Temporary Kings (32 page)

She
did not seem at all surprised when I told her Dr Brightman had also, speaking
of
Borage and Hellebore
, invoked
the name of Thomas Vaughan in Venice.

‘His
spirit was moving there. The Lion of St Mark could symbolize that green lion he
calls the body, the magical entity that must clip the wings of the eagle. Do
you remember planchette on that dark afternoon in the country? It was Baby’s
planchette that had been borrowed.’

I
had forgotten that fact. The occasion, in any case, was not one desirable for
resurrection at that moment. Better reminiscence should stop there. Mrs
Erdleigh, who had perhaps been teasing, allowed that view to prevail. I
followed up her astrological connotation of Baby Clarini by drawing attention
to Isobel’s horoscope.

‘My
wife is under Pisces. She rebels against that.’

Isobel
made some complaint about the trials to which Piscians are subject. Mrs
Erdleigh turned on to her a soothsayer’s gaze, friendly but all-seeing.

‘Remember
always The Fishes are ruled by Jupiter – give no credence to Neptune. There is
the safeguard. When first I put out the cards for your husband, I told him you
two would meet, and all would be well.’

If
my acknowledgment fell short of absolute agreement that Mrs Erdleigh had seen
so far ahead, it also fell much farther short of truthful denial that she had
said anything of the sort. Sorceresses, more than most, are safer allowed their
professional
amour propre
.
Stripling leant across the table. He had sat down opposite, next to Stevens. He
was probably under permanent orders to remain directly within Mrs Erdleigh’s
eye.

‘Are
you one of these musical people? I expect so. I don’t know a thing about Mozart
opera, or anyone else’s, but Myra wanted to come. Myra and I have been friends
for years. I have to do what she wants. She’s such a wonderful person. What she
knows is uncanny, far more than that. No, it is, Myra, I mean it.’

Mrs
Erdleigh had made no attempt to deny omniscience, but Stripling may have felt
the whole speech necessary to establish his own standing. I attempted some
remark about having met him at the Templers’ years before.

‘Of
course, of course. Poor old Peter.’

Stripling
did not seem very capable of taking in chronological bearings about people any
longer, only motor-cars, as it turned out a moment later, when I told him about
seeing Sunny Farebrother some months before. Farebrother, too, then a butt of
Stripling’s derision, had been at the Templer house when we first met.

‘Sunny
Farebrother? Do you know I was thinking of Sunny the other day. He used to own
an old Ford car years ago – thirty or forty, old even then – so much so, people
like me ragged him about it. No hope he’s kept it, I suppose? He’s always been
a very economical man, but I don’t expect there’s any hope of that. I’d give a
lot to possess that car. Cars are the only things I know about. Are you
interested in cars?’

‘I
possess one, so I have to be to that extent.’

Stripling
shook his head. That was not enough.

‘I’ve
loved cars all my life. Love’s the only word. Passionate love. Some feel like
that about them. Probably why my marriage wasn’t a success. I loved cars over
well. I’m too old to race them now, but I study them, and collect them. Not a
rally, not a
concours d’élégance
, I
miss. You know Odo’s got very keen on vintage cars too.’

When
people speak of a subject close to them, they can look transformed. Almost as
mystically absorbed in car lore as Mrs Erdleigh in a transcendental vision,
Stripling suddenly changed from his dreamy state to one of intense excitement.
He had just thought of something he could not wait to communicate to Stevens,
something of paramount importance to both of them.

‘I
say, Odo, do you know there’s an American at this party who’s keen on vintage
cars? A fellow called Glober. Told me quite by chance a minute before the opera
started. It’s just come back to me. I’d mentioned I owned two Armstrong
Siddeleys, ’26 and ’27, which both still go like smoke. Powerful as
dreadnoughts, the pair of them. He was as keen as mustard at once. They’re 14
h.p., o.h.v., four-cylinder, sparely raked windscreens, both absolute treasures
the way they pound along. What do you think Glober told me? He owns a litre
supercharged ’31 Bentley, which he’s got here tonight. Only bought her last
week. Of course, he wanted to see the Armstrong Siddeleys, when he’s got a
chance to let up on the film he’s making – he’s a film producer – and he’s
going to show me the Bentley when we leave. He’s pondering a Bugatti 35.’

Stevens
took charge of Stripling at this stage.

‘Of
course I know Louis Glober’s in the vintage market, Jimmy. What are you
thinking about? But, look here, tell me again what you were saying the other
day about the 1902, 5 h.p., Renault Voiturette. It’s the big stuff I’m getting
interested in now. There was also a 1903 Panhard et Levassor, 10 h.p. tonneau,
I wanted to discuss.’

They
settled down to the subject.

‘Though
many desire these treasures, none enter but he who knows the key and how to use
it.’

For
a moment, Mrs Erdleigh sounded as if he she, too, had embarked on the subject
of vintage cars, but occult practices were still her theme.

‘I
remember Dr Trelawney saying much the same not long before he — ’

I
stopped just in time, at the last minute remembering no one, least of all a
mage like Dr Trelawney, should be disparaged by the statement that Death had
overtaken him.

Providential
suspension on my lips of that misnomer was barely accepted by Mrs Erdleigh. She
had already begun to shake her head at such a near lapse, congenital lack of
insight, all but openly displayed.

‘You
mean not long before he achieved the Eighth Sphere to which Trismegistus refers?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Where,
as again Vaughan writes, the liberated soul ascends, looking at the sunset
towards the west wind, and hearing secret harmonies. He calls this world, where
we are now, an outdoor theatre, in whose wings the Dead wait their cue for
return to the stage – an image from the
opéra bouffe
we have just witnessed. In a short space
now, I too shall leave for the wings. Perhaps before the drama is played out,
of which the opening Act was in the Bragadin palace. The rumble of wheels
sounds. Once set in motion, the chariot of the soul does not long linger.’

‘What
was begun at Jacky Bragadin’s?’

‘Much
to disorder the hierarchy of being. Elsewhere too. Pluto disports himself in
the Eighth House.’

I
should have liked to continue, try to persuade Mrs Erdleigh to show herself a little
more explicit, but her attention was distracted by a young Labour MP, politely
sceptical, also anxious to enquire into his own astrological nativity. Mrs
Erdleigh’s engagement in this, other similar interrogations, took up the rest
of supper. After we had moved away from the table, further opportunity came to
talk to Stevens, who had for the moment renounced vintage cars, about
Widmerpool, what had taken place to extricate him from his embarrassments.
Stevens himself was greatly preoccupied with this question.

‘It’s
been suggested he wrote an indiscreet letter. Realised he’d gone too far, then
tried to withdraw. That might have been in office hours, or when he was being
cultured in Eastern Europe. You can’t tell. It’s not denied now he’s a close
sympathizer. Even so, he didn’t want to get in trouble with his own security
authorities. A spot of blackmail seems to have been the result. I know the
form. One of my own mob found himself in a tangle that way. Thought it all in
the interests of “international goodwill” to hand over one or two quite
important little items. They asked for more, he stalled – got cold feet – they
gave him away to us.’

‘Somebody
said there was a defection on their side.’

Stevens
gave a sharp look.

‘Perhaps
there was. Whatever happened, he’s got away with it.’

Stevens
moved at ease through the world of secret traffickings of this kind. He was
about to continue an exposition of what happened to such suspects, when – when
not – convenient to prosecute, but was interrupted by Rosie. She came up in a
state of some disquiet. Her little black eyes were popping out of her head with
agitation.

‘Odo,
come at once. Something rather worrying has happened.’

Stevens
went off with her. Rosie’s anxiety might have any cause, the house on fire, an
undesired invitation she wanted help in refusing, one of the children been
sick, the degree of seriousness could not be estimated. Stevens’s comments had
interest. What dreams of power, practical or phantasmic had long tantalized
Widmerpool’s heart, what plans meditated to put them into effect? Stevens had
spoken ironically of betrayals in the interest of ‘international goodwill’;
Bagshaw, speculating on less highflown motives, satisfaction of a taste for
wholesale destruction, vicarious individual revenge against society. Neither
Bagshaw nor Stevens spoke without experience. Perhaps, in Widmerpool’s case, he
managed to coalesce in himself both aspects. Chandler and Gossage passed. They
said goodnight.

‘A
nice turn of power in the middle notes, didn’t you think?’ said Gossage.’ A
fine sensibility of phrase?’

‘Hugh
didn’t look too well,’ said Chandler. ‘I hope he’s all right. I hadn’t seen him
for an age.’

They
passed on. It was time to leave. I began to look about for Isobel. Before I
found her, Stevens returned to the room. I took this opportunity of saying
goodbye, as he seemed on his way somewhere. He confirmed, as it were, the words
spoken a minute before by Chandler.

‘Hugh
Moreland’s not very well. He’s gone to lie down in the study. I’m on my way to
get the car. I can run them home.’

Stevens,
many of his characteristics uncommendable, was good at taking charge when
certain kinds of awkward situation arose.

‘Is
Hugh bad?’

‘Doesn’t
look too good. He had a blackout, and fell. He’s all right now, all right in
the sense that he doesn’t want to leave, because he says there are a lot of
things about the
Seraglio
he still wants to discuss. We’ve persuaded him to take it easy for the moment.
He’ll be better when he gets to bed.’

‘Can
one see him?’

‘Yes,
do go up. Might keep him quiet. Don’t bring a crowd with you. The room’s the little
study on the second floor, to the left.’

I
found Isobel, and we both went upstairs. Moreland was lying on a small sofa,
Rosie and Audrey Maclintick standing over him. The sofa was not big enough to
contain his body comfortably at full length. He was drinking a glass of water,
something I had never before seen him do, except after a heavy evening the
night before. As Chandler had said, he did not look at all well. He was
refusing to compromise with his own situation further than agreement to be
driven home, when Stevens returned. Audrey Maclintick was trying to persuade
him to rest quietly, until the car was announced as at the front door. When he
saw us, he began to laugh in his old way.

‘I
told you nostalgia would get me. It did. Absolutely spun me over like a
ninepin. It was Carolo put the finishing touch. I can’t take it as I used. They
say you lose your head for nostalgia, as you get older. That’s also the time
when waves of it come sweeping down without warning. You have to ration
yourself, or a sudden dose knocks you out, as it did me.’

‘You
stop talking so much, and take it easy,’ said Audrey Maclintick. ‘I’m going to
get that precious doctor of yours round as soon as you’re in bed, no matter
what the time is, and how much he’s had to drink, if he hasn’t passed out cold.
Even he told you to be careful, the last time he looked you over. You’re going
to stay in bed for a week or two now, if I have anything to do with it.’

Moreland
did not listen. In spite of Rosie’s added protest that he would be wiser to remain
quiet, he continued to insist he would be perfectly recovered the following
day. He also kept on returning to what had been happening that evening.

‘There
were a lot of people near me talking about vintage cars. There’s nostalgia, if
you like.

For
some we loved, the loveliest and the best,
That from his vintage rolling Time hath pressed.

That’s
a striking image. I remember, years ago, a man who kept on quoting Omar at that
party of Mrs Foxe’s, after my Symphony. I’ve only just grasped that the verse refers
to a car. Life’s vintage car, in which we’re all travelling. Better than
Trapnel’s Camel, more Hegelian too. Then you’re suddenly told to get out and
walk – pressed to, as the poet truly says.’

There
was nothing to be done until Stevens returned.

Staying
with Moreland was only to encourage running on like this, tiring himself, so
Isobel and I spoke a word or two, then said goodnight. It was not quite clear
what sort of a fall he had suffered. He seemed to have lost his senses for a
minute or so, afterwards felt no worse than a little dazed.

‘I
was pretty normal when I got up from the floor. If one could ever truthfully
say that about oneself.’

A
large proportion of the guests had already left when we arrived downstairs
again.

‘Poor
Hugh,’ said Isobel. ‘He didn’t look at all well to me.’

‘Nor
me.’

Outside,
the night was dark. There was no moon. A breeze, fresh, almost country-scented,
blew in from the Park’s tall clusters of trees. We were aiming to cut through
from the terrace, where the Stevens house stood, making for a street beyond,
which ran parallel, where a taxi could be picked up. A few doors away from the
Stevens entrance, two or three persons, standing against the railings, were
having some sort of argument. Having attended the party, they seemed now to be
squabbling. Numbers and sex were not at first distinguishable in the gloom, but
turned out as a woman, two men, in fact the Widmerpools and Short. Widmerpool
was giving Short a dressing-down. He was very angry. Short was defending
himself mildly, but with bureaucratic obstinacy. He could be heard maintaining
that administrative breakdowns were from time to time unavoidable.