the drinks were being given out by her manservant. She took advantage of a lull in the conversation, while drinks were taken and sipped, to look around. The young poet was suitably voluble and self-concerned; the Dowager Fenlon was busy with stories of Paris scandals in her youth, and the classical pianist was patting the shoulder of the bel canto tenor. But poor Lord Lenham-Cawde looked rather melancholy. There he was, legs stretched out as usual, too long for any decent mode of relaxation, she thought. He would have to be cheered up.
Everyone was standing and the newcomers – mostly actors and writers – were nodding and smiling, playing the responsive rather than the active parts in the cut and thrust of chat. This meant that she could walk through and look down on the one solitary seated guest.
‘Why George, why so down and dismal? Has there been a death in the family?’ Lord George Lenham-Cawde was simply George here, in a place he loved, surrounded by talk of ideas and beliefs, revolutions and celebrations, but on this day he was down in the mouth. ‘I do beg your pardon, Maria, but yes, I am troubled. Someone from the past has returned … ’
Maria was a woman with a past; she had lived and she had suffered. But she chose to laugh whenever she could, and on this occasion she tried to cheer up her friend. She was one of those women who are always radiant, always the cause of smiles and good cheer wherever she found herself. She was beautiful, not pretty. She had what many thought to be classic Italian beauty: a full figure, and a face like a courtesan from a Fragonard painting. Her smile, many thought, would melt a heart of stone. Maria had known just one husband but many lovers, and had been a society hostess in several European capitals; her husband had been the Margrave of Karnesheim, and she had learned grace, manners and discretion from the best courtiers in France and in Austria.
‘This person, George – is it a woman?’
‘Of course.’
‘But you are a man of the world … surely this is nothing too serious?’
‘Maria, the truth is that I loved her, and she loved me. I have never forgotten her, but I had assumed that fate had stepped in and that she would have a husband by now … probably in St Petersburg.’
‘Oh Heaven – she’s Russian?’ Maria winced dramatically.
‘Yes. She’s Irina Danova, the singer.’
‘Irina Danova! Why, she’s celebrated from Madrid to Moscow and from Paris to Prague. Her voice is a divine gift, George. In fact, I once met her at a soirée given by the Duchesse de Madancourt. All eyes were fixed on her the entire evening!’
Before George could speak, a voice cut through all the small talk and made heads turn. It was the young poet, an aesthete, holding a lily. He asked everyone to sit down and gave them notice that he was to read a poem. ‘Now, let’s talk of love, my friends, the one blessing in a world of sorrows. Why, I hold that poetry tells beautiful lies in an ugly world and ugly truths in a beautiful world, and therefore, as we live amongst the ugliness of the great horror of London, I speak of beauty.’ He flicked a lock of auburn hair from one eye and began to recite. The assembled crowd were silent and attentive, and as his last line – ‘And so a woman’s beauty saves us all from our failures’ – was spoken, George stood up and walked briskly from the room, whispering an apology to Maria.
He loitered outside for some time, unable to decide what to do next. His instinct was to find a dark hole and hide there, like a wounded animal. George knew that, as had happened to him at other times in life, notably out East in the hill country, the feeling was of a black shadow over him, the arrival of the past, which never really stays where it should be.
Later, at the Septimus Club, Lord George was dozing on his usual sofa, a book on his knee, when Harry walked in and woke his friend with a hearty hullo. He dropped a letter on George’s
Everyone was standing and the newcomers – mostly actors and writers – were nodding and smiling, playing the responsive rather than the active parts in the cut and thrust of chat. This meant that she could walk through and look down on the one solitary seated guest.
‘Why George, why so down and dismal? Has there been a death in the family?’ Lord George Lenham-Cawde was simply George here, in a place he loved, surrounded by talk of ideas and beliefs, revolutions and celebrations, but on this day he was down in the mouth. ‘I do beg your pardon, Maria, but yes, I am troubled. Someone from the past has returned … ’
Maria was a woman with a past; she had lived and she had suffered. But she chose to laugh whenever she could, and on this occasion she tried to cheer up her friend. She was one of those women who are always radiant, always the cause of smiles and good cheer wherever she found herself. She was beautiful, not pretty. She had what many thought to be classic Italian beauty: a full figure, and a face like a courtesan from a Fragonard painting. Her smile, many thought, would melt a heart of stone. Maria had known just one husband but many lovers, and had been a society hostess in several European capitals; her husband had been the Margrave of Karnesheim, and she had learned grace, manners and discretion from the best courtiers in France and in Austria.
‘This person, George – is it a woman?’
‘Of course.’
‘But you are a man of the world … surely this is nothing too serious?’
‘Maria, the truth is that I loved her, and she loved me. I have never forgotten her, but I had assumed that fate had stepped in and that she would have a husband by now … probably in St Petersburg.’
‘Oh Heaven – she’s Russian?’ Maria winced dramatically.
‘Yes. She’s Irina Danova, the singer.’
‘Irina Danova! Why, she’s celebrated from Madrid to Moscow and from Paris to Prague. Her voice is a divine gift, George. In fact, I once met her at a soirée given by the Duchesse de Madancourt. All eyes were fixed on her the entire evening!’
Before George could speak, a voice cut through all the small talk and made heads turn. It was the young poet, an aesthete, holding a lily. He asked everyone to sit down and gave them notice that he was to read a poem. ‘Now, let’s talk of love, my friends, the one blessing in a world of sorrows. Why, I hold that poetry tells beautiful lies in an ugly world and ugly truths in a beautiful world, and therefore, as we live amongst the ugliness of the great horror of London, I speak of beauty.’ He flicked a lock of auburn hair from one eye and began to recite. The assembled crowd were silent and attentive, and as his last line – ‘And so a woman’s beauty saves us all from our failures’ – was spoken, George stood up and walked briskly from the room, whispering an apology to Maria.
He loitered outside for some time, unable to decide what to do next. His instinct was to find a dark hole and hide there, like a wounded animal. George knew that, as had happened to him at other times in life, notably out East in the hill country, the feeling was of a black shadow over him, the arrival of the past, which never really stays where it should be.
Later, at the Septimus Club, Lord George was dozing on his usual sofa, a book on his knee, when Harry walked in and woke his friend with a hearty hullo. He dropped a letter on George’s
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