Cards of Identity

by Nigel Dennis

  COG: Oh, good, good, stalwartly slain!

  Would that this sword had struck the featly blow!

  Remove the horrid corpse.

  Men carry away the Prince’s body.

  Yet do I fear these horrid, anguished hags

  Which glare upon the fatal body’s course.

  Good friars, thank them for their services

  And gently ask that they shall now withdraw.

  HERM: Instantly.

  To Count.

  Sweet witch, be shriven afresh by one

  Which shrived thee once and would again assume

  Herself the bewitching role.

  Kisses Count.

  PIC: Here’s odd conduct in a friar.

  COG: They say, in Brittany all’s done peculiar.

  ARTOIS: I smell some mystery, or even intrigue.

  DUKE: Fair Radegund, partner and mate of bliss.

  Unworthy husband pleads for thy caress!

  Tears off disguise.

  RADEG: Brittany – in all one piece!

  HERM: Farewell, friar’s self!

  Tears off disguise.

  COUNT (tearing off disguise): Vessel of dreams! Feigned furbisher!

  Embraces Hermione.

  ARTOIS: I am too old for war – yet older far for peace.

  This armistice doth weave such strange designs

  As shake an agéd brain.

  CATRI (tearing off disguise): My lord, ’tis simple as the earth itself, Where all’s most right when seeming mostly worst.

  ARTOIS: No more!

  Swoons.

  DUKE: Revive him promptly.

  Attendants carry off Artois.

  Disguiséd men and ladies, pray restore

  Identities, decorum, natural ways.

  Put up the sword of war and reassume

  The beaky warble of the ring-dove’s tune.

  COUNT: Where’s my poor brother in all this confusion?

  RADEG: That stalwart man is even now en route

  Back to the desert throne he lately left.

  Restored with honour, he’s resolved to shape

  The Antioch desert into fertile land.

  COUNT: I wish him well. Perchance he’s learnt a lesson despite. I’ll not pursue to ask.

  DUKE: Nay, Baalbeck, stay, and with Hermione

  (Who’s on this spot created countess)

  Double the nuptials of my own fair spouse.

  PIC: Triple it rather, for I’ll take to wife

  That second, jolly witch.

  CATRI: Most sweet and unexpected!

  Embraces Picardy.

  DUKE: We’ll celebrate our new, voluptuous parts

  With naked selves which blush not for disguise

  But for that they have none.

  My lesson’s learnt, and tedium reigns no more

  Though much is back to where it was before.

  A throne is saved, a fraud crushed underfoot,

  Cannon and ordinance, acclaim and shoot!

  Guns.

  Wisdom is victor; sennett and tender flute,

  Hail right identity with fair salute!

  Flutes and sennetts.

  THE END

  PART THREE

  MRS CHIRK had rarely played a flute, nor had Miss Tray large knowledge of the sennett. Even Mr Harcourt’s teeth clenched to a fine edge as the last notes climbed an unknown scale on nameless rungs. But as the lights went up it was clear to every member of the Club that their new President was not upset by trifles. So calmly did he rise upon the dais, so naturally did he grasp the official gavel, so nonchalantly did he pass the back of his hand downwards over his chin that even such grave, ambitious men as Orfe and Shubunkin felt obliged to give him a complimentary clap.

  ‘I thank you, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘for your friendly unanimity in a matter which is of some personal concern to me.’

  There was laughter and more clapping, to which he responded with a firm but amiable smile. They noted and greatly appreciated how content he was to stand easily beside the chair and allow the applause to well around him, his expression pleased but indicating that such tribute had been his since childhood and was more an essential part of his environment than a desirable compliment. He gave this impression with such economy of gesture and expression that the Club’s clapping became more and more vigorous; he, in turn, responding ever more non-committally to the growing din. Thus do great leaders provoke passion and unswervable loyalty in their followers, allowing their great images to recede so gently that the applause pursues them with ever-growing excitement.

  ‘I imagine,’ he continued, ‘that most of you would like us to move straight into a discussion of the interesting play we have just seen: there is always so much to say about Shakespeare – what he really meant, what his genius guessed at but was incapable of analysing, and so on. But I would be failing in my duty as your president if I did not insist that this matter be shelved until after lunch. Or should I say after dinner? I have rather lost hold of the exact time.’

  The Club greeted this evidence of presidential nonchalance (so unlike, say, a man who identifies himself with a military rank) with affectionate smiles.

  ‘Anyway, after whatever comes next. For the moment, I would like to discuss a matter that suddenly came into my mind as a result of listening to Shakespeare. While thinking of all the problems that beset a man when he begins, slowly, laboriously, and with many checks to build himself a tenable identity, it occurred to me that the plight of the dead was much graver. Very famous people, of course, have to die before they achieve their full identity, which is readily supplied by their numerous admirers. But what of those who are not famous? They pass on into nothingness, stripped of every shred of that which they toiled so hard to create. Take, for example, former presidents of this Club. Consider the passionate feuds that revolved around them, the love and hatred they created by sheer imposition on others of their chosen selves. And yet, once gone, all this is forgotten: it is as if they had never been. I remember well, for example, as no doubt do you, my predecessor in this chair, a man of great parts who played his Presidency with diligence and subtlety until age and infirmity removed him from our ranks. It seems a shameful thing to me that apart from the usual Wedgwood plaque in the Club library he will be utterly forgotten – and, indeed, is already virtually forgotten. Perhaps some of you gentlemen could think of a means by which we might perpetuate him for at least a decade or so.’

  ‘As one who remembers him very well indeed,’ said Dr Musk, ‘I feel that the problem is self-answering. In the course of his life he was a most undesirable character, and I could think of a hundred examples of his brutality, cynicism, egotism, and injustice. Since he has ceased to be our President, however, I have felt a change of view coming over me. I suddenly think of him as a dear, likeable old man – a gentleman in the true sense of the word. He has a place in my heart which I never imagined him being in. Without any disrespect to the present incumbent of the chair, I must say that I shall always think the defunct occupant was the better man. When the present incumbent passes on, I shall proceed to think that he was. I consider this perfectly natural. The car we used to have is always the one that started on a cold morning: we have to have a new car to appreciate this fact. The peace we had before the last war is always an excellent period, which is why new wars are desirable at regular intervals – to make us love what we detested. The same, in my opinion, goes for presidents. The memorial to a past president is erected quite automatically by the mere existence of his successor.’

  All the members were impressed by Dr Musk’s clear exposition, but deemed it safer not to back-up the dead President, until they had better knowledge of the weaknesses of the living one. He, for his part, merely gave the bold doctor a fatherly smile and said:

  ‘Our good Musk has always had the habit of gauging the validity of life by an estimate of death, and of allowing memory to rectify – if that is the word – the bias of his present judgements. Proud as I shall be to represen
t, in his eyes, the life that always falls short of the death which preceded it, I think I would like to see a rather more solid memorial to my predecessor.’

  ‘Surely nostalgia is about as solid as one could wish?’ asked Dr Shubunkin.

  ‘I’m afraid it will get swept away,’ replied the President. ‘As Musk says, the old memory makes a dear ideal, but after a while there arises a general feeling that to dote on it too much is to make oneself seem old-fashioned, and even rather decrepit. I am sure none of you gentlemen, Dr Musk excepted, rejoices in a decrepit self. Shubunkin, for instance, is ever in eager search of that which is new – inventing it where necessary.’

  A sharp clash would certainly have followed had Mr Harcourt not exclaimed: ‘What’s this? Has somebody resigned? Why?’

  Amid the loud laughter which followed young Stapleton rose, and resting one elbow on the back of his chair, said sarcastically:

  ‘How about a large vase of fresh flowers in every Club room on the anniversary of his birth or death? Or we could collect his aphorisms and bind them in half-calf. Better still, a cast of his hand, to leave on a table with ashtrays.’

  Infuriated, Beaufort sprang to his feet, his face burning red, a living picture of the solid citizen outraged by cynicism. ‘Why, you miserable little rotter!’ he cried.

  The cynical youth responded with what he intended to be a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders: unfortunately, being quite inexperienced in bitterness, he succeeded only in leaving an impression of ignorance and bad manners. The older members studied him with interest, detecting for the first time the little cloud on the horizon that denotes the rise and challenge of a new generation. Indeed, this is an interesting moment for all parties: a new, but well-known figure in authority, a new, untested runner emerging suddenly out of the empty background of nonentity: suddenly the old humdrum pattern, gone with the old President, has readjusted itself, and revolutionary men-like Musk and Shubunkin, challenged from behind, suddenly become conservative. As for Beaufort, it is the end of him as we have known him; the emergence of a tough young rival has cooked his charming and irresponsible goose: overnight he will become a solid, dependable citizen and be married to his mistress as soon as they get to the first registry office. This is sad, in a way, because he was very likeable, but how fortunate it is, in life, that as soon as death creates a vacancy, everybody moves up a seat! How fortunate for the new man in authority that no sooner is he challenged by the old rebels than they are forced to his side by an upstart radicalism which they fear far more than he! It is inspiring to all these worthies to see the President, fresh and strong as a mature lion, fix his hard eye on the young rebel and ask: ‘What, pray, Mr Stapleton, does that convulsive movement of yours indicate? I should like an answer immediately.’

  But even as he bends inquiringly forward, a nervous knock is heard on the door. Mrs Paradise, still disguised as the future Countess of Baalbeck, enters the room and says with a loud sob: ‘There’s a policeman would like to speak with you, sir.’

  ‘A policeman!’ cried Dr Shubunkin.

  ‘A policeman!’ cried Dr Orfe.

  ‘A policeman!’ cried Mr Jamesworth.

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen!’ cried the President. ‘Am I the leader of a herd of cows? Florence, what is the reason for this officer’s visit?’

  ‘He says, sir, he has reason to believe this house is occupied.’

  ‘Do you burst into tears over such a simple statement of fact?’

  ‘It’s the dear old gentleman I’m weeping for, sir. Is he dead?’

  The President assumed a bewildered look and surveyed his colleagues as if requesting an explanation.

  ‘I think, sir,’ said Beaufort, ‘that she is referring to the last scene.’

  ‘Last scene,’ repeated the President. ‘I find this most confusing.’

  ‘To be buried under such a heap of gentlemen, sir, at his age!’ cried Mrs Paradise.

  ‘She refers, sir,’ said Beaufort, smiling, ‘to our little casualty.’

  ‘Oh, oh, yes,’ exclaimed the President. ‘My dear Florence, you are much too emotional. He is lying down. Be assured, he’ll be down for dinner. By the way, Florence, do you realize that you are still in disguise? May I ask how you explained your costume to the policeman?’

  ‘I never thought to explain, sir. I was too distressed.’

  ‘Where is the rest of the staff?’

  ‘In the kitchen, sir.’

  ‘And the officer?’

  ‘He is on the doorstep, sir.’

  The President reflected for a moment, and said: ‘Show him politely into the butler’s pantry by the side door, Florence. When I ring, bring him in here. Tell the staff to remain in the kitchen.’

  ‘I hope we have done nothing wrong, sir.’

  ‘Nothing whatever, Florence. It is probably some new tax on amateur theatricals which the officer has come for. Is the staff comfortable?’

  ‘I can’t say they are, sir. Mrs Chirk is most hysterical and even Mr Jellicoe is not himself. Why did all the gentlemen rush on to the stage in the last scene?’

  ‘They thought you were rather short of pikemen, Florence. They wanted to help – to make it all more lifelike.’

  ‘But why did they throw the poor old gentleman on the ground? We never dreamt he was at the bottom of the heap until we all got off.’

  ‘He was only winded, Florence. He should have been more careful not to fall down at such a violent moment. Now, off you go and do as I have told you. And stop weeping, immediately. The play was excellently performed.’

  Mrs Paradise left the room, holding Hermione’s skirt to her eyes.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said the President. ‘You will go immediately to your rooms, pack your suitcases, put them in the hall, and return to this room. I allow you five minutes for the operation. Beaufort – no, I shall need you elsewhere. Let me see, now.’ His eyes ranged over the pale, impractical faces, resting at last on Stapleton. ‘Mr Stapleton, something tells me you have a knowledge of cars. You will go to the garages and bring all the cars quietly to the front of the house. You have half an hour.’

  Stapleton leaves his seat and walks briskly to the door. His old limp is gone, his new-found arrogance in abeyance. If he is to be admired for springing to the Club’s defence in this emergency, the President is still more to be admired for raising him, in the twinkling of an eye, to an act of greatness.

  Suddenly Mr Harcourt cries: ‘I say, are we leaving?’

  ‘Yes Mr Harcourt, we are leaving. Now, gentlemen, here are your instructions …’

  *

  The policeman is surprised, on being shown into the breakfast-room, to see a group of people penned in one corner with a red velvet rope running along the stomachs of the first row. Two men, who appear to be butlers or footmen – or something archaic like that – are standing near the door as he enters; each raises a warning finger to his lips and hisses ‘Ssh-sh!’ They hiss thus because his lordship, or squire, or duke, or whoever he is (the policeman is too young to know these extinct distinctions of identity) is standing in the middle of the carpet saying:

  ‘… not exactly an original, but so fine a copy as to excel, in the view of many art-experts, the original itself. The flaking which you may observe in one corner is due to the efforts of a younger son of the house to remove certain Victorian paintings-over of the nude figures: the result of this strife between decency and art is, as is always the case, confusing to the spectator and disproportioning to the nudes. The painting is insured for many thousands of pounds and is known as “The Last of the Great Easel Paintings of the Neo-Dutch School”.’

  This classifying of the object immediately gives it an importance which cannot be disputed and is received with a flashing of notebooks and pencils. While the scribbling goes on, one of the footmen approaches the duke, who turns and looks at the policeman with surprise and then comes over to the door. He is about to address the policeman when one of the crowd shouts quite shrilly: ‘Is that going to the Natio
nal Trust too?’

  ‘One moment, sir, if you please,’ he answers, and says in a low voice to the policeman: ‘I am very sorry to have kept you. When they said: “An officer to see you,” I thought they meant some ordinary Army one.’

  The policeman, pleased, replies: ‘That’s quite all right, sir. I am sorry to have interrupted.’

  ‘We are open to the public, you know, nowadays.’

  ‘So I see, sir.’

  ‘It takes me about twenty-five minutes to show them over. I would be most obliged if you could wait.’

  The policeman looks at his watch and decides to be reasonable.

  ‘Why not join the party?’ says the duke. ‘It is quite an interesting old white elephant.’

  He smiles and gives a nod to his footmen. Adroitly, they release one end of the crimson cord and stand like sentries in front of the tourists until the duke has put himself in the van. ‘This way, please,’ he says, and leads them out.

  The policeman follows. He is amused to see the two footmen, thinking they are unobserved, give a hasty dusting to the parquet on which the tourists stood and spray a jet of disinfectant into their vacated air. Ahead, he hears the duke cry: ‘We now enter the library,’ and the tourists nudge each other and murmur: ‘Library. That should be interesting’ and ‘I’m told it is a famous library’.

  A man with a twitching face is sitting at the writing-table near a window. He rises from a heap of papers and gives the tourists a courtly bow. His face is lined, his brow high and furrowed. The footmen run in just in time to corral the tourists with the crimson cord.

  ‘Here is one of the family at work,’ explains the duke. ‘In the passing of these old houses, nothing is to be more regretted than the loss of the library – and, with it, the sort of occupant you now see. Before we discuss the room, I would like you to look very closely at this individual. His bent shoulders, his pinched and nervous face, his tremulous grasp of his quill pen indicate that he will not be in contemporary society very much longer. I am not too well up in these matters, but I am assured that without him and his predecessors we should not have any culture at all. Throughout the centuries, ever since the dissolution of the monasteries, he has written modest commentaries on theology, Greek legend, Stonehenge, and water-divining – none of which is of much interest nowadays and, indeed, never was. He has been to literature what the rock-gardener has been to horticulture. He was never what is called a creative type, but he was always sensitive and tolerant, decently dressed, and came to meals punctually. A dim figure, you may say, but it is precisely dim nonentities which constitute the past for which we yearn. We are so dreadfully harassed ourselves and feel that we are so inadequate to the demands of our day that we love best the image of one who was happy in his mediocrity, never made a fuss, and never got drunk.’