Less Than Angels (26 page)

One was especially interesting and seemed to have some direct bearing on the art or science of anthropology. It was of a gentleman in eighteenth-century dress, attended by a turbanned negro servant. The man held a skull in his hands and was gazing down at it thoughtfully. In the murky background two or three dim forms, men or even apes, could just be seen leaning against a ruined column.

‘What a lovely romantic picture!’ exclaimed Vanessa, striking an attitude in front of it. ‘ How I wish I could be right inside it.’

‘My dear, I wonder if you would really like that,’ said Professor Mainwaring benevolently. ‘The man in the picture, Robert Wyverne Mainwaring, was addicted to fits of deep melancholy, you know it was a fashionable cult at the end of the eighteenth century—and I fear he would have been a most unpleasing companion. Who reads those great poets—Wharton, Blair and Young—now?’ he suddenly rapped out.

‘I’m afraid we don’t have much time for reading poetry,’ said Digby with a slight air of priggishness.

‘A pity, but I suppose it is a sign of the times. I see that you are examining my books,’ he added, speaking to Mark.

‘I suppose the anthropological books are in your study?’

‘Anthropological books?’ chuckled the Professor. ‘You won’t find any in this house. I have given them all to the Foresight Research Centre.’

‘But surely …’ Digby was too shocked to finish his sentence.

‘I am an old man now, I can do very well without them. They are not the kind of reading to see me into my grave.’

‘But what
do
you read?’ asked Mark.

‘Well, there are other books. I find myself turning to Shakespeare and the Bible—those classic desert island choices there is a good deal of reading in them. And at the moment I am quite engrossed in Anthony a Wood’s
Athenae Oxoniensis
do you know it?’

‘Oh, it is not a book for young people,’ said Miss Clovis quickly. ‘Wood’s obsession with mortality wouldn’t be at all their cup of tea and one wouldn’t wish it to be.’

‘Ah,
tea!’
said the Professor, giving her an almost roguish look.

‘Of course we do read Shakespeare and the Bible sometimes,’ said Digby, feeling that they had given an impression of cultural narrowness which it might be well to dispel. ‘It’s only that one finds it difficult to fit in all the wider reading one would like to do.’

‘And Miss Cutbush has read a good deal of Marx,’ said Vanessa rather spitefully.

‘And now, what about some music?’ said Professor Mainwaring, going over towards the piano. ‘We are told that it has charms to soothe a savage breast and that seems very suitable, does it not. Perhaps you would care to do some jigsaw puzzles while you are listening. Now here is one of the Grand Canal at Venice-“over four hundred pieces, fully interlocking”,’ he read from the box. ‘That should keep your hands and brains occupied while you are listening to the music.’

‘How lovely—we went to Venice on our holiday this year,’ said Vanessa.

‘Then you will find the puzzle easier. Travel is a great medium of education, as we know.’

‘Do you play the piano, Professor?’ asked Digby.

‘Well, perhaps I don’t, really, but I have the illusion that I do. You see, this is a pianola.’ He took some music rolls out of a box and consulted the tides. ‘Now, I wonder what would be suitable for this evening? Miss Clovis, what do you think?’

‘Oh, I’m quite indifferent. You know I can’t tell one piece from another.’

The young people settled themselves round a table with the jigsaw puzzle. Digby, characteristically, took up a handful of pieces of sky and began trying to fit them together, leaving the more interesting sections of gondolas, water and buildings to Mark and the girls.

Professor Mainwaring put a roll into the pianola and began peddling vigorously. An Edwardian musical comedy tune, no doubt a favourite of his youth, rang out. As he peddled he hummed and occasionally sang a snatch in a light tenor voice. One tune followed another, but all were of the same kind—
Two little girls in blue
,
I wouldn’t leave my little wooden hut,
The optimist and the pessimist
, and others.

‘Quite a vivid picture of Felix’s salad days,’ mumured Mark ‘Can you imagine him haunting the stage door of the Gaiety or Daly’s?’

‘No wonder he didn’t publish much in those days,’ said Digby.

‘How handsome he must have looked in evening dress,’ sighed Vanessa.

‘It seems a contradiction in his character,’ said Primrose, ‘to think of him leading that kind of life and then going to Africa to study a tribe. I wonder what made him do it?*

‘Perhaps an unhappy love affair,’ mused Vanessa.

‘But young anthropologists now are quite gay when they can afford to be,’ said Mark, remembering his triumphs at the dance. ‘I don’t see anything unusual in that. It’s this crippling lack of money.*

‘Yes, Felix would have private means,’ said Digby sadly.

‘Well, that is done away with now,’ said Primrose rather hody.

‘Hush, Miss Clovis might hear,’ warned Digby.

They were startled by the shrill sound of the telephone ringing somewhere outside the room. Nobody made any attempt to answer it, but after a moment Henry appeared in the doorway.

‘It’s a call for Miss Clovis,’ he said.

Miss Clovis went out of the room.

‘Oh, oh,
Antonio
,

He’s
gone away.
Left
me alonio
,

All on my ownio
.. .’

sang the Professor. ‘Delightful! And
Fioradora
—do you know that? It seems to me that young people are not as light- hearted as they used to be,’ he went on, making them wondter if he had overheard their conversation. ‘I wonder why that is?’

‘Two wars, motor-cars, and newer and more frightful bombs being invented all the time,’ said Mark. ‘One feels there is something not quite right in being gay. A gloomy evening in the cheap seats at the pictures, but no stage door afterwards or drinking champagne out of slippers. Did you ever do that, Professor Mainwaring?’ he inquired, boldly, but at the same time with an air of deference.

‘Ah, those days,’ said the Professor, seeming to evade the question. ‘What is it, Esther?’ he asked, as Miss Clovis came back into the room. ‘Not bad news I hope? You look somewhat
distraite
.’

‘Felix, I must have a word with you in private,’ said Miss Clovis, who certainly seemed to be both agitated and angry.

‘Very well, then.’ He rose from the pianola and followed her out of the room.

A buzz of conversation broke out and there was much speculation as to the news Miss Clovis could have received. It was difficult to guess what event would be likely to produce such an effect upon her; even the death of a near relative or friend was thought to be unlikely to upset her very much, so lacking in the ordinary human emotions did they judge her to be.

‘Perhaps the Folly has been burnt down, or a thief has broken in and stolen the horsehair couch,’ suggested Mark.

‘Or it may be something to do with Miss Lydgate’s brother,’ said Digby. ‘Do you think he has eloped with his housekeeper?’

Voices were heard again outside the door, more in anger than in sorrow, and a few broken sentences could be distinguished. ‘… a
disgusting
thing!’

‘We shall not forget
this
… ‘
But they did not throw much light on what had happened.

‘We hope it was not bad news?’ asked Mark politely, hoping for some information.

Miss Clovis gave a characteristic snort, but Professor Mainwaring said in a soothing tone, ‘Oh, it is not so much, really. It may not turn out to be so bad after all. Now who would like a nightcap? Whisky or a hot milk drink? I’m sure you have all had a tiring day and will be glad to get to bed. Leave the jigsaw on the table, you may be able to finish it tomorrow.’

Upstairs there was a good deal of conversation and laughter before the candidates finally retired for the night.

‘I wonder if there is any special arrangement of rooms,’ said Mark, when he and Digby had said good night to the girls, ‘like an Edwardian house-party. You know what went on there,’

‘I don’t,’ said Digby sourly. ‘You seem very much up in high life these days. Personally I’m tired.’

‘I wonder how we made out this evening?’ said Mark thoughtfully, ‘It wasn’t easy, was it. I’m sorry I didn’t have an opportunity to put my neo-Malinowski plan for field research across in more detail, but I hope he got the gist of it.’

‘Well, spare me the recital of it for another time,’ yawned Digby. ‘Look, biscuits by the bed, rather a good idea, and some light novels by female authors. I shall have a nice read. I wonder what time breakfast is?’

‘Nine o’clock, I should think. Good night!’

They were soon comfortably asleep, but downstairs Professor Mainwaring and Miss Clovis talked until a late hour. ‘What is to be done?’ they asked at intervals, but they went to bed without having solved the problem in any way.

Good morning! Have you everything you want? Mrs. Bush usually provides a good selection of breakfast dishes when I have guests, so I hope you were able to find something you liked.’ Professor Mainwaring paced up and down the dining-room, stroking his beard. It was half past nine on Sunday morning and a fine day. There was no trace of anxiety in his manner, from which it might be presumed that the news of the night before, whatever it had been, had not left any very deep impression. ‘Miss Clovis keeps to her room,’ he went on. ‘She sent a message that she would breakfast there.’

‘I hope she isn’t ill?’ asked Mark, politely but with a note of hope.

‘Oh, no, just feeling a little tired, I think. I hope you all slept well?’

‘Oh, excellently, thank you,’ said Vanessa. ‘It was lovely to hear owls in the trees. I felt really in the country.’

‘It would have been appropriate if I could have arranged lions for you,’ said Professor Mainwaring. ‘My ancestor whose portrait you were admiring last night had a private
menagerie
’
—he pronounced the word in the French way which gave it an exotic and slightly shocking air-‘I believe the roars of the beasts could be heard for miles. Of course when you are in the field you may hear them there.’

‘I should think we are more likely to hear the roar of the high-powered motor-car of one of the urbanized anthropologists,’said Mark. ‘At least in West Africa. New travel books will have titles like
Through Yorubaland in a Cadillac
rather than the good old
First Footsteps
kind of thing.’

‘Yes, it is perhaps to be regretted,’ said the Professor. ‘Now, who is for church this morning?’ he asked with startling briskness. Without waiting for an answer, he went on, ‘ Or would you prefer a walk in the woods? You remember your Wordsworth, of course,

One impulse from a vernal wood,

Will teach you more of man,

 
Of moral evil and of good,

Than all the sages can
‘.

Now indeed they were in a dilemma. They were none of them regular churchgoers though they would certainly have attended the service to please Professor Mainwaring. But the fact that he had offered them an alternative confused them. What did he expect them to do?

‘Of course this wouldn’t be a
vernal
wood,’ said Mark, temporizing, ‘though presumably one could get the same benefit from a wood in autumn.’

‘It would be against my principles to go into a church,’ said Primrose bluntly. ‘So I’d rather go for a walk.’

‘I sometimes go at home with my mother,’ said Digby. ‘Is the church here an ancient one?’

‘No, it is rather ugly,’ declared the Professor. ‘It was built by an ancestor of mine in a style similar to this house, which was rebuilt, as you have probably guessed, about a hundred years ago. The old church was pulled down at the same time. My ancestor had his own ideas about architecture and ornament. Still, I imagine the prayers of the worshippers might be of better quality in an ugly building. They would be less likely to be distracted by their surroundings.’

This seemed a rather unusual view, for it is generally held that beauty and antiquity create the best atmosphere for worship, but nobody felt disposed to argue the point. In the end, Digby and Vanessa went to the morning service, while Mark and Primrose walked in the woods. It was not known how Professor Mainwaring and Miss Clovis spent their Sunday morning, but they appeared before lunch for drinks in the morning-room. The churchgoers felt a sense of virtue, for the singing had been hearty and the sermon short but good; the walkers had perhaps gained less spiritually, but their skins glowed from the fresh air and they felt ready for their lunch. Miss Clovis seemed rather subdued and pale. She drank two glasses of gin with steady concentration.

They sat down at the table for the last big meal of their stay, for it had been arranged that they should leave after an early cup of tea.

After the soup a pair of ducklings was brought on to a side table and Professor Mainwaring rose to carve them.

‘I hope you all like the meat of brown-fleshed birds?’ he asked.

‘Oh, yes, thank you, I prefer it to chicken,’ said Vanessa, and the others made suitable murmurs.

‘I expect you are wondering why I asked you here for this week-end, instead of interviewing you more formally with my good colleagues Professor Fairfax and Dr. Vere,’ the Professor went on.

‘It has been very pleasant for us,’ said Digby.

‘Yes, and I feel that I know you all better now. Each one of you has appeared in his true colours, has emerged as a definite personality. You, my dear,’ he turned to Primrose, ‘are a brave young lady with Bolshevist views. I think you will go about trying to do good.’

Mark stifled a laugh.

‘And you, Mr. Penfold,’ continued the Professor turning to him, ‘are a promising young man who will go far. I see you in a wealthy setting, a connoisseur of fine living, perhaps not as an anthropologist at all,’ he mused, as if trying to reconcile a contradiction in terms here.