Anthony Powell - Casanova’s Chinese Restaurant

‘I adore Uncle Ted,’ said Priscilla, anxious to show that she herself had perfectly followed this dissertation.

‘And you, Black-eyed Susan,’ said Stringham, turning again in the direction of Mrs Maclintick, at the same time raising the programme interrogatively, ‘do you too suffer in your domestic life – of which you speak with such a wealth of disillusionment – from the particular malaise I describe: the judgment of terrible silences?’

That was a subject upon which Mrs Maclintick felt herself in a position to speak authoritatively; the discussion, if uninterrupted, might have proceeded for a long time. Moreland was showing some signs of restlessness, although he and the others sitting there seemed to be finding some release from themselves, and their individual lives, in what was being said. The remainder of Mrs Foxe’s guests, although in fact just round the corner, appeared for some reason infinitely far away. Then, all at once, I became aware that a new personality, an additional force, had been added to our group. This was a woman. She was standing beside me. How long she had been there, where she came from, I did not know.

It was Miss Weedon. She had probably avoided having herself announced in order to make quietly for the place where Stringham was to be found. In any case, her long association with the house as one of its inmates made such a formality almost inappropriate. As usual, she managed to look both businesslike and rather elegant, her large sharp nose and severe expression adding to her air of efficiency, suggesting on the whole a successful, fairly chic career woman. Enclosed in black, her dress committed her neither to night nor day; suitable for Mrs Foxe’s party, it would have done equally well for some lesser occasion. She did not look at all like the former governess of Stringham’s sister, Flavia, although there remained something dominating and controlling about Miss Weedon, hinting that she was used to exercising some form of professional authority. Undoubtedly her intention was to take Stringham home. No other objective could have brought her out at this hour of the night. Priscilla, who had probably met Miss Weedon more than once at the Jeavonses’ – where Miss Weedon was a frequent guest before moving in as an occupant of the house itself – was the first to notice her.

‘Hullo, Miss Weedon,’ she said blushing.

Priscilla moved, probably involuntarily, further from Moreland, who was sitting rather close to her on the sofa. Miss Weedon smiled coldly. She advanced a little deeper into the room, her mysterious, equivocal presence casting a long, dark shadow over the scene.

‘Why, hullo, Tuffy,’ said Stringham, suddenly seeing Miss Weedon too. ‘I am so glad you have turned up. I wondered if I should see you. I just dropped in to say good evening to Mamma, whom I hadn’t set eyes on for ages, only to find the gayest of gay parties in progress. Let me introduce everyone. Lady Priscilla Tolland – you know Tuffy, of course. How silly of me. Now this is Mrs Maclintick, who has been telling me some really hair-raising stories about musical people. I shall never listen to an orchestra again without the most painful speculations about the home life of the players. Nick, of course, you’ve often met. I’m afraid I don’t know your name, Mr-?’

‘Moreland,’ said Moreland, absolutely enchanted by Stringham’s complete ignorance of his identity.

‘Moreland!’ said Stringham. ‘This is Mr Moreland, Tuffy. Mr Moreland for whom the whole party is being given. What a superb faux pas on my part. A really exquisite blunder. How right it is that I should emerge but rarely. Well, there we are – and this, I nearly forgot to add, Mr Moreland, is Miss Weedon.’

He was still perfectly at ease. There was not the smallest sign to inform a casual observer that Stringham was now looked upon by his own family, by most of his friends, as a person scarcely responsible for his own actions; that he was about to be removed from his mother’s house by a former secretary who had taken upon herself to look after him, because – I suppose – she loved him. All the same, although nothing outward indicated that something dramatic was taking place, Stringham himself, after he had performed these introductions, had risen from his chair with one of his random, easy movements, so that to me it was clear he knew the game was up. He knew that he must be borne away by Miss Weedon within the next few minutes to whatever prison-house now enclosed him. Moreland and Priscilla glanced at each other, recognising a break in the rhythm of the party, probably wanting to make a move themselves, but unaware quite what was happening. Mrs Maclintick, on the other hand, showed herself not at all willing to have the group disposed of in so arbitrary a manner. She turned a most unfriendly stare on Miss Weedon, which seemed by its contemptuous expression to recognise in her, by some unaccountable feminine intuition, a figure formerly subordinate in Mrs Foxe’s household.

‘We have been talking about marriage,’ said Mrs Maclintick aggressively.

She addressed herself to Miss Weedon, who in return gave her a smile that cut like a knife.

‘Indeed?’ she said.

‘This gentleman and I have been comparing notes,’ said Mrs Maclintick, indicating Stringham.

‘We have, indeed,’ said Stringham laughing. ‘And found a lot to agree about.’

He had dropped his former air of burlesque, now appeared completely sober.

‘It sounds a very interesting discussion,’ said Miss Weedon.

She spoke in a tone damaging to Mrs Maclintick’s self-esteem. Miss Weedon was undoubtedly prepared to take anybody on; Mrs Maclintick; anybody. I admired her for that.

‘Why don’t you tell us what you think about marriage yourself?’ asked Mrs Maclintick, who had drunk more champagne than I had at first supposed. ‘They say the onlooker sees most of the game.’

‘Not now,’ said Miss Weedon, in the cosmically terminating voice of one who holds authority to decide when the toys must be returned to the toy-cupboard. ‘I have my little car outside, Charles. I thought you might like a lift home.’

‘But he is going to take me to a night-club,’ said Mrs Maclintick, her voice rising in rage. ‘He said that after we had settled a few points about marriage we would go to a very amusing place he knew of.’

Miss Weedon looked at Stringham without a trace of surprise or disapproval; just a request for confirmation.

‘That was the suggestion, Tuffy.’

He laughed again. He must have known by experience that in the end Miss Weedon would turn out to hold all the cards, but he showed no sign yet of capitulation.

‘The doctor begged you not to stay up too late, Charles,’ said Miss Weedon, also smiling.

She was in no degree behind Stringham where keeping one’s head was concerned.

‘My medical adviser did indeed prescribe early hours,’ said Stringham. ‘You are right there, Tuffy. I distinctly recollect his words. But I was turning over in my mind the possibility of disregarding such advice. Ted Jeavons was speaking recently of some night haunt he once visited where he had all kind of unusual adventures. A place run by one, Dicky Umfraville, a bad character whom I used to see in my Kenya days and have probably spoken of. Something about the sound of the joint attracted me. I offered to take Mrs Maclintick there. I can hardly go back on my promise. Of course, the club has no doubt closed down by now. Nothing Dicky Umfraville puts his hand to lasts very long. Besides, Ted was a little vague about the year his adventure happened – it might have been during the war, when he was a gallant soldier on leave from the trenches. That all came in when he told the story. However, if defunct, we could always visit the Bag of Nails.’