Casanova's Chinese Restaurant - Anthony Powell [79]
‘Pity about poor old Charles,’ he said.
‘I’ll have to say good night.’
‘Come again soon.’
‘That would be nice.’
A general movement to leave was taking place among the guests. Mrs Maclintick and Carolo had already disappeared. Gossage still remained deep in conversation with Lady Huntercombe. There was no sign of the Morelands, or of Priscilla. Isobel was talking to Chandler. We went to find our hostess and say goodbye. Mrs Foxe was listening to the famous conductor, like Gossage, unable to tear himself away from the party.
‘I do hope the Morelands enjoyed themselves,’ said Mrs Foxe. ‘It was so sad Matilda should have had a headache and had to go home. I am sure she was right to slip away. She is such a wonderful wife for someone like him. As soon as he heard she had gone, he said he must go too. Such a strain for a musician to have a new work performed. Like a first night – and Norman tells me first nights are agony.’
Mrs Foxe spoke the last word with all the feeling Chandler had put into it when he told her that. Robert joined us in taking leave.
‘It was rather sweet of Charles to look in, wasn’t it?’ said Mrs Foxe. ‘I would have asked him, of course, if I hadn’t known parties were bad for him. I saw you talking to him. How did you think he was?’
‘I hadn’t seen him for ages. He seemed just the same. We had a long talk.’
‘And you were glad to see him again?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I think he was right to go back with Tuffy. He can be rather difficult sometimes, you know.’
‘Well, yes.’
‘I do hope everyone enjoyed themselves,’ said Mrs Foxe. ‘There was a Mr Maclintick who had had rather a lot to drink by the time he left. I think he is a music critic. He was so sweet when he came to say goodbye to me. He said: “Thank you very much for asking me, Mrs Foxe. I don’t like grand parties like this one and I am not coming to another, but I appreciate your kindness in supporting Moreland as a composer.” I said I so much agreed with him about grand parties – which I simply hate – but I couldn’t imagine why he should think this was one. All the same, I said, I should arrange it quite differently if I ever gave another, and I hoped he would change his mind and come. “Well, I shan’t come,” he said. I told him I knew he would because I should ask him so nicely. He said: “I suppose you are right, and I shall.” Then he slipped down two or three steps. I do hope he gets home all right. Such a relief when people speak their minds.’
‘What’s happened to Priscilla?’ Isobel asked Robert.
‘Somebody gave her a lift.’
At that moment Lord Huntercombe broke in between us. Carrying a piece of china in his hand, he was delighted by some discovery he had just made. Mrs Foxe turned towards him.
‘Amy,’ he said, ‘are you aware that this quatrefoil cup is a forgery?’
4
IF SO TORTUOUS a comparison of mediocre talent could ever be resolved, St John Clarke was probably to be judged a ‘better’ writer than Isbister was painter. However, when St John Clarke died in the early spring, he was less well served than his contemporary in respect of obituaries. Only a few years before, Isbister had managed to capture, perhaps helped finally to expend, what was left of an older, more sententious tradition of newspaper panegyric. There were more reasons for this than the inevitably changing taste in mediocrity. The world was moving into a harassed era. At the time of St John Clarke’s last illness, the National Socialist Party of Danzig was in the headlines; foreign news more and more often causing domestic events to be passed over almost unnoticed. St John Clarke was one of these casualties. If Mark Members was to be believed, St John Clarke himself would have seen this unfair distribution of success, even posthumous success, as something in the nature of things. In what Members called