The Kindly Ones - Anthony Powell [54]
‘You are a naughty girl, Anne,’ he said, with warm approval. ‘You’ve made yourself look an absolute little scamp, a bundle of mischief. I congratulate you, too, Lady Isobel. You should always wear fur. Fur really becomes you.’
‘My turn next,’ said Anne Umfraville now breathless with excitement. ‘Isobel and I can do Anger just as we are. It fits perfectly. Wait a second.’
She went off to the hall, returning a moment later with a long two-handed sword, snatched from the wall, or from one of the figures in armour. With this, as Anger provoked by Pride, she cut Isobel down in her finery.
‘That should make a splendid picture,’ said Sir Magnus, from behind the camera.
My own enactment of Sloth required no histrionic ability beyond lying on the table supported by piles of cushions. It was quickly over.
‘Leave the cushions there, Nick,’ said Templer, ‘I shall need them all for Lust.’
Matilda’s turn, good as it was in some ways, noticeably lowered the temperature of the entertainment. Once again the whole tone of the miming changed. I had the impression that, if Anne Umfraville was unexpectedly tolerant of Matilda, Matilda was less prepared to accept Anne Umfraville. Certainly Matilda was determined to show that she, as a professional actress, had a reputation to sustain. She had draped herself in a long green robe – possibly one of Sir Magnus’s dressing gowns, since Matilda’s familiarity with the castle rooms had been of help in collecting costumes and ‘props’ – a dress that entirely concealed her trousers. In this she stood, with no supporting cast, against the panel of the tapestry representing Envy. Everything was to be done by expression of the features. She stood absolutely upright, her face contorted. The glance, inasmuch as it was canalised, seemed aimed in the direction of Anne Umfraville. So far as it went, the performance was good; it might even be said to show considerable talent. On the other hand, the professional note, the contrast with what had gone before, somewhat chilled the party. There was some clapping. There appeared to be no other way of bringing Matilda back to earth.
‘Jolly good, Matty,’ said Moreland. ‘I shall know now what’s happened when I next see you looking like that.’
There was still Betty Templer to be hustled through Avarice, before her husband sustained the role of Lust, the final Sin, which, it was agreed, would make a cheerful termination to the spectacle. I was interested to see what would happen when Betty Templer’s turn came: whether Sir Magnus would take charge, or Templer. It was Templer.
‘Come on, Betty,’ he said in a soothing voice. ‘I can be a beggar by the side of the road and you can be walking past with your nose in the air.’
That was obviously a simple, kindly solution to Betty Templer’s diffidence about acting, to which no objection could possibly be taken. There was assistance from Anne Umfraville and Isobel in providing a suitably rich-looking bag, and various garments, to increase the contrast between riches and poverty. Templer himself had by then removed some of his clothes, so that only a few touches were required to turn him into an all but naked beggar seeking alms. His wife stood smiling unhappily for a second or two, taut and miserable, but carried through, in spite of everything, by her looks. She was undeniably very pretty indeed. In the unpropitious circumstances, she might be said to have acquitted herself well. Now that the ordeal was over, she would no doubt feel better. I thought that the danger of a total breakdown on her part – by no means to be disregarded until that moment – could now be dismissed from the mind. Indeed, having been forced against her will to ‘act’, Betty Templer would probably discover that she was quite pleased with herself after carrying things off with such comparative success.
‘Good, Betty,’ said Sir Magnus, perhaps himself a little relieved. ‘Now Lust, Peter. Do you want any help?