Anthony Powell - Casanova’s Chinese Restaurant

Maclintick was hoarse with fury. His hands were shaking His anger made him quite alarming.

‘Yes, Maclintick was just saying that very thing, wasn’t he?’ agreed Gossage, sniggering nervously at this display of uncontrolled rage. ‘The words were scarcely out of his mouth, Mrs Maclintick. That is exactly what he thinks.’

‘Don’t ask me what he thinks,’ said Mrs Maclintick calmly, not in the least put out of countenance by the force of her husband’s abuse. ‘He says one thing at one moment, another at another. Doesn’t know his own mind in the least. I told him he was standing about as if he was in the Nag’s Head. That is the pub near us where all the tarts go. I suppose that is where he thinks he is. It’s the place where he is most at home. Besides, if the symphony was such a success, why wasn’t Moreland better pleased? Or Matilda, for that matter? Matilda doesn’t seem at all at her best tonight. I expect these grand surroundings remind her of better days.’

‘I didn’t say the symphony was “a great success” either,’ said Maclintick, speaking now wearily, as if his outburst of anger had left him weak. ‘Anyway, what do you mean? Moreland looks all right to me. What is wrong with him? Of course, it was insane of me to express any opinion in front of a woman like you.’

‘Go on,’ said Mrs Maclintick. ‘Just go on.’

‘And what reason have you for saying Matilda isn’t pleased?’ said Maclintick. ‘I only wish I had a wife with half Matilda’s sense.’

‘Matilda didn’t seem to be showing all that sense when I was talking to her just now,’ said Mrs Maclintick, still quite undisturbed by this unpleasant interchange, indeed appearing if anything stimulated by its brutality. ‘Or to be at all pleased either. Not that I care how she speaks to me. I bet she has done things in her life I wouldn’t do for a million pounds. Let her speak to me how she likes. I’m not going to bring up her past. All I say is that she and Moreland were having words during the interval. Perhaps it was what they were talking about upset them, not the way the symphony was received. It is not for me to say.*’

Further recrimination was terminated for the moment by the butler bringing a decanter for Maclintick with Buster’s apology that no Irish whiskey was to be found in the house. Buster himself appeared a moment later, adding his own regrets for this inadequacy. I withdrew from the group, and went over to speak to Robert Tolland, who had just come into the room. Robert knew Moreland only slightly, as a notable musical figure rather than as a friend. He had probably been asked to the party at the instigation of Mrs Foxe, had perhaps dined with her to make numbers even. I had not seen him in the concert hall.

‘I expected to find you and Isobel here,’ he said. ‘I was asked at the last moment, I hardly know why. One of those curious afterthoughts which are such a feature of Amy Foxe’s entertaining. I see Priscilla is here. Did you bring her P’ ‘Priscilla dined with us. You could have come to dinner too, if we had known you were on your way to this party.’ Robert gave one of his quiet smiles. ‘Nice of you to suggest it,’ he said, ‘but there were things I had to do earlier in the evening as a matter of fact. How very attractive Mrs Moreland is. I always think so whenever I see her. What a relief that one no longer has to talk about the Abdication. Frederica is looking a lot better now that everything is settled.’

He smiled and moved away, exhaling his usual air of mild mystery. Lady Huntercombe, taking leave of Matilda with a profusion of complimentary phrases, swept after Robert. Matilda beckoned me to come and talk to her. She looked pale, seemed rather agitated, either on account of her long session with Lady Huntercombe, or perhaps because she was still feeling shaken by the strain of hearing the symphony performed.

‘Give me some more champagne, Nick,’ she said, clasping my arm. ‘It is wonderful stuff for the nerves. Are you enjoying yourself at this smart party? I hope so.’

This manner was not at all her usual one. I thought she was probably a little drunk.

‘Of course – and the symphony was a great success.’

‘Did you think so?’

‘Very much.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Didn’t you?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘You are certain, Nick?’

‘Of course I am. Everything went all right. There was lots of applause. What else do you expect?’

‘Yes, it was all right, I think. Somehow I hoped for more real enthusiasm. It is a wonderful work, you know. It really is.’

‘I am sure it is.’

‘It is wonderful. But people are going to be disappointed.’

‘Does Hugh himself think that?’

‘I don’t think it worries him,’ said Madlda. ‘Not in his present state of mind.’

For some reason – from the note in her voice, a sense of trouble in the air, perhaps just from natural caution – I felt safer in not enquiring what she regarded as Moreland’s ‘present state of mind’.

‘I see your little sister-in-law, Lady Priscilla, is here,’ said Matilda.

She smiled rather in Robert’s manner, as if at some secret inner pleasure that was also a little bitter to contemplate.

‘You’ve met her with us, haven’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘She dined with us tonight.’

‘I met her once at your flat,’ said Madlda, speaking slowly, as if that were an extraordinary thing to have happened. ‘She is very attractive. But I don’t know her as well as Hugh does.’

I suddenly felt horribly uncomfortable, as if ice-cold water were dripping very gently, very slowly down my spine, but as if, at the same time, some special circumstance prevented admission of this unaccountable fact and also forbade any attempt on my own part to suspend the process; a sensation to be recognised, I knew well, as an extension of that earlier refusal to face facts about Moreland giving Priscilla the concert ticket. That odd feeling of excitement began to stir within me always provoked by news of other people’s adventures in love; accompanied as ever by a sense of sadness, of regret, almost jealousy, inward emotions that express, like nothing else in life, life’s irrational dissatisfactions. On the one hand, that Moreland might have fallen in love with Priscilla (and she with him) seemed immensely interesting; on the other – to speak only callously of the Morelands’ marriage and Priscilla’s inexperience (if she was inexperienced) – any such situation threatened complications of a most disturbing kind on two separate fronts of one’s own daily existence. As to immediate action, a necessary minimum was obviously represented by refraining from any mention to Matilda of the complimentary ticket. Silence on that point offered at least a solid foundation upon which to build; the simple principle that a friend’s actions, however colourless, vis-à-vis another woman, are always better unrepeated to his wife. Contemplation of this banal maxim increased the depression that had suddenly descended on me. The proposition that Moreland was having some sort of a flirtation with Priscilla sufficiently tangible to cause Matilda – even if she had had too much champagne – to draw my attention to such goings-on appeared at once ridiculous and irritating Probably Matilda’s speculations were unco-ordinated. Quite likely Moreland and Priscilla were indeed behaving foolishly. Why draw attention to that? The matter would blow over. All three persons concerned fell in my estimation. In any case, Matilda’s speculations might be wholly unfounded. Priscilla, physically speaking – socially speaking, if it came to that – was not the sort of girl Moreland usually liked. ‘Nothing is more disturbing,’ he used to say himself, ‘than one’s friends showing unexpected sexual tastes.’ Priscilla, for her part, was not in general inclined towards the life Moreland lived; had never shown any sign of liking married men, a taste some girls acquire at an early age. I thought it best to change the subject.