Anthony Powell - Hearing Secret Harmonies

Polly Duport patted her father’s head in deprecation of such forcible metaphor. Duport’s appearance certainly bore out an assertion that he was not at all well. There seemed scarcely room in the chair for his long legs, the knees thrust up at an uncomfortable angle. Spectacles much altered his appearance. His daughter looked much younger than her forties. Firmly dedicated — somebody said like a nun — to her profession, she was dressed with great simplicity, as if to emphasize an absolute detachment from anything at all like the popular idea of an actress. This was in contrast with Jean, who had acquired a dramatic luxuriousness of turnout, not at all hers as a girl. Polly had always greatly resembled her mother, but, their styles now so different, perhaps only someone like myself, who had known Jean in her young days, would notice much similarity. Duport was not in the least disposed to abandon the theme of Widmerpool, whom he regarded as having at one moment all but ruined him financially.

‘Polly once saw Widmerpool knocked out by an American film star. I wish I’d been there to shake him by the hand.’

‘He wasn’t really knocked out, Papa. Only his specs broken. And Louis Glober wasn’t a film star, though he looked like one.’

‘It was something to break that bastard’s glasses. I’d have castrated him too, if I’d ever had the chance. Not much to remove, I’d guess.’

Jean made a gesture to silence her former husband.

‘How are you, Nick? You’re looking well. Better than the time you and your wife came to a party we gave, when Carlos was over here. Everybody in London was so utterly tired out at the end of the war. Do you remember our party? How is your wife? I liked her so much.’

‘I was sorry to hear —’

Before Jean could answer, Duport, recognizing the imminence of condolences for the death of Colonel Flores, broke in again.

‘Oh, don’t worry about Carlos. Carlos didn’t do too badly. Had the time of his life, when the going was good, then went out instantaneously. Lucky devil. I envy him like hell. Wish I’d met him. He always sounded the sort of bloke I like.’

Jean accepted that view.

‘I’ve often said you’d both of you have got on very well together.’

Polly Duport, possibly lacking her parents’ toughness in handling such matters, at the same reminded by them of emotional complications suffered by herself, turned the conversation in the direction of these.

‘You know Gibson Delavacquerie, don’t you?’

‘Of course. I haven’t seen him for a month or two. He said he was working very hard.’

‘Gibson and I are getting married.’

‘You are? How splendid. Best possible wishes.’

‘He’s got a new book of poems coming out. That’s why he’s gone into retirement as much as possible.’

She looked very pleased; at the same time a little sad. I wondered whether the poems had anything to do with the sadness. In any case there had been quite a bit of sadness to surmount. She had given this information in an aside, while her parents were laughing, with Chandler and the owners of the gallery, about some incident illustrated in one of the Deacons, to which Chandler was pointing. Now he turned to Polly and myself.

‘Goodness, don’t these bring Edgar back? Do you remember his last birthday party when he fell down stairs at that awful dive, The Brass Monkey ?’

‘I wasn’t there. I knew that was the final disaster.’

Duport stared round disapprovingly.

‘I prefer my wind and waves. Smart of me to hang on to them all these years, wasn’t it? That took some doing. Do you remember, Jean, how your brother, Peter, used to grumble about looking after my pictures for me, when I was in low water, and hadn’t anywhere to put them. He hung them in the dining-room of that house he had at Maidenhead. He’d no pictures of his own to speak of — except that terrible Isbister of his old man — so I can’t see what he was grousing at. I might easily have got rid of them, but was spry enough not to sell. They wouldn’t have made a cent.’

Jean laughed.

‘Poor Peter. Why should he keep your junk? You weren’t in low water. You were running round with Bijou Ardglass.’

‘Perhaps I was. One forgets these things. Poor Bijou too.’

‘Do you remember the pictures in the dining-room, Nick? Peter’s Maidenhead house was where we met.’

‘And played planchette.’

‘Yes — we played planchette.*

Duport, becoming suddenly tired, lay back in his chair. He gave a very faint groan. I felt I liked him better than I used. His daughter made a movement to leave.

‘I think we’d better go home now, Papa.’

Duport sat up straight again.

‘So we’ve only got one more to sell?’

Henderson agreed. Jean once more held out her hand. Fashion, decreeing one kissed almost everyone these days, might not unreasonably have brought that about had she kept herself less erect. It was thus avoided without prejudice to good manners.

‘So nice to have met.’

‘Yes, so nice.’

Polly Duport smiled goodbye. I told her how glad I was to hear about herself and Delavacquerie. She smiled again, but did not say anything. Chandler waved. Taking Henderson and Chuck each by an arm, he led them towards the door, evidently imparting an anecdote about Mr Deacon. Duport gave a nod, as he was wheeled away. I strolled round the marine painters. There was — as Jean had said — a vague memory of sea pictures, hung rather askew, on Templer’s dining-room wall. Rather a job lot they had seemed to me that weekend. Even if other things had not been on my mind — that soft laugh of Jean’s — Victorian seascapes would have made no great appeal.

‘It’s the bedroom next to yours. Give it half an hour. Don’t be too long.’

The Needles: Schooner Aground was by no means without all merit. The painter had evidently seen the work of Bonington. I was less keen on Angry Seas off Land’s End . Henderson returned.

‘Polly Duport’s sweet, isn’t she? Don’t you find her mother a little alarming? But then you’d met her before. She must have been very handsome when young. Let me show you that last remaining one of the Duport Collection. You might like to consider it yourself.

He did so. There was no sale. Chuck reappeared.

‘Time to close.’

Henderson looked at his watch.

‘You were telling me you still had some line on the Murtlock/Widmerpool setup. I’d be most interested to hear more of what went on there.’

Chuck interposed.

‘Do you want me to stay?’

Henderson hesitated.

‘No thanks, Chuck. I’ll deal with everything. Just do the usual, and go home. I’ll follow on.’

Henderson seemed divided between wanting to tell his story, and something else that appeared to weigh on his mind. Then he must have decided that telling the story would be sufficiently gratifying to make up for possible indiscretion in other directions.

‘If you’ve got a moment, we could go down to the office.’

I said goodnight to Chuck, by then making preparations to leave. Henderson led the way down a spiral staircase to the basement. The narrow passages below were cluttered with more pictures, framed and unframed. We entered a small room filled with filing cabinets and presses for drawings. Henderson took up his position behind a desk. I chose an armchair of somewhat exotic design, of which there were two. Henderson now seemed to relish the idea of making a fairly elaborate narration. He had perhaps exhausted the extent of persons of his own age prepared to listen.

‘When we all crashed Clare Akworth’s wedding, did you notice an old fellow with us. He had a beard and a red sweater. It was him all the trouble was about at the end, so I heard. Chuck and I had gone off by then.’