Anthony Powell - The Acceptance World

‘I didn’t think you’d understand.’

‘How hopeless of you.’

‘Now I see it was,’ she had said, quite humbly.

She shared with her brother the conviction that she ‘belonged’ in no particular world. The other guests she had found collected round Sir Magnus Donners at Stourwater had been on the whole unsympathetic.

‘I only went because I was a friend of Baby’s,’ she had said; ‘I don’t really like people of that sort.’

‘But surely there were people of all sorts there?’

‘Perhaps I don’t much like people anyway. I am probably too lazy. They always want to sleep with one, or something.’

‘But that is like me.’

‘I know. It’s intolerable.’

We laughed, but I had felt the chill of sudden jealousy; the fear that her remark had been made deliberately to tease.

‘Of course Baby loves it all,’ she went on. ‘The men hum round her like bees. She is so funny with them.’

‘What did she and Sir Magnus do?’

‘Not even I know. Whatever it was, Bijou Ardglass refused to take him on.’

‘She was offered the job?’

‘So I was told. She preferred to go off with Bob.’

‘Why did that stop?’

‘Bob could no longer support her in the style to which she was accustomed — or rather the style to which she was unaccustomed, as Jumbo Ardglass never had much money.’

It was impossible, as ever, to tell from her tone what she felt about Duport. I wondered whether she would leave him and marry me. I had not asked her, and had no clear idea what the answer would be. Certainly, if she did, like Lady Ardglass, she would not be supported in the style to which she had been accustomed. Neither, for that matter, would Mona, if she had indeed gone off with Quiggin, for I felt sure that the final domestic upheaval at the Templers’ had now taken place. Jean had been right. Something about the way Quiggin and Mona walked beside one another connected them inexorably together. ‘Women can be immensely obtuse about all kinds of things,’ Barnby was fond of saying, ‘but where the emotions are concerned their opinion is always worthy of consideration.’

The mist was lifting now, gleams of sunlight once more coming through the clouds above the waters of the Serpentine. Not unwillingly dismissing the financial side of marriage from my mind, as I walked on through the melancholy park, I thought of love, which, from the very beginning perpetually changes its shape: sometimes in the ascendant, sometimes in decline. At present we sailed in comparatively calm seas because we lived from meeting to meeting, possessing no plan for the future. Her abandonment remained; the abandonment that had so much surprised me at that first embrace, as the car skimmed the muddy surfaces of the Great West Road.

But in love, like everything else — more than anything else — there must be bad as well as good; and by silence or some trivial remark she could inflict unexpected pain. Away from her, all activities seemed waste of time, yet sometimes just before seeing her I was aware of an odd sense of antagonism that had taken the place of the longing that had been in my heart for days before. This sense of being out of key with her sometimes survived the first minutes of our meeting. Then, all at once, tension would be relaxed; always, so it seemed to me, by some mysterious force emanating from her: intangible, invisible, yet at the same time part of a whole principle of behaviour: a deliberate act of the will by which she exercised power. At times it was almost as if she intended me to feel that unexpected accident, rather than a carefully arranged plan, had brought us together on some given occasion; or at least that I must always be prepared for such a mood. Perhaps these are inward irritations always produced by love: the acutely sensitive nerves of intimacy: the haunting fear that all may not go well.

Still thinking of such things, I rang the bell of the ground- floor flat. It was in an old-fashioned red-brick block of buildings, situated somewhere beyond Rutland Gate, concealed among obscure turnings that seemed to lead nowhere. For some time there was no answer to the ring. I waited, peering through the frosted glass of the front door, feeling every second an eternity. Then the door opened a few inches and Jean looked out. I saw her face only for a moment. She was laughing.

‘Come in,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s cold.’

As I entered the hall, closing the door behind me, she ran back along the passage. I saw that she wore nothing but a pair of slippers.

‘There is a fire in here,’ she called from the sitting-room.

I hung my hat on the grotesque piece of furniture, designed for that use, that stood by the door. Then I followed her down the passage and into the room. The furniture and decoration of the flat were of an appalling banality.

‘Why are you wearing no clothes?’

‘Are you shocked?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think you are.’

‘Surprised, rather than shocked.’

‘To make up for the formality of our last meeting.’

‘Aren’t I showing my appreciation?’

‘Yes, but you must not be so conventional.’

‘But if it had been the postman?’

‘I could have seen through the glass.’

‘He, too, perhaps.’

‘I had a dressing-gown handy.’

‘It was a kind thought, anyway.’

‘You like it?’

‘Very much.’

‘Tell me something nice.’

‘This style suits you.’

‘Not too outré’

‘On the contrary.’

‘Is this how you like me?’

‘Just like this.’

There is, after all, no pleasure like that given by a woman who really wants to see you. Here, at last, was some real escape from the world. The calculated anonymity of the surroundings somehow increased the sense of being alone with her. There was no sound except her sharp intake of breath. Yet love, for all the escape it offers, is closely linked with everyday things, even with the affairs of others. I knew Jean would burn with curiosity when I told her of the procession in the park. At the same time, because passion in its transcendence cannot be shared with any other element, I could not speak of what had happened until the time had come to decide where to dine.

She was pulling on her stockings when I told her. She gave a little cry, indicating disbelief.

‘After all, you were the first to suggest something was “on” between them.’

‘But she would be insane to leave Peter.’

We discussed this. The act of marching in a political demonstration did not, in itself, strike her as particularly unexpected in Mona. She said that Mona always longed to take part in anything that drew attention to herself. Jean was unwilling to believe that pushing St. John Clarke’s chair was the outward sign of a decisive step in joining Quiggin.

‘She must have done it because Peter is away. It is exactly the kind of thing that would appeal to her. Besides, it would annoy him just the right amount. A little, but not too much.’

‘Where is Peter?’

‘Spending the week-end with business friends. Mona thought them too boring to visit.’

‘Perhaps she was just having a day out, then. Even so, it confirms your view that Quiggin made a hit with her.’

She pulled on the other stocking.

‘True, they had a splitting row just before Peter left home,’ she said. ‘You know, I almost believe you are right.’

‘Put a call through.’

‘Just to see what the form is?’

‘Why not?’

‘Shall I?’

She was undecided.

‘I think I will,’ she said at last.

Still only partly dressed, she took up the telephone and lay on the sofa. At the other end of the line the bell rang for some little time before there was an answer. Then a voice spoke from the Templers’ house. Jean made some trivial enquiry. A short conversation followed. I saw from her face that my guess had been somewhere near the mark. She hung up the receiver.