Anthony Powell’s sixth volume
in his Dance to the Music of Time sequence, The
Kindly Ones, was published in 1962 and is the best so far, covering the
periods 1914, the late 1920s and the late 1930s.
Possibly it grabs interest
because Powell begins by relating Nick Jenkins’s childhood in Stonehurst; this
goes some way to personalise the first-person narrative, which hitherto seems
to have been lacking in the earlier volumes.
We’re first introduced to
Albert, the Jenkins’s manservant/butler, a fascinating creation, ‘an oddity, an
exceptional member of the household’…’Albert shook off one of his ancient
bedroom slippers, adjusting the thick black woollen sock at the apex of the
foot, where, not over clean, the nail of a big toe protruded from a hole at the
end. (p10)
Albert was not enamoured of
the suffragettes, referring to them as ‘Virgin Marys’. Nick recalled his house
tutor Miss Orchard telling him about the Greeks who feared the Furies, which
they named the Eumenides – the Kindly Ones – using such ‘flattery to appease
their terrible wrath’ (p6) and supposed Albert employed similar flattery, since
he feared these emboldened women.
Other servants in the
household include Billson, fostering unrequited love for Albert and young
Bracey, subject to ‘funny turns’. Billson claimed she’d seen a ghost more than
once, and Nick’s mother commented, ‘It really is not fair on servants to expect
them to sleep in a haunted room, although I have to myself.’ (pp60/61) Later,
Billson suffers a mental breakdown, partly due to the persistence of the ghosts
and also due to the fact that Albert had declared his love elsewhere, to a
woman in Bristol: she appeared nude in the dining room in front of Mr and Mrs
Jenkins and their guests, General Conyers and his wife. This is a poignant scene,
where Conyers acted swiftly and snagged a shawl and ‘wrapped the shawl
protectively round her.’ (p64)
The interaction between the
members of the household proves amusing and intriguing. ‘As a child you are in
some ways more acutely aware of what people feel about one another than you are
when childhood has come to an end.’ (p22) This is shrewd observation, and is
emphasised by ‘I was aware that I had witnessed a painful scene, although, as
so often happens in childhood, I could not analyse the circumstances.’ (p47)
We also get to know Nick’s
father, at least a little. ‘For my father all tragedies were major tragedies,
this being especially his conviction if he were himself in any way concerned.
(p30)
Mr Jenkins made the
observation, ‘I like to rest my mind after work. I don’t like books that make
me think.’ (p40) He ‘really hated clarity.’ (p48)
What is surprising is how
echoes from this period (in the novel) or from the time of its creation, there
resonates observations that still hold true in the twenty-first century: ‘… the
light of reason or patriotism could penetrate, in however humble a degree, into
the treasonable madhouse of the Treasury, did not answer.’ (p58)
As the Conyers are about to
leave Stonehurst, two individuals make their appearance, both unexpected: Uncle
Giles who observes about the General’s automobile, ‘Not too keen on ’em. Always
in accidents. Some royalty in a motor-car have been involved in a nasty affair
today…’ (p72) The assassination of Franz-Ferdinand and his wife, no less... The
other person arrived while running with his pupils, Dr Trelawney, who espoused
that ‘The Essence of the All is the Godhead of the True.’ (p66)
We leap ahead in time, when
Nick admits his ‘more modest ambition… is to become a soldier.’ This is quite a
revelation, I don’t recall any indications of this before. He befriends
Mortimer (who we have met in an earlier volume) and they have shared likes and
dislikes: ‘There were also aesthetic prejudices in common: animosity towards
R.M. Ballantynes The Coral Island…’
(P85) [Well, sorry, Nick or Mr Powell, I read this as a youngster and thought
it was a gripping and exciting adventure story and hold no animosity towards it
at all! It’s a book of its time.]
Later, when Trelawney is
discussed, there’s an amusing aside: ‘… he must have moved further to the Left
– or would it be to the Right? Extremes of policy have such a tendency to
merge.’ Another shrewd observation! Lock up or eliminate the opposition… That’s
why they’re extreme? At one point, he pontificates: ‘There is no death in
Nature, only transition, blending, synthesis, mutation.’ (p197)
We’re in the time of ‘Munich’,
the appeasement. And Nick’s wife Isobel ‘was starting a baby. Circumstances
were not ideal for a pregnancy. Apart from unsettled international conditions,
the weather was too hot…’ (p150) Strange, to take into consideration the
international state of affairs when deciding on having a family; he’s being
humorous, of course.
Fellow writers might be
amused at Nick relating details about his career to Duport, a man he cuckolded:
‘writing; editing, reviewing… never, for some reason, very easy to define to
persons not themselves in the world.’ (p169)
Nick learns that Duport’s wife Jean had not only cheated on her husband
but also betrayed Nick as well… Certainly, one of the underlying themes in the
books is the duplicitous nature of women and wives. ‘The remembered moaning in
pleasure of someone once loved always haunts the memory, even when love itself
is over.’ (p183)
As we approach the end of the
book, we’re in the company of Kenneth Widmerpool and his mother again. Nick
refers to Widmerpool as a Happy Warrior (p243), alluding to a Wordsworth poem;
among other things, it’s also the title of an excellent graphic biography of
Churchill drawn by Frank Bellamy.
Powell injects a number of
enlightening truisms, usually through other characters’ speech, some
highlighted already. Here’s another: ‘One of the worst things about life is not
how nasty the nasty people are. You know that already. It is how nasty the nice
people can be.’ (p247)
There were more humorous and
poignant moments than hitherto in the series. And the neat ending, where it’s
contrived that Nick will, against the odds, be signed up in the Infantry, works
very well; so well, in fact, that the reader wants to move on to the next book
(which must have been frustrating, since that – The Valley of Bones – didn’t appear for two years). I’m glad I’ve
persevered with the series.
Editorial comment:
Sometimes, because the
narrative is actually reflective, talking about the past, Powell slips into silliness.
For example, ‘ “How much dos Mesopotamia matter?” enquired my father, unaware
that he would soon be wounded there.’ (p56) Well, obviously he would be
unaware, unless he was clairvoyant! Far better if this had been re-worded along
the lines such as: ironically, he was wounded there…
‘Outside, the weather was
sunny…’ (p202) Surely the word ‘outside’ is superfluous?
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