Anthony Powell - At Lady Molly's

Left by myself in the middle of the room, I was at first uncertain whether to join Quiggin and Mona in their survey of the Thrubworth grounds, or, by interrupting his pacing with some conventional remark, to follow up Erridge’s vague but general greeting to the three of us on arrival. The latter course threatened to entail an attempt to march up and down the room beside him: like officers waiting for a parade to begin. On the other hand, to move away towards Quiggin and the window would seem ineffective and unfriendly, Idecided to glance at the economic chart for a minute or two in the hope that the situation might assume a less enigmatic aspect; but when a moment later Erridge paused by his desk, and began laboriously to straighten some of the few papers that remained there, I saw that he and I, sooner or later, must establish some kind of host-guest relationship, however uneasy, if we were to spend an evening together. The quicker this were done the better, so far as my own peace of mind was concerned. I therefore tackled him without further delay.

‘I saw your butler some months ago at the Jeavonses’.’

Erridge started, at last coming to himself.

‘Oh, did you, yes,’ he said, laughing uncomfortably, but at least putting down the pages of typescript which he was shuffling together. ‘Smith went there while I was — while I was away — doing this — this — sort of investigation. He has been with me for — oh, I don’t know — several years. Our other butler died. He had something ghastly wrong with his inside. Something really horrible. It was quite sudden. Smith is rather a peculiar man. He doesn’t have very good health either. You can never guess what he is going to say. You know Aunt Molly, do you?’

Erridge’s face had begun to work painfully when he spoke of his earlier butler’s unhappy state of health and subsequent death. It was easy to see that he found the afflictions of the human condition hard even to contemplate; indeed, took many of them as his own personal responsibility.

‘I’ve been there once or twice.’

‘You seem to know a lot of my relations,’ said Erridge.

He made this remark in a flat, despondent tone, as if interested, even faintly surprised that such a thing should happen, but that was all. He appeared to wish to carry the matter no further, uttering no warning, but certainly offering no encouragement. It would probably have been necessary to discover a fresh subject to discuss, had not Quiggin at that moment decided that the proper period of segregation from Erridge was at an end — or had been satisfactorily terminated by my own action — so that he now rejoined us.

‘I was showing Mona the place where I advise you to have those trees down,’ he said. ‘I am sure it is the right thing to do. Get them out of the way.’

‘I’m still thinking it over,’ said Erridge, again using an absolutely flat tone.

He did not show any desire to hear Quiggin’s advice about his estate, his manner on this subject contrasting with his respectful reception of Quiggin’s political comments. Mona sat down on the sofa and gave a little sigh.

‘Would you — any of you — like a drink?’ asked Erridge.

He spoke enquiringly, as if drink at that hour were an unusual notion that had just occurred to him. It was agreed that a drink would be a good idea. However, Erridge seemed to have little or no plan for implementing his offer. All he did further was to say: ‘I expect Smith will be back in a minute or two.’

Smith did, indeed, return a short time later. He added a large jug of barley water to the things on the table.

‘Oh, Smith,’ said Erridge. ‘There is some sherry, isn’t there?’

‘Sherry, m’lord?’

It was impossible to tell from Smith’s vacant, irascible stare whether he had never before been asked for sherry since his first employment at Thrubworth; or whether he had himself, quite simply, drunk all the sherry that remained.

‘Yes, sherry,’ said Erridge, with unexpected firmness. ‘I am sure I remember some being left in the decanter after the doctor came here.’

Erridge said the word ‘doctor’ in a way that made me think he might add hypochondria to his other traits. There was something about the value he gave to the syllables that emphasised the importance to himself of a doctor’s visit.

‘I don’t think so, m’lord.’

‘I know there was,’ said Erridge. ‘Please go and look.’

A battle of wills was in progress. Clearly Erridge had little or no interest in sherry as such. Like Widmerpool, he did not care for eating and drinking: was probably actively opposed to such sensual enjoyments, which detracted from preferable conceptions of pure power. Quiggin, of course, liked power too; though perhaps less for its own sake than for the more practical consideration of making a career for himself of a kind that appealed at any given moment to his imagination. Quiggin could therefore afford to allow himself certain indulgences, provided these did not endanger the political or social front he chose to present to the world. In supposing that Erridge, like most people who employ eccentric servants, was under Smith’s thumb, I now saw I had made an error of judgment. Erridge’s will was a strong one. There could be no doubt of that. At his words Smith had bowed his head as one who, having received the order of the bowstring, makes for the Bosphorus. He turned in deep dejection from the room. Erridge’s sallow cheeks had almost taken on a touch of colour. In this mood his beard made him look quite fierce.

‘You would like some sherry, wouldn’t you?’ he repeated to Mona.

He was suffering a twinge of conscience that to the rest of us his demeanour to Smith might have sounded arrogant: out of keeping with his fundamental beliefs.

‘Oh, yes ,’ said Mona.

She adopted towards Erridge a decidedly flirtatious manner. Indeed, I wondered for a moment whether she might now be contemplating a new move that would make her Countess of Warminster. Almost immediately I dismissed such a speculation as absurd, since Erridge himself appeared totally unaware that he was being treated to Mona’s most seductive glance. Turning from her he began to discuss with Quiggin the economics of the magazine they hoped to found. The Quiggin plan was evidently based on the principle that Erridge should put up the money, and Quiggin act as editor; Erridge, on the other hand, favoured some form of joint editorship. I was surprised that Mona showed no sign of dissatisfaction at Erridge’s indifference to her. I noted how much firmer, more ruthless, her personality had become since I had first met her as Templer’s wife, when she had seemed a silly, empty-headed, rather bad-tempered beauty. Now she possessed a kind of hidden force, of which there could be no doubt that Quiggin was afraid.

Smith returned with sherry on a salver. There was just enough wine to give each of us a full glass. I remarked on the beauty of the decanter.

‘Are you interested in glass?’ said Erridge. ‘Some of it is rather good here. My grandfather used to collect it. I don’t know, by the way, whether you would like to look round the house by any chance. There is nothing much to see, but some people like that sort of thing. Or perhaps you would rather do that after dinner.’

‘Oh, we are more comfortable here with our drinks, aren’t we, Alf?’ said Quiggin. ‘I don’t expect you want to trudge round the house, do you, Nick? I am sure I don’t.’

I think Quiggin knew, even at this stage, that there was no real hope of sabotaging the project, because Erridge was already determined to go through with it; but he felt at the same time, in the interests of his own self-respect, that at least an effort should be made to prevent a tour of the house taking place. Erridge’s face fell; looking more cheerful again at the assurance that, after we had dined, I should like to ‘see round’. Smith appeared with some soup in a tureen, and we ranged ourselves about the table.