‘I’ve
heard that one too.’
‘We
all have. It’s gone the round for years. Just within the bounds of possibility,
do you think?’
‘Why
was the situation complicated by refusal of payment?’
‘To
make sure he agreed. The appeal to male vanity may have added to the audience’s
fun. If he swallowed the declaration that she thought him so attractive, the
display would not be over too quickly. Do you suppose Sir Magnus was behind the
curtain?’
‘He
may have watched the castration too.’
‘Some
of his ladies would have been well qualified as surgeons,’ said Moreland.
He
lay back in the bed. I suppose he meant Matilda. Then he took a book from the
stack of works of every sort piled up on the table beside him.
‘I
always enjoy this title –
Cambises,
King of Percia: a Lamentable Tragedy mixed full of Pleasant Mirth
.’
‘What’s
it like?’
‘Not
particularly exciting, but does summarize life.’
One
day in November, having a lot of things to do in London, before returning to
the country that afternoon, I went to see Moreland earlier than usual. It was
bleak, rainy weather. When I crossed the River, by Westminster Bridge, two
vintage cars were approaching the Houses of Parliament. Another passed before I
reached the hospital. Some sort of rally was in progress, for others appeared.
I watched them go over the bridge, then went on. Moreland had no one with him.
Audrey Maclintick would turn up later in the morning, possibly someone else
drop in. Usually these friends were musical acquaintances, unknown to myself. I
reported that droves of vintage cars were traversing the Thames in convoy.
Moreland reached out for one of the books again.
‘I’ve
been researching the subject, since quoting to you the Khayyam reference. Keats
was an addict too. I found this yesterday.
Like
to a moving vintage down they came,
Crowned with green leaves, and faces all on flame …
Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood …
What
could be more specific than that? Interesting that you stood upright to drive
those early models. One presumes the vintage, where the Grapes of Wrath were
stored, was a tradesman’s van of Edwardian date or earlier.’
He
threw the book down, and chose another. He was full of nervous energy. The
impression one derived of his state was not a good one.
‘I’ve
been haunted by the story of Lady Widmerpool. Have you ever read
The Dutch Courtezan
? Listen to her song – forgive me
quoting so much verse. Things one reads become obsessional, while one lies
here.
The
darke is my delight,
So ’tis the nightingale’s.
My musicke’s in the night,
So is the nightingale’s.
My body is but little,
So is the nightingale’s.
I love to sleep next prickle
So doth the nightingale.
It
makes her sound nice, but she wasn’t really a very nice girl.’
‘The
Dutch Courtezan, or Pamela Widmerpool?’
‘I
meant the former. Lady Widmerpool had her failings too, if that evening was
anything to go by. Still, it’s impressive what she did. How some men get girls
hotted up. No, what I was going to say about the Dutch Courtezan was – if there’d
been time to spare – I might have toyed with doing a setting for her song, whatever
she was like. One could have brought it into the opera about
Candaules and Gyges
perhaps. That would have made Gossage sit up.’
He
sighed, more exhaustedly than regretfully, I thought. That morning was the last
time I saw Moreland. It was also the last time I had, with anyone, the sort of
talk we used to have together. Things drawing to a close, even quite suddenly,
was hardly a surprise. The look Moreland had was the one people take on when a
stage has been reached quite different from just being ill.
‘I’ll
have to think about that song,’ he said.
Drizzle
was coming down fairly hard outside. I walked back over the bridge. Vintage
cars still penetrated the traffic moving south. They advanced in small groups,
separated from each other by a few minutes. More exaggerated in style, some of
the period costumes assumed by drivers and passengers recalled the deerstalker
cap, check ulster, General Conyers had worn, when, on the eve of the ‘first’
war, he had mastered the hill leading to Stonehurst, in his fabled motor-car. I
wondered if the Conyers car had survived, to become a collector’s piece of
incalculable value to people like Jimmy Stripling. Here and there, from open
hoodless vehicles, protruded an umbrella, sometimes of burlesque size or
colour. I paused to watch them by the statue of Boadicea – Budicca, one would
name her, if speaking with Dr Brightman – in the chariot. The chariot horses
recalled what a squalid part the philosopher, Seneca, with his shady
horse-dealing, had played in that affair. Below was inscribed the pay-off for
the Romans.
Regions
Caesar never knew
Thy posterity shall sway.
Whatever
else might be thought of that observation, the Queen was obviously driving the
ultimate in British vintage makes. A liability suddenly presented itself, bringing
such musings sharply to a close, demanding rapid decisions. Widmerpool,
approaching from right angles, was walking along the Embankment in the
direction of Parliament. It might have been possible to avoid him by crossing
quickly in front, because, as usual when alone, his mind seemed bent on a
problem. At that moment something happened to cause the attention of both of us
to be concentrated all at once in the same direction. This was the loud,
prolonged hooting of one of the vintage cars, which, having crossed Parliament
Square, was approaching Westminster Bridge.
Widmerpool
stopped dead. He stared for a second with irritated contempt. Then his face
took on a look of enraged surprise. The very sight of the vintage cars appeared
to stir in him feelings of the deepest disgust, uncontrollable resentment. That
would not be altogether out of character. His deep absorption in whatever he
was regarding gave opportunity to avoid him. Instead, I myself tried to trace
the screeching noises to their source. They were issuing from the horn,
whimsically shaped like a dragon’s head, of a vintage car driven by a man
wearing neo-Edwardian outfit, beside whom sat a young woman in normal dress for
an outing. The reason for Widmerpool’s outraged expression became clear, even
then not immediately. I am not sure I should have recognized Glober, in his
near-fancy-dress, had not Polly Duport been there too. My first thought,
complacently self-regarding, had been to suppose they had seen me, hooted, if
not in a mere friendly gesture, at least to signalize Glober’s own glorious
vintage progress. A similar explanation of why the horn had sounded offered
itself to Widmerpool. He, too, thought they had hooted at him. He took for
granted that Glober was hooting in derision.
The
doubtful taste of such an act – given all the circumstances – had time to
strike me, slightly appal me, before I became aware that the imputation was
altogether unjust. Glober had noticed neither Widmerpool, nor myself. The
crescendo of resonances on the dragon-horn had been prompted by Odo Stevens,
with Jimmy Stripling, at that moment passing Glober’s Boadicean machine, in one
of similar date, though without a hood. Stevens, clad even more exotically than
Glober, was driving; Stripling, wearing a simple cap and mackintosh, holding a
large green umbrella over their heads. Widmerpool turned away from
contemplation of the scene. He was red with anger. There could be no doubt he
supposed himself the object of ridicule. All this had taken a moment or two to
absorb. Escape was now out of the question. We were only a few yards apart. He
could not fail to see me. I spoke first, as the best form of defence.
‘I’m
glad I’m not driving a long distance on a day like this in a car liable to
break down.’
That
was not a particularly interesting nor profound observation. Nothing better
came to mind to bridge the moments before mutation of the traffic lights
allowed evasion by crossing the road. Widmerpool accepted this opening by
giving an equally flat reply.
‘I’m
on my way to the House of Lords.’
The
statement carried conviction. The block of flats in which he lived was only a
few minutes walk from where we stood. Riverside approach to Parliament would be
preferable to the Whitehall route. He showed outward mark of the stresses endured.
His body was thinner, the flesh of his face hanging in sallow pouches. So
deeply, so all envelopingly, was he dressed in black, that he looked almost
ecclesiastical.
‘After
what I’ve been through, I think it my duty to show I can rise above personal
attack – and, I might add, personal misfortune.’
I
made some acknowledgment, one not conspicuously glowing, of these sentiments.
Short of turning on one’s heel, which would have been overdramatic, it was
still impossible to get away. Widmerpool, for his part, appeared quite pleased
at this opportunity for uttering a short address on his own situation, possibly
some sort of informal rehearsal of material later to be used in a speech.
‘I
do not propose for one moment to abandon the cause of genuine internationalism.
It has been said that a presumption of innocence is a peculiarity of bourgeois
liberal law. My own experience of bourgeois liberal law is the reverse. From
the first, in my own case, there was a presumption of culpability. Fortunately,
I was in a position to rebut my accusers. In the Upper House, wherever else I
am called upon to serve the purposes of political truth, I shall continue to
assail the limitations of contemporary empiricism, and expose the bankruptcy of
cold-war propagandists.’
He
sounded more than a little unhinged. Widmerpool had not finished. Without
altering his tone, he changed the subject.
‘The
squalor – the squalor of that hotel.’
Traffic,
beginning to slow up at the amber, came at last to a halt at red. Grinding
noises provided exemption from need to produce an audible reply. Widmerpool
showed no sign of expecting anything of the sort.
‘The
sheer ingratitude,’ he said.
‘I
must be getting on. There’s a lot to do. I want to get home before dark.’
He
was never greatly interested in other people’s doings. I added some platitude
about the evenings drawing in. Widmerpool did not question the notation of the
days. He turned to wait for the other lights to change, enabling him to proceed
towards his destination. I crossed Whitehall swiftly. Another burst of vintage
cars was advancing towards the bridge.