From a View to a Death, page 1
The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637
Copyright © 1933 by Anthony Powell
All rights reserved
Originally published in 1933
University of Chicago Press edition 2014
Printed in the United States of America
23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 1 2 3 4 5
ISBN-13: 978-0-226-13296-9 (paper)
ISBN-13: 978-0-226-13301-0 (e-book)
DOI: 10.7208/chicago/9780226133010.001.0001
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Powell, Anthony, 1905–2000, author.
From a view to a death / by Anthony Powell.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-226-13296-9 (pbk. : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-226-13301-0 (e-book)
I. Title.
PR6031.074F76 2014
823'.912—dc23
2013033836
This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).
FROM A VIEW TO A DEATH
A Novel
by
Anthony Powell
THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS
PRAISE FOR ANTHONY POWELL AND
From a View to a Death
“From a View to a Death belongs in an English fictional tradition extending roughly from Trollope to Muriel Spark [with] . . . its whippy dialogue, its offhand brightness, and its gallery of amusing eccentrics.”
PETER WOLFE, Saturday Review
“This is no sniffing, supercilious novel.”
MELVIN MADDOCKS, Christian Science Monitor
“Powell vividly dramatizes the fragmentation on all levels of a presumably stable society. . . . [This novel] has an acrid vision and a firm technique which make it vastly superior to all the current stuff about ‘swinging London.’”
RICHARD FREEDMAN, Washington Post Book World
“Powell was indeed a literary giant, and eminently deserving of the praise that was lavished on him.”
Wall Street Journal
“There is no other living British novelist whose sense of social nuance is so delicate or so subtle, or whose comic range is so wide. . . . And there is certainly no other novelist whose work gives so much or such consistent pleasure.”
Times Literary Supplement
“Anthony Powell is our foremost comic writer.”
V. S. PRITCHETT
BOOKS BY
ANTHONY POWELL
A Dance to the Music of Time, First Movement
(including the following three novels)
A Question of Upbringing A Buyer’s Market The Acceptance World
A Dance to the Music of Time, Second Movement
(including the following three novels)
At Lady Molly’s Casanova’s Chinese Restaurant The Kindly Ones
A Dance to the Music of Time, Third Movement
(including the following three novels)
The Valley of Bones The Soldier’s Art The Military Philosophers
A Dance to the Music of Time, Fourth Movement
(including the following three novels)
Books Do Furnish a Room Temporary Kings Hearing Secret Harmonies
OTHER NOVELS
Afternoon Men
Venusberg
From a View to a Death
Agents and Patients
Fisher King
O, How the Wheel Becomes It!
What’s Become of Waring
OTHER WORKS
To Keep the Ball Rolling: The Memoirs of Anthony Powell
Volume I: Infants of the Spring
Volume II: Messengers of Day
Volume III: Faces in My Time
Volume IV: The Strangers Are All Gone
John Aubrey and His Friends
Brief Lives: And Other Selected Writings of John Aubrey
Miscellaneous Verdicts: Writing on Writers
Under Review: Further Writing on Writers, 1946—1990
PLAYS
The Garden God
The Rest I’ll Whistle
“From a find to a check, from a check to a view,
From a view to a death in the morning.”
John Peel
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
FROM A VIEW TO A DEATH
1
THEY drove uncertainly along the avenue that led to the house, through the bars of light that fell between the tree-trunks and made the shadows of the lime-trees strike obliquely across the gravel. The navy-blue car was built high off the ground and the name on its bonnet recalled a bankrupt, forgotten firm of motor-makers. Inside, the car was done up in a material like grey corduroy, with folding seats in unexpected places, constructed liberally to accommodate some Edwardian Swiss Family Robinson. This was a period piece. An exhibit. The brakes had ceased to work long since. On the wall in front, immediately behind the chauffeur’s neck, which was goose-flesh in spite of the heat, there was a German silver vase for flowers and below it a looking-glass, distorting but powerful. In this Zouch examined his face, wondering what sort of an impression he would make when he arrived. Not too good a one, he felt, if the mirror was to be relied upon. He sat on the edge of the grey upholstery, leaning forward, trying to discount the elongating tendency of the glass and the havoc that it played with his beard. Twenty-nine next year, he thought. The V comprised by the lapels of his coat and enclosing his shirt, collar and tie was all right. It had that touch of ingenuousness that was expected of a painter. His shoes, vast golfing brogues with hobnails, were all right too. It was the beard that he was least certain about, but it had served him well in the past and he saw no reason why it should not do so again. He lay back stiffly—it was impossible to loll in these seats—feeling as if he were sitting in the lounge of a small French hotel, which the car’s interior resembled in size and taste.
Describing a semicircle and grinding up the drive in front of the portico, they stopped with a jerk at the entrance to the house. Zouch got out. He took the several canvases that he had brought with him and held them under his arm, leaving the rest of his luggage for the chauffeur to look after. Then he went up the steps. He put out his hand to ring the bell, but before he could do this the door was opened by a butler, a thin-lipped, jesuitical man with a stern, sad face. Holding the canvases under one arm and the mackintosh over the other, Zouch muttered thickly to himself. There seemed no alternative method of approach.
‘Mr. Zouch, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘The young ladies,’ said the butler, with just the hint of a threat in his voice, ‘are on the lawn,’
He stood in front of Zouch as if he thought that it might be unsafe to allow him to walk unaccompanied through the house but at the same time was unwilling personally to escort him to its occupants. Zouch side-stepped and put down the canvases and the mackintosh on an oak chest, already covered with hats and gloves and dog-whips. The butler swung round, on the look-out.
‘Is the lawn straight through?’
‘Straight through, sir.’
‘Then I expect I shall be able to find them.’
‘Very good, sir.’
He walked towards the room opposite, away from the butler, who seemed now turned to stone. Through an open door he could see french windows, which allowed a narrow shaft of yellow sun to fall in the hall and throw up a highlight from the floorboards on to a picture. There were several pictures on the walls. Wide smoky landscapes, copies of copies of romantically conceived Italian ruins. He noticed that the hall had a smell of its own, partly furniture polish, partly the fragrance of rose-petals. This was a house with a robust flavour. He moved on, one of the hobnails of his shoe skidding on the parquet. The butler, as if waiting for his Pygmalion, made no effort to follow but stood stock still, seeming to consider whether or not to throw back Zouch’s suitcase on to the drive. Zouch pressed forward and gained the morning-room, which was lighter than the hall and hung with engravings. Someone was sitting reading a newspaper in the far corner of the room, but pretending that he did not see this person and quickening his pace, he reached the windows unaccosted and passed through and out into the thundery sunshine. Placidly the garden stretched away in front of him.
The lawn came up close to the house and sloped away for some distance until it reached trees and a piece of artificial water. Beyond this small lake were fields, and the land began to rise again until the criss-cross lines made by the hedges became indistinct. At the back of this expanse of green country were low hills, cut out neatly as if in cardboard. Down by the water there was a croquet lawn, on which two girls stood talking. He saw that one of them was Mary Passenger. She was standing with her back to him, leaning on her mallet and talking to the other girl. He walked towards them, thinking of things to say. As he came near, Mary Passenger turned and, catching sight of him, waved. Zouch approached the croquet lawn circumspectly.
‘Hullo,’ she said, when he was close.
‘Hullo, Mary.’
‘So you got here all right? Dawkin didn’t drive you into the ditch? I’m afraid it’s a terribly old car.’
She was nervous, not used to him yet. Her shyness made her sound cross. The afternoon sun poured down on to the lawn and Zouch felt himself sweating. He was wearing too thick a suit for the time of year. He said:
‘Oh, good.’
‘The car went very well.’
There was a pause. To arrive was to die a little. Half-past three in the afternoon was, as always, a difficult time of day to deal with. Mary Passenger tapped the turf with her mallet. She was about twenty-four with good, rather overemphasised features and an appearance that was almost aggressively healthy. She said:
‘But you haven’t met my sister yet, have you? Betty, this is Arthur Zouch.’
The sister moved forward and they shook hands. Betty Passenger was considerably older than Mary. She had a round and heavily made-up face with a large, engaging mouth. Zouch knew that she had done something in the past which everyone regarded as disgraceful but at that moment he was unable to call to mind what particular action this had been. He said:
‘Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?’
He thought it better to leave any likely places unspecified.
‘Quite possible,’ she said. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere too. Was it in Paris? The Dome or the Ritz bar or somewhere like that?’
‘Perhaps it was.’
‘I used to live there. In Paris, I mean.’
Mary Passenger listened to them, frowning a little, still knocking her mallet on the ground. It seemed that she preferred that her elder sister should not talk too much. She said to Zouch:
‘Would you like to come for a walk before tea?’
‘Very much.’
‘Are you coming, Betty?’
Betty said: ‘I shall go and have a bath. This is the only time of day that the water is ever hot in this house.’
‘Betty, you can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Will you take this back with you then?’
Betty took her sister’s mallet as well as her own. She walked away in the direction of the house, dragging the two mallets behind her and humming a little to herself. Mary watched her for a moment or two and then said:
‘Come this way. We’ll go round by the pond.’
They left the lawn and went down a narrow path that led by the water and under the trees. Even here, out of the sun, the air was sultry. There was a heaviness in the atmosphere, and a sickly smell of decaved leaves hung about in this part of the garden. Once or twice Zouch felt a sting in his leg from the insects that were hovering about low off the ground. Everything was very still apart from the buzzing of the insects. A storm was not far away.
‘It’s so nice that you should have been able to come,’ Mary said.
She knew very little about this sort of young man and Zouch himself was not yet altogether at his ease. He saw that the first few hours must be spent in renewing contacts such as they were, if any. He might, of course, have made a mistake. That remained to be seen. But somehow he did not think that he had made a mistake. He made very few mistakes of that kind.
‘What a lovely place this is,’ he said.
‘It is rather nice, isn’t it? But not if you have to live there too long.’
‘I suppose not.’
She looked at him sideways. Zouch smiled at her, as agreeably as he was able, through his beard. Mary smiled back at him and lowered her eyes. They went on and out of the garden and into a park where a few deer were grazing.
Zouch was a superman. A fair English equivalent of the Teutonic ideal of the Übermensch. No one knew this yet except himself. That was because he had not been one long enough for people to find out. They would learn all in good time; and to their cost. Meanwhile he went on his way, taking but not giving, treating life as a sort of quick-lunch counter where you helped yourself and all the snacks were free. He was ambitious, naturally, and painted bright, lifeless portraits that would have been hung in the Academy if he had sent them there but which he preferred to show in smaller galleries having the reputation for being modern. His preponderance therefore lay in the spheres, stressed by English educationalists, of character rather than developed talent. He had some skill in catching a likeness, and this, combined with a simple colour formula and an instinct for saying the sort of thing that sitters expected of a painter, caused him to be spoken of as promising. Although, as it happened, he was short of money at the moment, his work had already begun to bring him in a comfortable income and his parents, who kept a bookshop in a north country town and who had never succeeded in throwing off wholly the influence of William Morris, thought the world of him. He was good-looking, too, on a small scale, and rather in spite of his short fair beard. He liked women but never put them before his work. The women whom he liked were at present the only persons who guessed at all that they were dealing with a superman.
His life had not been too easy at the start. But this was a strength to him because it had left him with a contempt both for persons who had themselves had no early struggles and also for those who found themselves compelled to continue struggling in later life. For some years now things had gone well with him, but just when he had decided to move into a bigger studio and to begin forging ahead in earnest, three important patrons, two dowagers and a rich old man, had died unexpectedly, and the gallery where his summer show had been held went into liquidation and its proprietor removed to a mental home. All this showed him how careful one had to be. The Passengers’ invitation was in these circumstances timely. He hoped to prolong his visit to all reasonable limits. In the winter, when people came back to London, things might look up a bit. Meanwhile, he thought, the policy was to sit tight.
He had seen Mary Passenger for the first time only a few months before, at the house of a woman whose portrait he was painting. Mary was shown in by mistake by the maid, who had orders to say that her mistress was out. They were introduced to each other and at once, rather surprisingly, got on very well together, to the displeasure of their hostess. Mary, who had by that time spent several years of her life in going to dances, staying in house-parties, watching shooting in Scotland and taking part in hunting in England, thought herself a little tired of these aspects of life. No immediate alternative offered itself to her imagination but she had already begun to occupy herself by reading a great many novels, and when she met Zouch she liked him because he talked to her about persons who earned their living by writing or painting, and in this way he represented to her a world with which she had no first-hand contacts. She was not really interested in these subjects, but then for that matter neither was Zouch, and it made a change for her while he, in return, found her attractive. He also saw at once that a little conversation would add a country house to his week-ending list. At the very beginning of his career he had become aware of the importance of looking ahead.
The Passengers were not rich. For several generations none of them had had any clear idea of how to manage their business affairs and the family had become accustomed to having less and less money as the years went on. But at the period when this financial maladroitness had set in they had owned some valuable property, so that even now they retained enough to keep up Passenger Court and a house near Belgrave Square, barely habitable on account of its draughts. The manages de convenance of an earlier generation had left them related, even if distantly, to almost everyone of any importance in the world in which they lived, so that things might have been worse, but Mary’s father had been at pains to antagonise so many of his own and his wife’s relations that the unfortunate marriage of his elder daughter, Betty, was regarded by many substantial observers as a direct judgment on him. The only redeeming feature of Betty’s marriage was that it had left her with the title of ‘duchess’ and, although the Passenger family themselves had been always, and remained always, unimpressed by this, even they were forced to admit that among the less sophisticated (but for that reason not necessarily less influential) elements in the county, the title was regarded as an ameliorating circumstance. Sometimes a new housemaid would refer to her in the presence of the wincing Mr. Passenger as ‘Her Grace’ instead of ‘Miss Betty’, but the family laughed it off somehow and Betty herself was quite indifferent to whatever style she went under. It was hoped that Mary, whose tastes in early life seemed simple enough, would make a marriage that would prove a glowing contrast to her sister’s disagreeable Italian alliance, the crowning annoyance of which had been that Betty had been left with a daughter.
