The effect on Mrs Maclintick of this unconventional approach was electric. She flushed with pleasure, contorting her body into an attitude of increased provocation. I saw at once that this must be the right way to treat her; that a deficiency of horseplay on the part of her husband and his friends was probably the cause of her endemic sulkiness. No doubt something in Stringham’s manner, the impression he gave that evening of having cut himself off from all normal restraints, played a part in Mrs Maclintick’s submission. He was in a mood to carry all before him. Even so, she made an effort to fight back.
‘What an extraordinary thing to say,’ she remarked. ‘And who are you, I should like to know?’
I introduced them, but neither was inclined to pay much attention to names or explanations. Stringham, for some reason, seemed set on pursuing the course he had begun. Mrs Maclintick showed no sign of discouraging him, beyond a refusal entirely to abandon her own traditional acerbity of demeanour.
‘Fancy a little girl like you being allowed to come to a grown-up party like this one,’ said Stringham. ‘You ought to be in bed by now I’m sure.’
‘If you think I don’t know most of the people here,’ said Mrs Maclintick, uncertain whether to be pleased or offended at this comment, ‘you are quite wrong. I have met nearly all of them.’
‘Then you have the advantage of me in that respect,’ said Stringham, ‘and so you must tell me who everyone is. For example, what is the name of the fat man wearing a dinner jacket a size too small for him – the one drinking something from a tumbler?’
If there was any doubt about the good impression Stringham had already made on Mrs Maclintick, this enquiry set him immediately at the topmost peak of her estimation.
‘That’s my husband,’ she said, speaking at once with delight and all the hatred of which she was capable. ‘He has just been vilely rude to me. He hates wearing evening clothes. The state they were in – even though he never gets into them – you wouldn’t have believed. I had to tack the seam of the trousers before he could be seen in them. He isn’t properly shaved either. I told him so. He said he had run out of new blades. He looks a fright, doesn’t he?’
‘He does indeed,’ said Stringham. ‘You have put the matter in a nutshell.’
‘If you had heard some of the things he has been shouting at me in this very room,’ said Mrs Maclintick, ‘you would not have credited your hearing. The man has not a spark of gratitude.’
‘What do you expect with a thick neck like that?’ said Stringham. ‘Not gratitude, surely?’
‘Language of the gutter,’ said Mrs Maclintick, as if relishing her husband’s phrases in retrospect. ‘Filthy words.’
‘Think no more of his trivial invective,’ said Stringham. ‘Come with me and forget the ineptitudes of married life – with which I was once myself only too familiar – in a glass of wine. Let me persuade you to drown your sorrows.
While the Rose blows along the River Brink
With old Stringham the Ruby Vintage drink …
It isn’t ruby in this case, but none the worse for that. Buster’s taste in champagne is not too bad. It is one of his redeeming features.’
Mrs Maclintick was about to reply, no doubt favourably, but, before she could speak, Stringham, smiling in my direction, led her away. Why he wished to involve himself with Mrs Maclintick I could not imagine: drink; love of odd situations; even attraction to a woman he found wholly unusual; any of those might have been the reason. Mrs Maclintick was tamed, almost docile, under his treatment. I was still reflecting on the eccentricity of Stringham’s behaviour when brought suddenly within the orbit of Lord Huntercombe, who was moving round the room in a leisurely way, examining the pictures and ornaments there. He had just taken up Truth Unveiled by Time, removed his spectacles, and closely examined the group’s base. He now replaced the cast on its console table, at the same time smiling wryly in my direction and shaking his head, as if to imply that such worthless bric-à-brac should not be allowed to detain great connoisseurs like ourselves. Smethyck (a museum official, whom I had known as an undergraduate) had introduced us not long before at an exhibition of seventeenth-century pictures and furniture Smethyck himself had helped to organise, to which Lord Huntercombe had lent some of his collection.
‘Have you seen your friend Smethyck lately?’ asked Lord Huntercombe, still smiling.
‘Not since we talked about picture-cleaning at that exhibition.’
‘Before the exhibition opened,’ said Lord Huntercombe, ‘Smethyck showed himself anxious to point out that Prince Rupert Conversing with a Herald was painted by Dobson, rather than Van Dyck. Fortunately I had long ago come to the same conclusion and had recently caused its label to be altered. I was even able to carry the war into Smethyck’s country by enquiring whether he felt absolutely confident of the authenticity of that supposed portrait of Judge Jeffreys, attributed to Lely, on loan from his own gallery. What nice china there is in this house. It looks to me as if there were some Vienna porcelain mixed up with the Meissen in this cabinet. I believe Warrington knew something of china. That was why Kitchener liked him. You know, I think I shall have to inspect these a little more thoroughly.’
Lord Huntercombe tried the door of the cabinet. Although the key turned, the door refused to open. He steadied the top of the cabinet with his hand, then tried again. Still the door remained firmly closed. Lord Huntercombe shook his head. He brought out a small penknife from his pocket, opened the shorter blade, and inserted this in the crevice.
‘How is Erridge?’ he asked.
He spoke with that note almost of yearning in his voice, which peers are inclined to employ when speaking of other peers, especially of those younger than themselves of whom they disapprove.
‘He is still in Spain.’
‘I hope he will try to persuade his friends not to burn all the churches,’ said Lord Huntercombe, without looking up, as he moved the blade of the knife gently backwards and forwards.
He had crouched on his haunches to facilitate the operation, and in this position gave the impression of an old craftsman practising a trade at which he was immensely skilled, his extreme neatness and the quick movement of his fingers adding to this illusion. However, these efforts remained ineffective. The door refused to open. I had some idea of trying to find Isobel to arrange a meeting between herself and Stringham. However, I was still watching Lord Huntercombe’s exertions when Chandler now reappeared.
‘Nick,’ he said, ‘come and talk to Amy.’
‘Just hold this cabinet steady for a moment, both of you,’ said Lord Huntercombe. ‘There … it’s coming … that’s done it. Thank you very much.’
‘I say, Lord Huntercombe,’ said Chandler, ‘I did simply worship those cut-glass candelabra you lent to that exhibition the other day. I am going to suggest to the producer of the show I’m in rehearsal for that we try and get the effect of something of that sort in the Second Act – instead of the dreary old pewter candlesticks we are now using.’
‘I do not think the Victoria and Albert would mind possessing those candelabra,’ said Lord Huntercombe with complacency, at the same time abstracting some of the pieces from the cabinet. ‘Ah, the Marcolini Period. I thought as much. And here are some lndianische Blumen.’
We moved politely away from Lord Huntercombe’s immediate area, leaving him in peace to pursue further researches.
‘My dear,’ said Chandler, speaking in a lower voice, ‘Amy is rather worried about Charles turning up like this. She thought that, as an old friend of his, you might be able to persuade him to go quietly home after a time. He is a sweet boy, but in the state he is in you never know what he is going to do next.’
‘It is ages since I saw Charles. We met tonight for the first time for years. I doubt if he would take the slightest notice of anything I said. As a matter of fact he has just gone off with Mrs Maclintick to whom he is paying what used to be called marked attentions.’
‘That is one of the things Amy is worried
about. Amy has an eye like a hawk, you know.’
I was certainly surprised to hear that Mrs Foxe had taken in the circumstances of the party so thoroughly as even to have included Mrs Maclintick in her survey. As a hostess, she gave no impression of observing the room meticulously (at least not with the implication of fear pedantic use of that term implies), nor did she seem in the smallest degree disturbed when we came up to her.
‘Oh, Mr Jenkins,’ she said, ‘dear Charles has arrived, as you know since you have been talking to him. I thought you would not mind if I asked you to keep the smallest eye on him. His nerves are so bad nowadays. You have known him for such a long time. He is much more likely to agree to anything you suggest than to fall in with what I want him to do. He really ought not to stay up too late. It is not good for him.’
She said no more than that; gave no hint she required Stringham’s immediate removal. That was just as well, because I should have had no idea how to set about any such dislodgement. I remembered suddenly that the last time a woman had appealed to me for help in managing Stringham was when, at her own party years before, Mrs Andriadis had said: ‘Will you persuade him to stay?’ Then it was his mistress; now, his mother. Mrs Foxe had been too discreet to say outright: ‘Will you persuade him to go?’ None the less, that was what she must have desired. Her discrimination in expressing this wish, her manner of putting herself into my hands, made her as successful as Mrs Andriadis in enlisting my sympathy; but no more effective as an ally. It was hard to see what could be done about Stringham. Besides, I had by then begun to learn – what I had no idea of at Mrs Andriadis’s party – that to people like Stringham there is really no answer.
‘Don’t worry, Amy, darling,’ said Chandler. ‘Charles is perfectly all right for the time being. Don’t feel anxious. Nick and I will keep an eye on him.’
‘Will you? It would be so awful if something did go wrong. I should feel so guilty if the Morelands’ party were spoiled for them.’
‘It won’t be.’
‘I shall rely on you both.’
She gazed at Chandler with deep affection. They might have been married for years from the manner in which they talked to one another. Some people came up to say goodbye. I saw Isobel, and was about to suggest that we should look for Stringham, when Mrs Foxe turned from the couple to whom she had been talking.
‘Isobel, my dear,’ she said, ‘I haven’t seen you all the evening. Come and sit on the sofa. There are some things I want to ask you about.’
‘Odd scenes in the next room,’ Isobel said to me, before she joined Mrs Foxe.
I felt sure from her tone the scenes must be odd enough. I found Isobel had spoken without exaggeration. Stringham, Mrs Maclintick, Priscilla, and Moreland were sitting together in a semi-circle. The rest of the party had withdrawn from that corner of the room, so that this group was quite cut off from the other guests. They were laughing a great deal and talking about marriage, Stringham chiefly directing the flow of conversation, with frequent interruptions from Moreland and Mrs Maclintick. Stringham was resting his elbow on his knee in an attitude of burlesqued formality, from time to time inclining his head towards Mrs Maclintick, as he addressed her in the manner of a drawing-room comedy by Wilde or Pinero. These fulsome compliments and epigrammatic phrases may have been largely incomprehensible to Mrs Maclintick, but she looked thoroughly pleased with herself; indeed, seemed satisfied that she was half-teasing, half-alluring Stringham. Priscilla appeared enormously happy in spite of not knowing quite what was going on round her. Moreland was almost hysterical with laughter which he continually tried to repress by stuffing a handkerchief into his mouth. If he had fallen in love with Priscilla – the evidence for something of the sort having taken place had to be admitted – it was, I thought, just; like him to prefer listening to this performance to keeping his girl to himself in some remote part of the room. This judgment was superficial, because, as I have said, Moreland could be secretive enough about his girls when he chose; while politeness and discretion called for some show of outwardly casual behaviour at this party. Even so, his behaviour that night could hardly be called discreet in general purport. It was obvious he was very taken with Priscilla from the way he was sitting beside her. He was clearly delighted by Stringham, of whose identity I felt sure he had no idea. When I approached, Mrs Maclintick was apparently describing the matrimonial troubles of some friends of hers.
‘… and then,’ she was saying, ‘this first husband of hers used to come back at four o’clock in the morning and turn on the gramophone. As a regular thing. She told me herself.’
‘Some women think one has nothing better to do than to lie awake listening to anecdotes about their first husband,’ said Stringham. ‘Milly Andriadis was like that – no doubt still is – and I must say, if one were prepared to forgo one’s beauty sleep, one used to hear some remarkable things from her. Playing the gramophone is another matter. Your friend had a right to complain.’
‘That was what the judge thought,’ said Mrs Maclintick.
‘What used he to play?’ asked Priscilla.
‘Military marches,’ said Mrs Maclintick, ‘night after night. Not surprising the poor woman had to go into a home after getting her divorce.’
‘My mother would have liked that,’ said Stringham. ‘She adores watching troops march past. She always says going to reviews was the best part of being married to Piers Warrington.’
‘Not in the middle of the night,’ said Priscilla. ‘He might have chosen something quieter. Tales from Hoffmann or Handel’s Cradle Song.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Moreland. ‘Aut Sousa aut Nihil has always been my motto in cases of that sort. Think if the man had played Hindemith. At least he wasn’t a highbrow.’
‘He was just another musical husband,’ said Mrs Maclintick fiercely. ‘I am not saying he was any worse than Maclintick, I am not saying he was any better. I am just telling you the way musicians treat their wives. Telling you the sort of husband I have to put up with.’
‘My own complaint about marriage is a very different one,’ said Stringham. ‘I admit my former wife was not musical. That might have made things worse. All the same, you never know. If she had been, she could have talked all the time about music while her sister, Anne, was chattering away about Braque and Dufy. It would have formed a counter-irritant. Poor Anne. Marrying Dicky Umfraville was a dreadful judgment on her. Still, a party is no place for vain regrets – certainly not vain regrets about one’s ex-sister-in-law.’
‘You should have seen Maclintick’s sister,’ said Mrs Maclintick, ‘if you are going to grumble about your sister-in-law.’
‘We will visit her, if necessary, dear lady, later in the evening,’ said Stringham. ‘The night is still young.’
‘You can’t,’ said Mrs Maclintick. ‘She’s dead.’
‘My condolences,’ said Stringham. ‘But, as I was saying, my former wife was not musical. Music did not run in the family. Mountfichet was not a house to stimulate music. You might compose a few dirges there, I suppose. Even they would have cheered the place up – the morning-room especially.’
‘I was going to stay at Mountfichet once,’ said Priscilla. ‘Then Hugo got chicken-pox and we were all in quarantine.’
‘You had a narrow escape, Lady Priscilla,’ said Stringham. ‘You are unaware of your good fortune. No, what I object to about marriage is not the active bad behaviour – like your musical friend playing the gramophone in the small hours. I could have stood that. I sleep abominably anyway. The gramophone would while away time in bed when one lies awake thinking about love. What broke me was the passive resistance. That was what got me down.’
Moreland began to laugh unrestrainedly again, thrusting the handkerchief in his mouth until it nearly choked him. He too had had a good deal to drink. Mrs Maclintick clenched her teeth in obvious approval of what Stringham had said. Stringham went on uninterrupted.
‘It is a beautiful morning,’ he said. ‘For some reason you feel rela
tively well that day. You make some conciliatory remark. No answer. You think she hasn’t heard. Still asleep perhaps. You speak again. A strangled sigh. What’s wrong? You begin to go through in your mind all the awful things you might have done.’
‘Maclintick never dreams of going through the awful things he has done,’ said Mrs Maclintick. ‘It would take far too long for one thing. Anyway, he never thinks about them at all. If you so much as mention one or two of them, he gets out of bed and sleeps on the sofa in his work-room.’
‘Look here,’ said Moreland, still laughing convulsively, ‘I really cannot have my old friend Maclintick maligned in this manner without a word of protest. I know you are married to him, and marriage gives everyone all sorts of special rights where complaining is concerned—’
‘You begin adding up your sins of commission and omission,’ Stringham continued inexorably. ‘Did one get tight? It seems months and months since one was tight, so it can’t be that. Did one say something silly the night before? Much more likely. Not that remark about the colour of her father’s face at breakfast? It couldn’t have been that. She enjoyed that – even laughed a little. I don’t know whether any of you ever met my former father-in-law, Major the Earl of Bridgnorth, late the Royal Horse Guards, by the way? His is a name to conjure with on the Turf. When I was married to his elder daughter, the beautiful Peggy, I was often to be seen conjuring with it on the course at Epsom, and elsewhere, but with little success, all among the bookies and Prince Monolulu and the tipster who wears an Old Harrovian tie and has never given a loser.’
‘You are getting off the point, my dear sir,’ said Moreland. ‘We are discussing marriage, not racing. Matrimony is the point at issue.’
Stringham made a gesture to silence him. I had never before seen Moreland conversationally so completely mastered. It was hard to imagine what the two of them would have made of each other in more sober circumstances. They were very different. Stringham had none of Moreland’s passionate self-identification with the arts; Moreland was without Stringham’s bitter grasp of social circumstance. At the same time they had something in common. There was also much potential antipathy. Each would probably have found the other unsympathetic over a long period.
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