Moreland, although always perfectly friendly – indeed, making more effort with Carolo than he usually did with gloomy, silent geniuses – never gave the impression of caring much for his company. I supposed Carolo’s invitation due to some inflexion of musical politics of which I was myself ignorant, and about which, to tell the truth, I felt very little interest. However, this comment seemed to sober Matilda, or at least to change her mood.
‘We had to ask him,’ she said. ‘No choice of mine, I can assure you. It was all on account of the Maclinticks. As Carolo lives in the same house as the Maclinticks, Hugh thought it would be awkward if he didn’t get an invitation. Hugh was very anxious for Maclintick to come – in fact wouldn’t hear of his not coming. Hugh and Maclintick are really great friends, you know.’
‘The Maclinticks were having a full-dress row when I left them a short time ago.’
‘They always are.’
‘They should lay off for an hour or two on occasions like this. A short rest would renew their energies for starting again when they return home.’
‘That is just married life.’
‘To be married to either of the Maclinticks cannot be much fun—’
‘Is it fun to be married to anyone?’
‘That is rather a big question. If you admit that fun exists at all – perhaps you don’t – you cannot lay it down categorically that no married people get any fun from the state of being married.’
‘But I mean married to someone,’ said Matilda, speaking quite passionately. ‘Not to sleep with them, or talk to them, or go about with them. To be married to them. I have been married a couple of times and I sometimes begin to doubt it.’
We were now in the midst of dangerous abstractions which might once more threaten further embarrassments of the kind I hoped to avoid. Generalisations about married life could easily turn to particularisation about Moreland and Priscilla, a relationship I should prefer to investigate later, in my own way and time, rather than have handed to me on a plate by Matilda; the latter method almost certainly calling for decisions and agreements undesirable, so it seemed to me, at this stage of the story. I was also very surprised by this last piece of information: that Matilda had had a husband previous to Moreland.
‘You have been married twice, Matilda?’
‘Didn’t you know?’
‘Not the least idea.’
I wondered for a moment whether Sir Magnus Donners could possibly have married her clandestinely. If so – and that was very unlikely – an equally clandestine divorce was scarcely conceivable. That notion could be dismissed at once.
‘I was married to Carolo,’ she said.
‘My dear Matilda.’
‘That surprises you?’
‘Immensely.’
She laughed shrilly.
‘I thought Hugh might have told you.’
‘Never a word.’
‘There is no particular secret about it. The marriage lasted a very short time. It was when I was quite young. In fact pretty soon after I left home. Carolo is not a bad old thing in his way. Just not very bright. Not a bit like Hugh. We used to quarrel a good deal. Then we didn’t really get on in bed. Besides, I got tired of him talking about himself all the time.’
‘Understandably.’
‘After I left Carolo, as you know, I was kept by Donners for a time. At least people are all aware of that. It is such a relief not to have to explain everything about oneself to everyone. We met just about the time when Donners was getting restive about the way Baby Wentworth was treating him. He was taking Lady Ardglass out quite often too, but she never really liked being seen with him. I think she found him terribly unsmart. So did Baby Wentworth, I believe, if it comes to that. I did not mind that drab side of him. I got tired of him for other reasons, although he can be nice in his own particular way. He is awful, of course, at times. Really awful. But he can be generous – I mean morally generous – too. I am not interested in money. One thing about Donners, he does not know what jealousy means. When Baby was running round with Ralph Barnby, he did not mind at all. That did not affect me in one way, because unlike so many women, I prefer only one man at a time. But it is nice not to be bothered about where you went last night, or where you are going to tomorrow afternoon. Don’t you agree?’
‘Certainly I do. Was Carolo like that – jealous in that way?’
‘A bit. But Carolo’s chief interest is in making conquests, he doesn’t much mind who it is. I shouldn’t wonder if he doesn’t run after Audrey Maclintick. Probably Maclintick would be glad of someone to keep her quiet and take her off his hands. What a bitch she is.’
‘All the same, there is a difference between being fed up with your wife and wanting another man to take her off your hands.’
‘There wasn’t in Carolo’s case. He was thankful when I fixed myself up. That is part of his simple nature, which is his chief charm. I had really left Donners by the time I met Hugh. What do you think about Hugh?’
‘I should guess that he was not particularly jealous as men go.’
‘Oh, I don’t mean that. He isn’t. I mean what do you think of him as a man?’
‘You know quite well, Matilda, that he is a great friend of mine.’
‘But his work … I do think he is … frightfully intelligent … a great man … whatever you like. Everything one says of that sort always sounds silly about someone you know – certainly someone you are married to. I had quite enough of being told my husband was a genius when I was Carolo’s wife. But you do agree about Hugh, don’t you, Nick?’
‘Yes, I do, as a matter of fact.’
‘That is why I am so worried about the symphony. You see, I am sure it will not be properly appreciated. People are so stupid.’
I longed to hear more about Sir Magnus Donners; whether some of the very circumstantial, very highly coloured stories that circulated about the elaboration of his idiosyncrasies, were at all near the truth. However, the moment to acquire such information, the moment for such frivolities, if it had ever existed, was now past. The tone had become too serious I could not imagine what the next revelation would be; certainly nothing so light-hearted as a first-hand account of a millionaire’s sexual fantasies.
‘Then there is this business of both of us having a career.’
‘That is always difficult.’
‘I don’t want never to act again.’
‘Of course not.’
‘After all, if Hugh wanted to marry a squaw, he could easily have found a squaw. They abound in musical circles. It is the answer for lots of artists.’
‘Hugh has always been against squaws. Rightly, I think. In the long run, in my opinion, a squaw is even more nuisance than her antithesis – and often cooks worse too.’
‘Then why do Hugh and I find it so difficult to get on together?’
‘But you always seem to get on a treat.’
‘That’s what you think.’
‘Well, don’t you – when you look at the Maclinticks, for example?’
‘And then …’
I thought for a moment she was going to speak of the child’s death, which I now saw had dislocated their marriage more seriously than anyone had supposed from the outside. Instead, she returned to her earlier theme.
‘And now he has gone and fallen in love with your sister-in-law, Priscilla.’
‘But—’
Matilda laughed at the way in which I failed to find any answer. There was really nothing for me to say. If it was true, it was true. From one point of view, I felt it unjust that I should be visited in this manner with Matilda’s mortification; from another, well deserved, in that I had not already acquainted myself with what was going on round me.
‘Of course it is all quite innocent,’ said Matilda. ‘That is the worst thing about it from my point of view. It would be much easier if he had fallen for some old tart like myself he could sleep with for a spell, then leave when he was bored.’
‘When did all this start up?
’
In asking the question, I committed myself in some degree to acceptance of her premises about Moreland and Priscilla. There seemed no alternative.
‘Oh, I don’t know. A month or two ago. They met at that office where she works. I knew something of the sort had happened when he came home that day.’
‘But they met first at our flat.’
‘They’d met before you produced her at your flat. They kept quiet about knowing each other when they met there.’
I spared a passing thought for the slyness of Priscilla; also for Matilda’s all-embracing information service. Before more could be said about this uncomfortable subject, two things happened to break up our conversation. First of all the distinguished conductor – rather specially noted for his appreciation of feminine attractions – presented himself with a great deal of flourish to pay his respects to Matilda. He was known to admire her, but until that moment had been unable to escape from persons who wanted to take this opportunity of chatting with a celebrity of his calibre, finally being pinned down by Lady Huntercombe, who had descended upon him after failing to capture Robert. He had already made some opening remarks of a complimentary kind to Matilda, consciously recalling by their form of expression the elaborate courtesies of an earlier age – and I was preparing to leave Matilda to him – when my attention was diverted to something that had taken place at the far end of the room.
This was nothing less than the arrival of Stringham. At first I could hardly believe my eyes. There he was standing by the door talking to Buster. The scene was only made credible by the fact that Buster looked extremely put out. After what had been said that evening, Stringham was certainly the last person to be expected to turn up at his mother’s party. He was not wearing evening clothes, being dressed, in fact, in a very old tweed suit and woollen jumper. As usual he looked rather distinguished in these ancient garments, which could not have less fitted the occasion, but somehow at the same time seemed purposely designed to make Buster appear overdressed. Stringham himself was, as formerly, perfectly at ease, laughing a lot at something he had just remarked to Buster, who, with wrinkled forehead and raised eyebrows, had for once lost all his air of lazy indifference to life, and seemed positively to be miming the part of a man who has suddenly received a disagreeable surprise. Stringham finished what he had to say, clapped Buster on the back, and turned towards his mother who came up at that moment. I was too far away to hear Mrs Foxe’s words, but, as she kissed her son affectionately, she was clearly welcoming him in the manner appropriate to one returned unexpectedly from a voyage round the world. At the same time, unlike her husband, she showed no surprise or discomposure at Stringham’s arrival. They spoke together for a second or two, then she returned to her conversation with Lord Huntercombe. Stringham turned away from her and strolled across the room, gazing about him with a smile. Catching sight of me suddenly, he drew back with a movement of feigned horror, then made towards the place where I was standing. I went to meet him.
‘My dear Nick.’
‘Charles.*
‘I had no idea you had musical tastes, Nick. Why did you keep them from me all these years? Because I never asked, I suppose. One always finds the answer to everything in one’s own egotism. But how nice to meet again. I am a recluse now. I see nobody. I expect you already knew that. Everybody seems to know by now. It is just a bit like being a leper, only I don’t actually have to carry a bell. They decided to let me off that. Thought I should make too much of a row, I suppose. You can’t imagine what a pleasure it is to come unexpectedly upon an old friend one knew several million years ago.’
There could be no doubt that he was drunk, but, within the vast area comprised by that term, among the immensely varied states of mind and body which intoxication confers, Stringham’s at this moment was that controlled exhilaration of spirit more akin to madness than carousal, which some addicts can achieve after a single glass. He looked rather ghastly when you were close to him, his skin pale and mottled, his eyes sunken and bloodshot. Even so, there was plenty of the old dash about his manner.
‘I had no idea my mother would be giving a party tonight,’ he said. ‘Just thought I would drop in and have a word with her by the fireside as I haven’t seen her for some time. What do I find but a whirl of gaiety. I really came along to tease Buster. I like doing that from time to time. It cheers me up for some reason. You know I now live in a flat at the top of a house owned by a relation of your wife’s – Molly Jeavons, one of the most delightful and charming of people. I sometimes hear about you both from her or from Ted. I dote on Ted. He hasn’t been very well lately, you know, and he gives wonderful descriptions of what is going on in his lower intestine – that war wound of his. One need never be bored when Ted gets on to that subject. He and I sometimes go out for the quickest of quick drinks. I am not supposed to have much in the way of drink these days. Neither is Ted. I am trying to knock off, really—but it seems such a bore to be a total abstainer, as I believe such people are called. I can have just one drink still, you know. I don’t have to keep off it utterly.’
He said these words in such an appealing tone that I felt torn inwardly to think of the condition he must be in, of the circumstances in which he must live. His awareness of his own state seemed almost worse than total abandonment to the bottle. It looked very much as if he might just have come on to his mother’s house that night from one of those ‘very quick drinks’ with Jeavons; perhaps felt unable to bring himself to return to Miss Weedon’s flat and paint in gouache – if it was really with painting that he therapeutically ordered his spare time. His life with Miss Weedon was impossible to contemplate.
‘Do you know this fellow Moreland?’ he went on. ‘I gather from Buster that the party is being given in Moreland’s honour – that he is a famous musician apparently. It just shows how right it is that I should have to live as a hermit, not to know that Moreland is a famous musician – and have to be told by Buster. All the same, it cuts both ways. If you are a hermit, you can’t be expected to keep up with all the latest celebrities. Buster, of course, was quite incapable of giving any real information about Moreland, the party, the guests, or anything else. He is awfully stupid, poor old Buster. An absolute ape. You know a fact that strikes one very forcibly as one grows older is that some people are intelligent and some are stupid. I don’t set up as an intellectual myself – even though I am a great hand with the paintbrush, did they tell you that, Nick? – but if I were as ill-informed as Buster, I should take steps to educate myself. Go to a night-school or hire a well-read undergraduate to teach me a few things in the long vac. The person I shall have to get hold of is Norman. He will tell me all about everything. Have you met Norman yet? He is simply charming. He is – well, I don’t want to labour the point, and I can see from your face you have guessed what I was going to say, and you are quite right. All the same, my mother has taken him up in a big way. You must meet Norman, Nick.’
‘But I know him well. I have known him for years.’
‘I am surprised at the company you must have been keeping, Nick. Known him for years, indeed. I shouldn’t have thought it of you. And a married man too. But you do agree, don’t you, that Norman is a delightful fellow?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I knew you would. I can’t tell you how good Norman has been for my mother. Brilliant ideas and helpful comment don’t exactly gush from Buster, with all his manly qualities. Besides, when it comes to doing odd jobs about the house, Buster is no good with his hands. What, you say, a sailor and no good with his hands? I don’t believe you. It’s the perfect truth. I sometimes tease him about it. He doesn’t always take that in good part. Now, at last there is someone in the house who can turn to when it comes to hanging a picture or altering the place of a piece of furniture without smashing the thing to a thousand fragments. Not only that, but Norman decides what detective stories ought to come from the Times Book Club, settles what plays must be seen, gives good advice to my mother about hats
– in fact excels at all the things poor old Buster fails at so lamentably. On top of that, Norman won’t be bullied. He gets his own way. He is just about the only person who deals with my mother who does get his own way.’
‘Jolly good.’
‘Look here, Nick, you are not being serious. I want to be serious. People are always charging me with not being sufficiently serious. There is something serious I want to ask you. You know the Abdication?’
‘I heard something about it.’
‘Well, I thought it was a good thing. A frightfully good thing. The only possible thing. I wish to goodness Buster would abdicate one of these days.’
‘Not a hope.’
‘You’re right. Not a hope. I say, Nick, it is awfully nice meeting you again after all these years. Let me get you another drink. You see the extraordinary thing is that I don’t feel the smallest need for drink myself. I rise above it. That shows an advance, doesn’t it? Not everyone we know can make that boast with truth. I must mention to you that there are some awfully strange people at this party tonight. Not at all like the people my mother usually collects. I suppose it is them, and not me. You agree? Yes, I thought I was right. They remind me more of the days when I used to know Milly Andriadis. Poor old Milly. I wonder what has happened to her. Perhaps they have put her away too.’
While he was speaking his eyes were on Mrs Maclintick, who was now making her way towards us.
‘This lady, for example,’ said Stringham. ‘What could have induced her to dress like that?’
‘She is coming to talk to us.’
‘My God, I believe you’re right.’
Mrs Maclintick arrived within range. Cold rage still possessed her. She addressed herself to me.
‘That was a nice way to be spoken to by your husband,’ she said. ‘Did you ever hear anything like it?’
Before I could reply, Stringham caught her by the arm.
‘Hullo, Little Bo-Peep,’ he said. ‘What have you done with your shepherdess’s crook? You will never find your sheep at this rate. Don’t look so cross and pout at me like that, or I shall ruffle up all those dainty little frills of yours – and then where will you be?’