Anthony Powell - Temporary Kings

‘In the end did all this culture bring about a cure?’

‘It wasn’t the culture. The medicos made a mistake. They’d got the slides mixed, or the doctrine changed as to whatever Donners was suffering from being fatal. Something of the sort. Anyway they guessed wrong. Everything with Donners was right as rain. After spending a month or two at his dream cottage, he went back to making money, governing the country, achieving all-time records in utterance of conversational clichés, diverting himself in his own odd ways, all the many activities for which we used to know and love him. That went on until he was gathered in at whatever ripe old age he reached — not far short of eighty, so far as I remember.’

‘Also, if one may say so, without showing much outward sign of having concentrated on the best literature of half-a-dozen nations.’

‘Not the smallest. I was thinking that the other day while reading a translation of I Promessi Sposi . It sounds as if I were modelling myself on Donners, but I’ve got a lot of detective stories too. There was a special reason why I Promessi Sposi made me think of Donners, wonder whether it figured on his list, when he put on that final spurt to become cultured before rigor mortis set in. Like so many romantic novels, the story turns to some extent on the Villain upsetting the Hero by abducting the Heroine, unwilling victim threatened by the former’s lust. That particular theme always misses the main point in the tribulations of Heroes in real life, where the trouble is that the Heroine, once abducted, is likely to be only too anxious to suffer a fate worse than death.’

‘You mean Sir Magnus and his girls?’

For the moment I had not thought of Matilda.

‘I meant when he abducted Matty, and married her. Not exactly a precise parallel with Manzoni, I admit, but you’ll see what I mean.’

I did not know what to answer. This was the first time Moreland had ever spoken in such terms of Matilda leaving him for Sir Magnus Donners. He sighed, then laughed.

‘I suppose she liked being married to him. She remained in that state without apparent stress. She knew him, of course, from their first round together. In his odd way, he must have been attached to her too. All the same, I believe her when she said — consistently said — that she herself always refused to play his games, the way some — presumably most — of his girls did. I mean his taste, like your friend Lord Widmerpool’s, for watching other people make love.’

‘He was a friend of Donners too, but I don’t think Widmerpool got the habit there. What you say was certainly one of the things alleged. So it was true?’

‘Let’s approach the matter in the narrative technique of The Arabian Nights — the world where Donners really belonged — with a story. In fact, two stories. You must be familiar with both, favourite tales of my youth. To tell the truth, I’ve heard neither of them since the war. I’ve no doubt they survive in renovated shape.’

Moreland sighed again.

‘The first yarn is of a man making his way home late one night in London. He finds two ladies whose car has broken down. It is in the small hours, not a soul abroad. The earliest version ever told me represented the two ladies — one young and beautiful, the other older, but very distinguished — as having failed to crank their car with the starting-handle. Thought of this vintage jewel would make the mouths water of those vintage-hounds at the Seraglio , and shows the antiquity of the legend. No doubt the help required was later adapted to more up-to-date mechanics. In yet earlier days, the horses of their phaeton were probably restive, or the carriage immobilized for some other contemporary reason. Anyway, the man gets the engine humming. The ladies are grateful, so much so, they ask him back to their home for a drink. He accepts. After placing the glass to his lips, he remembers no more. He is found the following day, unconscious, in the gutter of some alley in a deserted neighbourhood. He has been castrated.’

‘A favourite anecdote of my father’s.’

‘Of all that generation. The other story concerns a man — I like to think the same man, before he was so cruelly incapacitated — who is accosted by a beautiful girl, again late at night, no one about. He thinks her a tart, though her manner does not suggest that. She says she wants not money, but love. At first he declines, but is at last persuaded by assurances that something about him attracted her. They adjourn to her flat, conveniently near. The girl leads the way up some stairs into a room, unexpectedly large, hung with dark curtains up to the ceiling. Set in the middle of the floor is a divan or bed. On it, in one form or another, perhaps several, they execute together the sexual act When all is ended, the man, still incredulous, makes attempt to offer payment. The girl again refuses, saying the pleasure was its own reward. The man is so bewildered that, when he leaves, he forgets something — umbrella, hat, overcoat. Whatever it is, he remembers at the foot of the stairs. He remounts them. The door of the curtained room is shut-locked. Within, he can hear the babble of voices. A crowd of people must have emerged from behind the curtains. His sexual activities — possibly deviations — have been object of gratification for a concealed clientele.’

‘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.