And Is There Honey Still For Tea? (13 page)

20

In mid-November, I returned to my room after lectures on a Wednesday afternoon to find that someone had pushed an invitation card under my door. The card had the Trinity coat of arms printed at the top, but the content was handwritten in black ink and in a sharp elegant hand. The writer informed me that Mr Anthony Blunt, Research Student of the College, would be at home in his rooms in Bishop's Hostel for sherry during the early evening on Saturday, and requested the pleasure of my company. The name rang a bell immediately; I remembered Roger's letter, and I recalled his mentioning Blunt several times when I had visited the year before. But I could not remember anything particular he had said about the man and, with two supervisions looming, I made no inquiry of him. I left the invitation leaning against the clock on my mantelpiece, and on Saturday afternoon I duly put on a suit and tie and made my way across college for six o'clock as bidden.

Anthony Blunt was a striking figure, tall and angular. He welcomed me with a show of enthusiasm, but when he looked at me it was with the art critic's detachment, a coldly aloof stare as if I were a canvas being critically examined rather than a human being simply looked at; as if, in his eyes, I had the burden of proof of my own existence and worth. But it was only when I came to know him much better that I made that connection. At the time, it simply made me flinch a little. We shook hands, and he handed me a glass of dry sherry which had already been poured, and which had stood, next to the bottle from which it came, on a side table to the right of the door as I entered. He looked me up and down, again an appraisal, but more cursory than the look into my face. Then he picked up his own glass from the table.

‘So,' he said, ‘you are Roger's brother, are you?'

I am sure my surprise showed.

‘Yes,' I replied. ‘You must forgive me. I remember Roger mentioning your name, but I didn't realise you knew him well.'

He took a sip of sherry, smiling.

‘Not as well as I should have liked, I must confess,' he replied.

I heard a loud guffaw coming from a sofa, which stood behind me and in front of the fireplace. It was startling. I had not realised that anyone else was present, and I had been so absorbed by Anthony that I had hardly taken in any detail of the room. As I turned towards the sofa, the voice continued.

‘And you can take that any way you like,' it said.

Anthony shook his head sadly, took my arm, and walked me towards the sofa.

‘This wretched creature,' he said, ‘is Guy Burgess. Historian, a year ahead of you. He has no idea how to behave in civilised society. God knows why I continue to invite him to my rooms. Guy, this is James Digby. Say hello nicely.'

‘Hello, nicely,' Guy said, with a giggle. He extended a hand without making any effort to get up. I took the hand as briefly as I decently could.

‘Whatever he may tell you, Anthony continues to invite me to his rooms because I am so amusing. I make all his friends laugh, something he can't do himself. But he's a terrible host. Always the same cheap sherry, and never enough to get you seriously sloshed. My glass has been empty for ages, dear boy. You are such a bore. Are you going to get me a re-fill or do I have to get up and get it myself?'

To my surprise, Anthony took the glass without the least show of irritation, and returned it to Guy, filled to the brim. Guy took it without any acknowledgement whatsoever. He stared at me for some time, giving me the opportunity to do likewise. I had not recognised him at first, but now I remembered seeing his face in and around Trinity. We had never spoken. It was difficult to judge his exact height because he was sprawled untidily across the sofa, but he was fairly tall, with handsome dark features. His jacket and trousers looked as though they had been expertly tailored, but were as wrinkled and creased as if he had slept in them – which, as I got to know him better, I realised might well have been the case. His tie had some kind of food stain on it. I got used to his appearance eventually, as I suppose everyone who knew him did. It never really changed. A general dishevelment and a degree of disregard for personal hygiene were something of a trademark with Guy, but none of this seemed to bother him or slow him down at all. In all the time I knew him, while I often saw him better turned out than on the first day I met him, I never saw him completely tidy; and I never saw him completely sober.

Anthony waved me into an armchair to the left of the sofa, and sat in another opposite me. He had left the remains of the bottle of sherry on the coffee table in front of Guy. Guy had by now finished his inspection of me.

‘You won't get anywhere with this one, Anthony,' he remarked, ‘any more than you did with his brother. Another one lost to the girls, I fear. I don't know what the world is coming to. What is going on in our schools?' He turned to me. ‘Where did you go to school?'

Before I could reply, Anthony held up a hand.

‘Oh, do behave yourself, Guy. You're not out chasing your street boys now. James is the brother of a friend of mine, and he is my guest. If you can't treat him civilly, you can leave.'

Guy was grinning, looking up to the ceiling as if asking Heaven what he could possibly have done wrong. But he said nothing, and eventually allowed his body to sink into an obvious sulk. I was sipping my sherry nervously.

‘Roger is an excellent fellow,' Anthony said. ‘How is he?'

‘He is very well. Thank you.'

‘Good. If I remember rightly, he was going home to run the family estate when he went down from college. Somewhere in Lancashire, isn't it?'

‘Yes, in the Ribble Valley, just outside Clitheroe.'

‘Ah, yes. Not a part of the country I know, I'm afraid.'

‘Roger is in London at the moment,' I continued. ‘My father wants him to go on one or two management courses, and then he is thinking of going abroad for a year or so before he commits to the estate.'

‘You must make sure to give him my warmest regards. And tell him that if he sets foot in Cambridge without visiting me I shall be mortally offended.'

I smiled. ‘I will, of course.'

‘A risk no one should even consider taking,' Guy said, without rising from his slumped position. His words were now slightly slurred. We ignored him. In response, he drained his glass, then poured in the remains of the bottle, half filling it. He held the empty bottle aloft for Anthony to see. Without a word, Anthony stood and made his way to a bookcase to the right of the fireplace. The lower part of the bookcase was a cabinet, from which he took another bottle of the same sherry. He placed the bottle before Guy who, as before, did not acknowledge it.

Anthony resumed his seat. He extracted a silver cigarette case from an inside pocket of his jacket, removed a cigarette and placed it in a black holder. ‘Would you care for one?'

‘No. I don't smoke. Thank you.'

‘Notice that he doesn't ask me whether I would care for one,' Guy complained, emerging briefly from his sulk. ‘They are going to make him a Fellow in a year or so, you know. Aren't they, Anthony? Ever so grand.'

Anthony again ignored him. Suddenly, Guy stood and smartly adjusted his tie as if suddenly experiencing a new burst of energy.

‘I'm bored,' he complained. ‘I thought you were going to invite some boys for me to meet. I suppose I shall have to go and find my own somewhere else.'

‘Yes, well, if you must, I suppose you must,' Anthony replied.

‘Very pleased to meet you, James,' Guy said, with a mock bow, ‘even if you are one for the girls. I am sure we will run into each other in hall. You can tell me where you went to school and I will have a word with the headmaster.'

‘Goodbye, Guy,' Anthony said.

Guy left a little unsteadily, without another word.

* * *

Anthony lit the cigarette. ‘I am sorry about Guy,' he said. ‘He seems a bit off form today. He had already had a bit to drink before he arrived. He can be that way sometimes. He can also be a quite delightful boy. Believe it or not, he can be quite good company when he is in the mood.'

I did not reply. Anthony saw that my glass was empty and refilled it without asking.

‘Roger told me you are a chess player,' he said. I was grateful for the change of subject.

‘Yes.'

‘Good?'

‘Yes, fairly good, I suppose. I've won tournaments at the junior level, and I am hoping to do better in the senior events from now on.'

‘You will get your Half Blue then, I expect?'

‘I hope so. The Oxford match is next term, so I have some time to prove myself.'

‘I'm sure you won't have the least difficulty in doing that,' he said. There was a silence for some time as he smoked his cigarette.

‘I see you have joined the Socialists also,' he said. ‘Would you care to explain why?'

He saw at once that the question had startled me. He took a drink of sherry, laughing.

‘I am so sorry, dear boy. I didn't mean to play the Grand Inquisitor. Let me put your mind at ease. I am a fellow traveller, I assure you. I am surprised Roger didn't tell you that.'

I sipped my sherry.

‘Well, it doesn't matter, and it is no secret. I have a particular interest, you see, in prising art away from the corrupting influence of the establishment in this country and, for that matter, the West in general. Art is my chosen field. It is my passion. I believe art should serve the interests of Society, of the People, rather than serving the complacent tastes of a degenerate Bourgeoisie which has lost any ability to appreciate its value, as opposed to its price. I want to encourage writers and artists to express such views and create art in that tradition and, of course, Cambridge is the perfect place to do that.'

He stubbed out the cigarette.

‘What's your excuse?'

I laughed at the question, but then I thought about it. And then, for some minutes I unburdened my mind to Anthony about the social injustices I saw all around me, the families we knew who were suffering, the evils of unrestrained capitalism and the need to do something to change the system. He listened without once interrupting. I felt that he did not believe me, and called him on it.

‘No, no,' he replied at once. ‘I believe you completely. I've seen the same things and drawn the same conclusions as you have. Social justice is impossible in the capitalist world order, and can only be achieved after some revolutionary change. And you are right in thinking that no such change is imminent in Western Europe. In fact, things are moving in quite the opposite direction. I understand all that. What surprises me is that you have not yet moved beyond that into the more positive aspects of socialist society – what it can create, rather than merely what it can replace.'

‘In what respect?'

‘James, I love art. That is my passion. What is yours? I am not speaking about your undergraduate studies, or even your future career. What do you care about more than anything else?'

I bowed my head.

‘Chess,' I replied.

‘Describe your feelings about chess.'

I took a deep breath and told him, in no particular order, about chess; about its history; about the depth of its theory; its affinity to pure mathematics; about its symbolism; about Edward Lasker v Sir George Thomas, London 1912; about Paul Morphy going mad and wandering the streets of New Orleans muttering incomprehensibly to himself; about the lack of interest and support for chess in the West, and about …

‘…the lack of any understanding within the Establishment that chess is not just a game, but an art form in its own right?' he suggested. ‘An activity to which one might justifiably devote one's talents, not just for personal gratification, but as a means of improving society?'

I sighed deeply. He was the first person who had ever articulated back to me the thoughts which had been playing in my mind for so long. I nodded.

‘Of course,' he continued. ‘And am I not correct in thinking that despite the general lack of interest in the West, the Soviet Union has a flourishing chess culture?'

‘The Soviet Union is the undisputed world leader,' I replied at once. ‘But they do it because …'

The words died in my mouth, but Anthony heard them anyway.

‘As a form of propaganda for the benefits of Marxist thought? Yes, undoubtedly. Every system of government loves to boast about its achievements. It is simply a form of advertising. But James, when you see the propaganda for what it is, and put it to one side, what do you have left? What is there of substance? You have a society in which chess, and chess players, are valued and rewarded for pursuing their art. I am sure it is a competitive business. There must be many who fall by the wayside. But that is true of every field of human endeavour, is it not? How many attics could you explore in England or America and find discarded canvases done by some country yokel who fancied himself to be the new van Gogh or the new Monet or, in deference to your part of the world, let's say even the next L S Lowry? The important point is surely, not whether an individual succeeds or fails, but whether he is allowed to try.'

He smiled at me while lighting another cigarette.

‘Are you saying that you never considered that as a valid reason for interesting yourself in socialism? Well, that's very altruistic of you, I must say. Quite different from my case. Oh, I believe in the working class, of course, and I believe that we must strip away all this nonsense about the class system and hereditary power, and so on. But it's what socialism can do for art, and what art can do for socialism, that interests me, James. And I suspect that, when you are a bit older, when you have created more beautiful games of chess, and when you find that no one cares very much, you may well come around to my way of thinking.'

* * *

‘You won't forget to remember me to Roger, will you?' he repeated, as I left, over an hour later. I wrote to Roger that same evening, posted the letter on Monday morning, and received his reply before the end of the week.