From a View to a Death: A Novel - Softcover

Powell, Anthony

Softcover

ISBN 10: 022613296X ISBN 13: 9780226132969

Verlag: University of Chicago Press, 2014

Inhaltsangabe

Unsavory artists, titled boobs, and charlatans with an affinity for Freud—such are the oddballs whose antics animate the early novels of the late British master Anthony Powell. A genius of social satire delivered with a very dry wit, Powell builds his comedies on the foibles of British high society between the wars, delving into subjects as various as psychoanalysis, the film industry, publishing, and (of course) sex. More explorations of relationships and vanity than plot-driven narratives, these slim novels reveal the early stirrings of the unequaled style, ear for dialogue, and eye for irony that would reach their caustic peak in Powell’s epic A Dance to the Music of Time.

From a View to a Death takes us to a dilapidated country estate where an ambitious artist of questionable talent, a family of landed aristocrats wondering where the money has gone, and a secretly cross-dressing squire all commingle among the ruins.

Written from a vantage point both high and necessarily narrow, Powell’s early novels nevertheless deal in the universal themes that would become a substantial part of his oeuvre: pride, greed, and what makes people behave as they do. Filled with eccentric characters and piercing insights, Powell’s work is achingly hilarious, human, and true.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Anthony Powell (1905-2000) was an English novelist best known for A Dance to the Music of Time, which was published in twelve volumes between 1951 and 1975. He also wrote seven other novels, a biography of John Aubrey, two plays, and three volumes of collected reviews and essays, as well as a four-volume autobiography, an abridged version of which, To Keep the Ball Rolling, is available from the University of Chicago Press.

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From a View to a Death

A Novel

By Anthony Powell

The University of Chicago Press

Copyright © 1933 Anthony Powell
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-226-13296-9

CHAPTER 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:

'No. There were no accidents of any kind. We came here quite safely all the way from the station.'

'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...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: University of Chicago Press
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2014
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 022613296X
• ISBN 13: 9780226132969
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 223
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Wiley-VCH GmbH; product_safety@wiley.com; ; Boschstrasse 12; Weinheim; 69469; Deutschland