-terrestrial voices have moved on from art where their nonsense was not wholly out of keeping. He’s launched into so-called science now. But of this very special kind. Apart from my poor aunt, he’s in touch with one of the initiates from Avebury, some refugee from Atlantis who’s trying to teach him the mathematical foundations of the esoteric wisdom. But for all his great financial powers, it seems that Uncle James isn’t quite up to occult addition and subtraction yet.”

  And laughter and sparkle and more champagne.

  But if this did mean that the Hamster had put aside his pining, his life-long widow’s weeds or whatever men wore for the men they’d lost, she ought (because human beings do count and gratitude is a good) to try to reach him. And at this point, anyway, thinking of Yeats and all that Ned had said of the Golden Order, she thought perhaps she could. So breaking through their bubbling, she heard her own voice, rather shrill and serious and little-girl-in-class, but common-sense and rational not to offend his prejudices.

  “How well authenticated are the mathematical surveys of Avebury and Glastonbury and the other neolithic places? Do serious scientists find any conviction in it, Hamo?”

  And the Hamster stopped dead, as though God had asked him the time.

  “Well, to begin with, of course, Alexandra, I’m only a fair mathematician. And then I haven’t familiarized myself with any of the evidence offered. Aerial survey, isn’t it? It’s really an engineer’s problem.”

  Imploring her with his eyes not to break contact, but also telling her that he couldn’t find the wavelength. But now He wheeled round with delight not to the metres and cubes of the ancient solar wisdoms but to dear old pounds and pence.

  “What do you think the old boy’ll leave?”

  And Mama, fearing for the loss of the Hamster’s recovered virgin sparkle, cried, “Avebury! So that’s why he bought that estate in Wiltshire. Great-grandfather’s letters are full of it. You know how he thinks anyone from London and especially tycoons come to the country solely to shoot the last badger and cut down the last wych elm. But it’s vast apparently. Do you think he might leave it to you, Hamo? If he left you his money and his estate you could set up your own research centre there without all these awful admin people.”

  “Yes, old boy, how would Wiltshire be for the sorghum revolution?”

  But the Hamster had suddenly gone all prim again.

  “I imagine Uncle James will leave the major part of his fortune to charity. I may get some memento. Though I hardly deserve it, offering feeble mimicry of what is no doubt a necessary manner for a man so eminent in that financial world. You must always remember that he was the second son. As my father always pointed out, with Grandfather inheriting Loughaugh, there was little Uncle James could turn to but the City. He wasn’t, thank goodness, born to the Victorian tradition of the Church for the younger son. My father respected him greatly, although I think he found his manner a little ostentatious at times as I do. And he always showed the most laudable and genuine admiration for Father’s distinguished military career. No, you really mustn’t encourage me to mock him.”

  But She would not be repressed. “You mark my words, Hamo. You’ll inherit. And I am sure that his will’ll be one of the enormous ones in the Times that are so fascinating to read. They’re always Baronets in Wiltshire or Caithness.”

  “Or widows and old maids in Eastbourne.”

  “Oh, do stop about Eastbourne, Perry. It’s getting as irritating as the Guardian misprints. Anyway, those poor old Eastbourne women aren’t really rich. They just live in those hotels because they can’t afford servants. But people like Hamo’s great-uncle—company-director squires—you can see how clever they are to be both at once!—they leave millions.”

  And, happy with the millions because they reflected no guilt on large Hampstead incomes, He and She were off now on a whimsy about wills, should they or should they not be one’s favourite Times reading, and was it widows or squires, and in the U.S.A. certainly widows in Florida, and, if in the U.S.A., why not in England? With the Hamster rather feebly following in the wake.

  And their voices cut off all thought, all connection, all meaning, all love. Her limbs ached, now her arms, then her thighs; her head throbbed, and her cheeks burned; and, how, with such aching limbs, to scratch, peck, scratch, peck in any hall, after the van jolting and brown rice cooked in the van on a primus? And how to respond to Ned’s arms round her and his beard so deliciously, clumsily scraping her lips, and Rodrigo’s cool, practised hands, stroking, exploring among the beads and satin petticoat? And Birkin where had he fled? And Ursula? But now the room spun round and the Hamster was upside-down like the dormouse in the tea-pot, and for a moment everything was black and she shut her eyes, for Rodrigo’s bare thigh was taut against Gerald’s naked back, and his arm was forcing Ned’s head backwards, no, Birkin’s. And suddenly, but not in sleep, for she could see Them and the Hamster and hear Their willy, willy, wetlegs talk, a woman’s thin face, every wrinkle, even blackheads clear, old white
skin grubby, mouth pursed, blackish hairs spread loosely on the upper lip, pince-nez but behind them the eyes bleeding (Potemkin?) but none the less hating, hating. She held to the sides of the chair, rigid, in order not to scream, she told herself it was no woman, just Loerke, she’d called up Loerke. In Lawrence at least she would get a first from empathy. Here was a joke to tell Ned. Oh where was Ned? Where was he? And then the door-bell.

  She was up at once.

  “I’ll go. It’s them in the van, the mime van. I’ll be back next week. Have a good world trip, Hamo. And Mama’s wrong. Don’t fuss about the starving. From now on everyone must do their own thing.”

  But it was no good.

  “Alexandra, darling, you might at least bring your friends in for a glass of champagne. We haven’t got bubonic in the house.”

  And He, old Hector, “Unclean! Unclean!”

  “Stop it, Perry, they’ll think we’re mad. Have you got food, Ally? I can give you some rather good pâté sandwiches. Wouldn’t that be a good idea? Who is it anyway? Someone we know?”

  “It’s only Rodrigo and Ned and we’ve got to get to Luton or somewhere for a rehearsal, so there isn’t time.”

  “Ah,” He all friendly and bubbling, “Jekyll and Hyde.”

  And Mama shushing Him with one look, and another to the Hamster—“These are the Alexandra problems I was telling you about.” How to explain the awful confluence that threatened to drown her?

  “I mean about wills. They wouldn’t be any good about that. You see we don’t know about wills. Ned won’t say anything. But he’ll hate it. And if Rodrigo does say anything, it will be an awful show-off, because his parents are really quite ordinary and they don’t have any large property or anything . . .”

  But Mama’s arm was around her waist; even a light kiss on the lips to silence her.

  “Wills! You make us sound like the Forsyte Saga. You seem to think that we’re critical of you for having two boys after you at once, darling. We’re just jealous, aren’t we, Hamo? And, anyway, they’re both tremendous charmers in their different ways.”