The Kindly Ones - Anthony Powell [55]
‘Can we do them in here?’ he asked, ‘everyone in front of his or her appropriate Sin?’
‘Certainly,’ said Sir Magnus, ‘certainly. We will return after coffee.’
He had become more than ever like an energetic, dominating headmaster, organising extempore indoor exercise for his pupils on an afternoon too wet for outdoor games. A faint suggestion of repressed, slightly feverish excitement under his calm, added to this air, like some pedagogue confronted with aspects of his duties that gratify him almost to the point of aberration. The rest of dinner passed with much argument as to how best the Sins were to be depicted. All of us drank a lot, especially Moreland, Templer and Anne Umfraville, only Sir Magnus showing his usual moderation. The extravagance of the project offered temporary relief from personal problems, from the European scene. I had not expected the evening to turn out this way. There could be no doubt that Sir Magnus, genuinely exhilarated, was, as much as anyone, casting aside his worries. While the table was cleared, we had coffee in the Chinese Room, drawing lots as to the order in which the Sins should be presented. Camera and arc lamps were moved into the dining-room.
‘Do you want any companions, Hugh?’ asked Sir Magnus.
‘Gluttony at its most enjoyable dispenses with companionship,’ said Moreland, who was to lead off.
He had surrounded himself with dishes of fruit and liqueur bottles, from both of which he was helping himself liberally.
‘Be prepared for the flash,’ said Sir Magnus.
Moreland, not prepared, upset a glass of Kümmel. He must have been photographed half-sprawled across the table. It was agreed to have been a good performance.
‘I shall continue to act the Sin for the rest of the evening,’ he said, pouring out more Kümmel, this time into a tumbler.
Isobel was next as Pride. She chose Anne Umfraville as her ‘feed’. With these two a different note was struck. Moreland’s ‘turn’ was something individual to himself, an artist – in this case a musician – displaying considerable attainment in a medium not his own. With Isobel and Anne Umfraville, on the other hand, the performance was of quite another order. The two of them had gone off together to find suitable ‘properties’, returning with a metal receptacle for fire irons, more or less golden in material, the legs of which, when inverted, formed the spikes of a crown. They had also amassed a collection of necklaces and beads, rugs and capes of fur. With the crown on her head, loaded with jewels, fur hanging in a triangular pattern from her sleeves, Isobel looked the personification of Pride. Anne Umfraville, having removed her dress, wore over her underclothes a tattered motor rug, pinned across with a huge brooch that might have come from a sporran. She had partially blacked her face; her hair hung in rats’ tails over her forehead; her feet were bare, enamelled toenails the only visible remnant of a more ornamented form of existence. Here, before us, in these two, was displayed the nursery and playroom life of generations of ‘great houses’: the abounding physical vitality of big aristocratic families, their absolute disregard for personal dignity in uninhibited delight in ‘dressing up’, that passionate return to childhood, never released so fully in any other country, or, even in this country, so completely by any other class. Sir Magnus was enchanted.
‘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