At Lady Molly's - Anthony Powell [0]
AT LADY MOLLY’S
A NOVEL
Book 4
A Dance to the Music of Time
HEINEMANN : LONDON
1
WE had known General Conyers immemorially not because my father had ever served under him but through some long-forgotten connexion with my mother’s parents, to one or other of whom he may even have been distantly related. In any case, he was on record as having frequented their house in an era so remote and legendary that, if commission was no longer by purchase, regiments of the line were still designated by a number instead of the name of a county. In spite of belonging to this dim, archaic period, traces of which were sometimes revealed in his dress and speech—he was, for example, one of the last to my knowledge to speak of the Household Cavalry as ‘the Plungers’—his place in family myth was established not only as a soldier with interests beyond his profession, but even as a man of the world always ‘abreast of the times’. This taste for being in the fashion and giving his opinion on every subject was held against him by some people, notably Uncle Giles, no friend of up-to-date thought, and on principle suspicious of worldly success, however mild.
‘Aylmer Conyers had a flair for getting on,’ he used to say, ‘No harm in that, I suppose. Somebody has got to give the orders. Personally I never cared for the limelight. Plenty of others to push themselves forward. Inclined to think a good deal of himself, Conyers was. Fine figure of a man, people used to say, a bit too fond of dressing himself up to the nines. Not entirely friendless in high places either. Quite the contrary. Peacetime or war, Conyers always knew the right people.’
I had once inquired about the General’s campaigns.
‘Afghanistan, Burma—as a subaltern. I’ve heard him talk big about Zululand. In the Soudan for a bit when the Khalifa was making trouble there. Went in for jobs abroad. Supposed to have saved the life of some native ruler in a local rumpus. Armed the palace eunuchs with rook rifles. Fellow gave him a jewelled scimitar—semi-precious stones, of course.’
‘I’ve seen the scimitar. I never knew the story.’
Ignoring interruptions, Uncle Giles began to explain how South Africa, grave of so much military reputation, had been by Aylmer Conyers turned to good account. Having himself, as a result of his own indiscretions, retired from the army shortly before outbreak of war in the Transvaal, and possessing in addition those ‘pro-Boer’ sentiments appropriate to ‘a bit of a radical’, my uncle spoke always with severity, no doubt largely justified, of the manner in which the operations of the campaign had been conducted.
‘After French moved over the Modder River, the whole Cavalry Division was ordered to charge. Unheard of thing. Like a gymkhana.’
‘Yes?’
For a minute or two he lost the thread, contemplating the dusty squadrons wheeling from column into line across the veldt, or more probably assailed by memories of his own, less dramatic, if more bitter.
‘What happened?’
‘What?’
‘What happened when they charged?’
‘Cronje made an error of judgment for once. Only sent out detachments. Went through to Kimberley, more by luck than looking to.’
‘But what about General Conyers?’
’Got himself into the charge somehow. Hadn’t any business with the cavalry brigades. Put up some excuse. Then, day or two later, went back to where he ought to have been in the first place. Made himself most officious among the transport wagons. Line of march was like Hyde Park at the height of the Season, so a fellow who was in the advance told me—carriages end to end in Albert Gate—and Conyers running about cursing and swearing as if he owned the place.’
‘Didn’t Lord Roberts say something about his staff work?’
‘Bobs?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who said that, your father?’
‘I think so.’
Uncle Giles shook his head.
‘Bobs may have said something. Wouldn’t be the first time a general got hold of the wrong end of the stick. They say Conyers used to chase the women a bit, too. Some people thought he was going to propose to your Great-aunt Harriet.’
Other memories, on the