good-looking.’
‘You think so?’
‘In a sporty way,’ she added hastily. ‘Not my type but, you must admit, they make a beautiful couple.’
‘Well, indeed. You must have a long talk with Dominic. He has studied these things and he advocates – what does he call it? – controlled breeding. He thinks that we have to weed out the weaklings and bring forth a new generation of supermen. Have you heard of the German philosopher Nietzsche? Of course you have! He said – and I took the trouble to memorize the passage – “experimental science is the last flower of asceticism. The investigator must discard all his feelings, hopes and fears as a human person and reduce himself to a disembodied observer of events on which he passes no value judgement.”’
‘You mean you don’t have to take into account whether you are doing right or wrong? Surely, that’s just what makes us human? Some of us call it conscience.’
‘It’s for the greater good , Miss Browne. Individual morality just confuses the issue. Who cares what you or I think is good or bad?’
At that moment Dominic Montillo came up to them and with his rather braying laugh said, ‘Castlewood, did I really hear you talking about Nietzsche to a pretty girl?’
‘We were just saying how beautiful Isolde and Roddy are – as a couple, I mean.’
‘That’s right! And they will have beautiful children. Does that appeal to you – as a Communist – Miss Browne?’
‘Playing God and breeding beautiful children?’
‘Yes. You don’t believe in God so you must believe that man is god. Take a look at Roddy. You see he has a square-shaped head while Isolde’s is oval.’
‘Is that good?’
‘Indeed it is. When you have time, you must let me show you some of the fruits of my research. A round head is a clear sign of degeneracy. Square or oval are strong shapes.’
‘And what is mine?’ she asked, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. ‘It looks round to me.’
‘No, oval . . . square . . .’ For a moment Montillo was at a loss. ‘If I may, I will take some measurements sometime?’ She had managed to embarrass the good doctor and had no intention of helping him out.
It had occurred to Verity that, at dinner, there would be more women than men which would be awkward but, just as the butler announced that dinner was served, they were joined by the local doctor and another man to whom Verity took an instant and instinctive dislike even before he opened his mouth. He was very thin – mere skin and bone, stubble on his face and very little hair on his head. His teeth were bad and it was difficult to guess his age – not yet thirty, she guessed, but if he weren’t so hunched and had more flesh on his bones he might look younger. Whereas the doctor had donned a creased and ancient dinner-jacket, the young man, whose name was Graham Harvey, arrogantly flouted convention and wore grey-flannel trousers secured by a rope belt, an open-neck white cotton shirt and plimsolls, worn through at the toes. It was such a blatant statement of contempt for the conventions of polite society that she expected Sir Simon or Virginia to send him packing but instead they welcomed him warmly as one of the family. Virginia explained that he rented a cottage on the estate and was writing a book.
Verity went into the dining-room on Sir Simon’s arm. She felt him clutching her a little too tightly for comfort and hoped he was not going to be a bore. It was another extraordinary room. Her eyes went straight to the ceiling of which the recessed central portion was entirely covered in aluminium leaf on a blue background, with built-in concealed lighting which made the aluminium shimmer. The floor had a marble perimeter surrounding a buff-coloured carpet. The fireplace consisted of polished, ribbed aluminium panels surrounding an electric fire from which light – imitation logs illuminated from within by light bulbs – but no heat emanated. The fireplace was
‘You think so?’
‘In a sporty way,’ she added hastily. ‘Not my type but, you must admit, they make a beautiful couple.’
‘Well, indeed. You must have a long talk with Dominic. He has studied these things and he advocates – what does he call it? – controlled breeding. He thinks that we have to weed out the weaklings and bring forth a new generation of supermen. Have you heard of the German philosopher Nietzsche? Of course you have! He said – and I took the trouble to memorize the passage – “experimental science is the last flower of asceticism. The investigator must discard all his feelings, hopes and fears as a human person and reduce himself to a disembodied observer of events on which he passes no value judgement.”’
‘You mean you don’t have to take into account whether you are doing right or wrong? Surely, that’s just what makes us human? Some of us call it conscience.’
‘It’s for the greater good , Miss Browne. Individual morality just confuses the issue. Who cares what you or I think is good or bad?’
At that moment Dominic Montillo came up to them and with his rather braying laugh said, ‘Castlewood, did I really hear you talking about Nietzsche to a pretty girl?’
‘We were just saying how beautiful Isolde and Roddy are – as a couple, I mean.’
‘That’s right! And they will have beautiful children. Does that appeal to you – as a Communist – Miss Browne?’
‘Playing God and breeding beautiful children?’
‘Yes. You don’t believe in God so you must believe that man is god. Take a look at Roddy. You see he has a square-shaped head while Isolde’s is oval.’
‘Is that good?’
‘Indeed it is. When you have time, you must let me show you some of the fruits of my research. A round head is a clear sign of degeneracy. Square or oval are strong shapes.’
‘And what is mine?’ she asked, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. ‘It looks round to me.’
‘No, oval . . . square . . .’ For a moment Montillo was at a loss. ‘If I may, I will take some measurements sometime?’ She had managed to embarrass the good doctor and had no intention of helping him out.
It had occurred to Verity that, at dinner, there would be more women than men which would be awkward but, just as the butler announced that dinner was served, they were joined by the local doctor and another man to whom Verity took an instant and instinctive dislike even before he opened his mouth. He was very thin – mere skin and bone, stubble on his face and very little hair on his head. His teeth were bad and it was difficult to guess his age – not yet thirty, she guessed, but if he weren’t so hunched and had more flesh on his bones he might look younger. Whereas the doctor had donned a creased and ancient dinner-jacket, the young man, whose name was Graham Harvey, arrogantly flouted convention and wore grey-flannel trousers secured by a rope belt, an open-neck white cotton shirt and plimsolls, worn through at the toes. It was such a blatant statement of contempt for the conventions of polite society that she expected Sir Simon or Virginia to send him packing but instead they welcomed him warmly as one of the family. Virginia explained that he rented a cottage on the estate and was writing a book.
Verity went into the dining-room on Sir Simon’s arm. She felt him clutching her a little too tightly for comfort and hoped he was not going to be a bore. It was another extraordinary room. Her eyes went straight to the ceiling of which the recessed central portion was entirely covered in aluminium leaf on a blue background, with built-in concealed lighting which made the aluminium shimmer. The floor had a marble perimeter surrounding a buff-coloured carpet. The fireplace consisted of polished, ribbed aluminium panels surrounding an electric fire from which light – imitation logs illuminated from within by light bulbs – but no heat emanated. The fireplace was
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