‘I didn’t say anything of the sort, you bloody bitch,’ Maclintick said, ‘so keep your foul mouth shut and don’t go round repeating that I did, unless you want to get hurt. It is just like your spite to misrepresent me in that manner. You are always trying to make trouble between Moreland and myself, aren’t you ? What I said was that the music was “not Moreland’s most adventurous” – that the critics had got used to him as an enfant terrible and therefore might underestimate the symphony’s true value. That was all. That was what I said. You know yourself that was all. You know yourself that was what I said.’
Maclintick was hoarse with fury. His hands were shaking. His anger made him quite alarming.
‘Yes, Maclintick was just saying that very thing, wasn’t he?’ agreed Gossage, sniggering nervously at this display of uncontrolled rage. ‘The words were scarcely out of his mouth, Mrs Maclintick. That is exactly what he thinks.’
‘Don’t ask me what he thinks,’ said Mrs Maclintick calmly, not in the least put out of countenance by the force of her husband’s abuse. ‘He says one thing at one moment, another at another. Doesn’t know his own mind in the least. I told him he was standing about as if he was in the Nag’s Head. That is the pub near us where all the tarts go. I suppose that is where he thinks he is. It’s the place where he is most at home. Besides, if the symphony was such a success, why wasn’t Moreland better pleased? Or Matilda, for that matter? Matilda doesn’t seem at all at her best tonight. I expect these grand surroundings remind her of better days.’
‘I didn’t say the symphony was “a great success” either,’ said Maclintick, speaking now wearily, as if his outburst of anger had left him weak. ‘Anyway, what do you mean? Moreland looks all right to me. What is wrong with him? Of course, it was insane of me to express any opinion in front of a woman like you.’
‘Go on,’ said Mrs Maclintick. ‘Just go on.’
‘And what reason have you for saying Matilda isn’t pleased?’ said Maclintick. ‘I only wish I had a wife with half Matilda’s sense.’
‘Matilda didn’t seem to be showing all that sense when I was talking to her just now,’ said Mrs Maclintick, still quite undisturbed by this unpleasant interchange, indeed appearing if anything stimulated by its brutality. ‘Or to be at all pleased either. Not that I care how she speaks to me. I bet she has done things in her life I wouldn’t do for a million pounds. Let her speak to me how she likes. I’m not going to bring up her past. All I say is that she and Moreland were having words during the interval. Perhaps it was what they were talking about upset them, not the way the symphony was received. It is not for me to say.’
Further recrimination was terminated for the moment by the butler bringing a decanter for Maclintick with Buster’s apology that no Irish whiskey was to be found in the house. Buster himself appeared a moment later, adding his own regrets for this inadequacy. I withdrew from the group, and went over to speak to Robert Tolland, who had just come into the room. Robert knew Moreland only slightly, as a notable musical figure rather than as a friend. He had probably been asked to the party at the instigation of Mrs Foxe, had perhaps dined with her to make numbers even. I had not seen him in the concert hall.
‘I expected to find you and Isobel here,’ he said. ‘I was asked at the last moment, I hardly know why. One of those curious afterthoughts which are such a feature of Amy Foxe’s entertaining. I see Priscilla is here. Did you bring her ?’
‘Priscilla dined with us. You could have come to dinner too, if we had known you were on your way to this party.’
Robert gave one of his quiet smiles.
‘Nice of you to suggest it,’ he said, ‘but there were things I had to do earlier in the evening as a matter of fact. How very attractive Mrs Moreland is. I always think so whenever I see her. What a relief that one no longer has to talk about the Abdication. Frederica is looking a lot better now that everything is settled.’
He smiled and moved away, exhaling his usual air of mild mystery. Lady Huntercombe, taking leave of Matilda with a profusion of complimentary phrases, swept after Robert. Matilda beckoned me to come and talk to her. She looked pale, seemed rather agitated, either on account of her long session with Lady Huntercombe, or perhaps because she was still feeling shaken by the strain of hearing the symphony performed.
‘Give me some more champagne, Nick,’ she said, clasping my arm. ‘It is wonderful stuff for the nerves. Are you enjoying yourself at this smart party? I hope so.’
This manner was not at all her usual one. I thought she was probably a little drunk.
‘Of course – and the symphony was a great success.’
‘Did you think so?’
‘Very much.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Didn’t you?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘You are certain, Nick?’
‘Of course I am. Everything went all right. There was lots of applause. What else do you expect?’
‘Yes, it was all right, I think. Somehow I hoped for more real enthusiasm. It is a wonderful work, you know. It really is.’
‘I am sure it is.’
‘It is wonderful. But people are going to be disappointed.’
‘Does Hugh himself think that?’
‘I don’t think it worries him,’ said Matilda. ‘Not in his present state of mind.’
For some reason – from the note in her voice, a sense of trouble in the air, perhaps just from natural caution – I felt safer in not enquiring what she regarded as Moreland’s ‘present state of mind’.
‘I see your little sister-in-law, Lady Priscilla, is here,’ said Matilda.
She smiled rather in Robert’s manner, as if at some secret inner pleasure that was also a little bitter to contemplate.
‘You’ve met her with us, haven’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘She dined with us tonight.’
‘I met her once at your flat,’ said Matilda, speaking slowly, as if that were an extraordinary thing to have happened. ‘She is very attractive. But I don’t know her as well as Hugh does.’
I suddenly felt horribly uncomfortable, as if ice-cold water were dripping very gently, very slowly down my spine, but as if, at the same time, some special circumstance prevented admission of this unaccountable fact and also forbade any attempt on my own part to suspend the process; a sensation to be recognised, I knew well, as an extension of that earlier refusal to face facts about Moreland giving Priscilla the concert ticket. That odd feeling of excitement began to stir within me always provoked by news of other people’s adventures in love; accompanied as ever by a sense of sadness, of regret, almost jealousy, inward emotions that express, like nothing else in life, life’s irrational dissatisfactions. On the one hand, that Moreland might have fallen in love with Priscilla (and she with him) seemed immensely interesting; on the other – to speak only callously of the Morelands’ marriage and Priscilla’s inexperience (if she was inexperienced) – any such situation threatened complications of a most disturbing kind on two separate fronts of one’s own daily existence. As to immediate action, a necessary minimum was obviously represented by refraining from any mention to Matilda of the complimentary ticket. Silence on that point offered at least a solid foundation upon which to build; the simple principle that a friend’s actions, however colourless, vis-à-vis another woman, are always better unrepeated to his wife. Contemplation of this banal maxim increased the depression that had suddenly descended on me. The proposition that Moreland was having some sort of a flirtation with Priscilla sufficiently tangible to cause Matilda – even if she had had too much champagne – to draw my attention to such goings-on appeared at once ridiculous and irritating. Probably Matilda’s speculations were unco-ordinated. Quite likely Moreland and Priscilla were indeed behaving foolishly. Why draw attention to that? The matter would blow over. All three persons concerned fell in my estimation. In any case, Matilda’s speculations might be wholly unfounded. Priscilla, p
hysically speaking – socially speaking, if it came to that – was not the sort of girl Moreland usually liked. ‘Nothing is more disturbing,’ he used to say himself, ‘than one’s friends showing unexpected sexual tastes.’ Priscilla, for her part, was not in general inclined towards the life Moreland lived; had never shown any sign of liking married men, a taste some girls acquire at an early age. I thought it best to change the subject.
‘I see you asked Carolo,’ I said.
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.
Dance to the Music of Time, Volume 2 Page 38
