Anthony Powell - The Acceptance World

‘I only met her once — at a party Charles took me to.’

‘Why don’t we all go and see her?’

‘I don’t think any of us really know her.’

‘But I couldn’t know her better.’

‘Where does she live?’

‘Where’s the telephone book?’ said Umfraville. ‘Though I don’t expect she will be in England at this time of year.’

He moved away, lost in thought, and disappeared through the door. It occurred to me that he was pretty drunk, but at the same time I was not sure. Equally possible was the supposition that this was his first drink of the evening. The mystery surrounded him that belongs especially to strong characters who have only pottered about in life. Jean slipped her hand in mine.

‘Who is he?’

I tried to explain to her who Umfraville was.

‘I am enjoying myself,’ she said.

‘Are you?’

I could not be quite sure whether I was enjoying myself or not. We watched the other two playing billiards. The game was evidently war to the knife. They were evenly matched. There could be no doubt now that there had been some sort of disagreement between them before their arrival at Foppa’s. Perhaps all girls were in a difficult mood that night.

‘I’ve often heard of Umfraville,’ said Barnby, chalking his cue. ‘Didn’t he take two women to St. Moritz one year, and get fed up with them, and left them there to pay the hotel bill?’

‘Who is he married to now?’ Anne Stepney asked.

‘Free as air at the moment, I believe,’ said Barnby. ‘He has had several wives — three at least. One of them poisoned herself. Another left him for a marquess — and almost immediately eloped again with a jockey. What happened to the third I can’t remember. Your shot, my dear.’

Umfraville returned to the room. He watched the completion of the game in silence. It was won by Barnby. Then he spoke.

‘I have a proposition to make,’ he said. ‘I got on to Milly Andriadis just now on the telephone and told her we were all coming round to see her.’

My first thought was that I must not make a habit of arriving with a gang of friends at Mrs. Andriadis’s house as an uninvited guest; even at intervals of three or four years. A moment later I saw the absurdity of such diffidence, because, apart from any other consideration, she would not have the faintest remembrance of ever having met me before. At the same time, I could not inwardly disregard the pattern of life which caused Dicky Umfraville not only to resemble Stringham, but also, by this vicarious invitation, to re-enact Stringham’s past behaviour.

‘What is this suggestion?’ enquired Anne Stepney.

She spoke coldly, but I think Umfraville had already thoroughly aroused her interest. At any rate her eyes reflected that rather puzzled look that in women is sometimes the prelude to an inclination for the man on whom it is directed.

‘Someone called Mrs. Andriadis,’ said Umfraville. ‘She has been giving parties since you were so high. Rather a famous lady. A very old friend of mine. I thought we might go round and see her. I rang her up just now and she can’t wait to welcome us.’

‘Oh, do let’s go,’ said Anne Stepney, suddenly abandoning her bored, listless tone. ‘I’ve always longed to meet Mrs. Andriadis. Wasn’t she some king’s mistress — was it—‘

‘It was,’ said Umfraville.

‘I’ve heard so many stories of the wonderful parties she gives.’

Umfraville stepped forward and took her hand. ‘Your ladyship wishes to come,’ he said softly, as if playing the part of a courtier in some ludicrously mannered ceremonial. ‘We go, then. Yours to command.’

He bent his head over the tips of her fingers. I could not see whether his lips actually touched them, but the burlesque was for some reason extraordinarily funny, so that we all laughed. Yet, although absurd, Umfraville’s gesture had also a kind of grace which clearly pleased and flattered Anne Stepney. She even blushed a little. Although he laughed with the rest of us, I saw that Barnby was a trifle put out, as indeed most men would have been in the circumstances. He had certainly recognised Umfraville as a rival with a technique entirely different from his own. I looked across to Jean to see if she wanted to join the expedition. She nodded quickly and smiled. All at once things were going all right again between us.

‘I’ve only met Mrs. Andriadis a couple of times,’ said Barnby. ‘But we got on very well on both occasions — in fact she bought a drawing. I suppose she won’t mind such a large crowd?’

‘Mind?’ said Umfraville. ‘My dear old boy, Milly will be tickled to death. Come along. We can all squeeze into one taxi. Foppa, we shall meet again. You shall have your revenge.’

Mrs. Andriadis was, of course, no longer living in the Duports’ house in Hill Street, where Stringham had taken me to the party. That house had been sold by Duport at the time of his financial disaster. She was now installed, so it appeared, in a large block of flats recently erected in Park Lane. I was curious to see how her circumstances would strike me on re-examination. Her party had seemed, at the time, to reveal a new and fascinating form of life, which one might never experience again. Such a world now was not only far less remarkable than formerly, but also its special characteristics appeared scarcely necessary to seek in an active manner. Its elements had, indeed, grown up all round one like strange tropical vegetation: more luxuriant, it was true, in some directions rather than others: attractive here, repellent there, but along every track that could be followed almost equally dense and imprisoning.

‘She really said she would like to see us?’ I asked, as, tightly packed, we ascended in the lift.

Umfraville’s reply was less assuring than might have been hoped.

‘She said, “Oh, God, you again, Dicky. Somebody told me you died of drink in 1929.” I said, “Milly, I’m coming straight round with a few friends to give you that kiss I forgot when we were in Havana together.” She said, “Well, I hope you’ll bring along that pony you owe me, too, which you forgot at the same time.” So saying, she snapped the receiver down.’

‘So she has no idea how many we are?’

‘Milly knows I have lots of friends.’

‘All the same—’

‘Don’t worry, old boy. Milly will eat you all up. Especially as you are a friend of Charles.’

I was, on the contrary, not at all sure that it would be wise to mention Stringham’s name to Mrs. Andriadis.

‘We had to sue her after she took our house,’ said Jean.

‘Yes, I expect so,’ said Umfraville.

The circumstances of our arrival did not seem specially favourable in the light of these remarks. We were admitted to what was evidently a large flat by an elderly lady’s-maid, who had the anxious, authoritative demeanour of a nanny, or nursery governess, long established in the family.

‘Well, Ethel,’ said Umfraville. ‘How are you keeping? Quite a long time since we met.’

Her face brightened at once when she recognised him.

‘And how are you, Mr. Umfraville? Haven’t set eyes on you since the days in Cuba. You look very well indeed, sir. Where did you get your sunburn?’

‘Not too bad, Ethel. What a time it was in Cuba. And how is Mrs. A.?’

‘She’s been a bit poorly, sir, on and off. Not quite her own old self. She has her ups and downs.’

‘Which of us doesn’t, Ethel? Will she be glad to see me?’

It seemed rather late in the day to make this enquiry. Ethel’s reply was not immediate. Her face contracted a trifle as she concentrated her attention upon an entirely truthful answer to this delicate question.

‘She was pleased when you rang up,’ she said. ‘Very pleased. Called me in and told me, just as she would have done in the old days. But then Mr. Guggenbühl telephoned just after you did, and after that I don’t know that she was so keen. She’s changeable, you know. Always was.’