Hearing Secret Harmonies - Anthony Powell [27]
‘I suppose Donners thought I was envious of that silly girl he was then having one of his fancies for. What is she called now? Her maiden name was Lady Anne Stepney. She’s married to a Negro much younger than herself, rather a successful psychedelic painter. Donners knew at the time that Anne was conducting a romance with your friend Peter Templer. Do you remember? You and Isobel were staying at our cottage. This man, Peter Templer, picked us up in his car, and drove us over to Stourwater for dinner that night? There’s Anne herself, as Anger, which wasn’t bad. She had a filthy temper. Here she is again, with Isobel as Pride. That’s not fair on Isobel either, anyway not the wrong sort of Pride. And Sloth’s absurd for you, Nick. Look at all those books you’ve written.’
‘Sloth means Accidie too. Feeling fed up with life. There are moments when I can put forward claims.’
‘Hugh, too, I can assure you. Better ones than yours, I feel certain. But Hugh was so good as Gluttony, one wouldn’t wish him doing anything else. Look at him.’
Even the lifeless renderings of Sir Magnus’s photography had failed to lessen the magnificence of Mordand’s Gluttony. He had climbed right on top of the dining-room table, where he was lying supported on one elbow, gripping the neck of a bottle of Kiimmel. He had already upset a full glass of the liqueur – to the visible disquiet of Sir Magnus – the highlights of the sticky pool on the table’s surface caught by the lens. Moreland, surrounded by fruit that had rolled from an overturned silver bowl, was laughing inordinately. The spilt liqueur glass recalled the story told by Mopsy Pontner (whom Moreland had himself a little fancied), her romp on another dining-room table with the American film producer, Louis Glober. That was a suitable inward reminiscence to lead on to the photographs of Templer as Lust; three in number, since he had insisted on representing the Sin’s three ages, Youth, Middle Years, Senility.
‘It was Senile Lust that so upset that unfortunate wife of his. She rushed out of the room. What was her name? Donners made her play Avarice. The poor little thing wasn’t in the least avaricious. Probably very generous, if given a chance. Somebody had to do Avarice, as we were only seven all told. She might have seen that without kicking up such a to-do. Of course she was pretty well nuts by then. Peter Templer as a husband had sent her up the wall. Donners insisted she should go through with Avarice. That was Donners at his worst. He could be very sadistic, unless you stood up to him, then he might easily become masochistic. Betty – that’s what she was called. She ought to have seen it was only a game, and numbers were short. I believe she had to be put away altogether for a time, but came out after her husband was killed, and had lots of proposals. You know how men adore mad women.’
‘Women like mad men, too, Matty, you must admit that. Besides, she wasn’t really mad. Did she accept any of the Proposals?’
‘She married a man in the Foreign Office, and became an ambassadress. They were very happy, I believe. He’s retired now. Most of these pictures are pretty mediocre. Hugh’s the only star.’
Chandler turned the pictures over.
‘I think they’re wonderful, Matty. What fun it all was in those days.’
Matilda made a face.
‘Oh, it wasn’t. Do you truly think that, Norman? I always felt it was dreadfully grim. I don’t believe that was only because the war was going to happen. Do you remember that awful man Kenneth Widmerpool coming in wearing uniform? He ought to have played the eighth Sin – Humbug.’
I was a little surprised by the violence of Matilda’s comment. So far as I knew Widmerpool had taken no particular part in her life, though she might have heard about him from Sir Magnus. She was, in any case, a woman who said – and did – unexpected things, a strangeness of character reflected by her marriages