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“Not long ago we spoke of the aristocracy of genius,” said the Doctor, whose glass Darcourt had hastened to fill, out of turn.
“Now Pe
The health was drunk, with enthusiasm by all but Pe
“My dear new friends,” she said; “you do me honour and I shall not fail you. Have I teased you just a little bit? Perhaps I have. It is my way. I am a great joker, you should know. There often lurks behind my words some double entendre which you may not understand, perhaps until much later. Perhaps even in the night, you wake up laughing. Ah, the Doctor, you say. She is deep, deep, deep. You have drunk to my health. I shall drink back at you. You, reverend sir, with the wine—may I have something in my glass? Ah, thank you.—Though I am not sure about wine at this Arthurian feast. I am not sure that our hlafdiga is right in saying that Arthur had wine at his court. Surely it was that stuff they made with fermented honey—”
“Mead,” said Hollier. “You mean mead.”
“Just so. Mead. I have drunk it. And it is nasty, sweet, awful stuff, let me tell you. I casted up my stomach—”
“Not surprising, the way you go at it,” said Pe
“I can drink anybody here under the table,” said the Doctor, with grave belligerence. “Man, woman, or dog, I can drink him under the table. But I want no nasty words here. I want to drink to you all. Though as I say, I ca
“I’ve just thought of it,” said Hollier. “The Welsh did have wine in the ancient days. You remember the old cry—Gwin o eur–Wine from the gold! Not only did they have wine, but they drank it from golden vessels. Not out of cow-horns, like a road company doing the banquet in Macbeth. Gwin o eur!”
“Clem, you’re drunk!” said Pe
“And your Welsh is terrible!” said Powell.
“Is that so? If this were not a friendly gathering I’d let you have one right on the nose for that, Powell.”
“Would you, boy?” said Powell. “I dare you.”
“Yes. Right on the snot-box,” said Hollier. He half rose, as if to fight, but Pe
“That’s right. Real scum. Like Gypsies,” said Powell, winking at his hostess.
“Am I, or am I not, making a speech?” said the Doctor. “Am I returning thanks for this splendid di
It must have been the martinis, thought Darcourt. They all drank martinis before di
The Canadians—Arthur, Hollier, Pe
In the hearts of the two who were not Canadians, Maria and Powell, the Doctor’s toast struck fire. Powell was possessed by ambition, but not the ambition that puts the reward and the success before the excellence of the achievement. He meant to use his colleagues, and the Cornish Foundation, for his own purposes, but he thought the purposes good, and would provide ample reward and acclaim for anyone associated with them. He would ply the whip, and drive everyone to the last inch of their abilities, in order to get what he wanted. He knew he was dealing with a group who were primarily academics, and that the horses must amble before they could be made to gallop. But he would have his way, and in the Doctor he sensed an ally.
As for Maria, she felt, for the first time since her marriage, a stirring of real adventure. Oh, it was wonderful to be Mrs. Arthur Cornish, and to share the thoughts and ambitions of a man of fine—yes, noble, she would say noble—spirit. There was nothing she could want in a man that she did not find in Arthur. And yet—was it the northern nature, or the Canadian greyness—there was just the least hint of chill about her marriage. They loved. They trusted. Their sexual life was a warm manifestation of love and trust. But, if only for a moment, there might be some hint of the improbable, of a relaxation of control. Maybe this opera would bring that. It was risky. It was a long time since she had sniffed the sharp, acrid smell of risk. Not since the time of Parlabane, over a year ago. Who would have thought of regretting Parlabane? And yet—he had brought something rare and pungent into her life.
What her place might be in this opera adventure she did not know. She was not a musician, though she was musical. She would not be allowed to work on the libretto; Pe
Darcourt was eating and wool-gathering at the same time, a frequent trick of his. I wonder what we should look like, he thought, if a mischievous genie were to pass over this table and strike us all naked? The result would be better than at most tables. Maria would be a stu
As for the Doctor—well, he was reminded of a remark he had heard a student make about another student, a girl: “I’d as soon go to bed with a bicycle.” The Doctor, under the fine, Chopinesque get-up, might have the wiriness, the chill, the impracticable resistance of a bicycle to a sexual approach, but she was probably interesting. Any breasts? One ca