sooner had the company sat down than they were on their feet, bidden by Mr Karlovitch to drink a toast of friendship to artists the world over, and more especially those of the Soviet Union and Britain. ‘To a true and frank exchange of ideas,’ he cried optimistically, and raised his glass. Much to Ashburner’s relief, once this token reference had been made the subject of Art was never again mentioned. He was seated between a youngish man dressed like a stockbroker and a bespectacled person who, constantly seized by surprise, pursed his lips from time to time and audibly whistled two or three notes on a rising scale. He and most of his fellow committee-members spoke English or American and had visited London on several occasions during the past few years.
After a quarter of an hour of laboured conversation it became evident that a true and frank exchange would not be achieved. No one had any ideas worth exchanging. They’re just like us, thought Ashburner, neither better nor worse; he had attended many lunches in the City with people he didn’t know, simply for the sake of business. He gathered there were few actual artists in the room. A General was pointed out to him and an Admiral, both retired. He supposed they were Sunday painters, rather like Churchill and Roosevelt. The real painters, he imagined, if they were anything like Boris Shabelsky and his friend Tatiana, were all in homes for the alcoholic.
Quite soon he became involved in a harangue on property values in London and the rise in the cost of living in relation to workers’ wages. The people he addressed didn’t seem particularly interested in his views, and to his astonishment he suspected that he had instigated the discussion in the first place; far from defending beliefs he had held for a lifetime, he realised he was actually implying that the system was unjust and the investing of money immoral. He went further and indicated that educational standards in England, both in the private and the state sector, had collapsed, that consumer madness was rotting the fibre of the people and that a fairer distribution of wealth was vital. He couldn’t think what had got into him. He had never been known to vote Labour, his wife and he owned shares in Burmah Oil, and at the drop of a hat he was always more than ready to criticise the car workers at Dagenham. This is all due to my upbringing, he reasoned. If I am not careful, excessive politeness will have me warbling the Red Flag. Moments later, hearing a man telling Bernard that his wife kept a servant, and hardly able to believe his ears, he cried out ‘A servant, a servant ?’ in tones of such critical severity that Bernard leaned across the table and ordered him to belt up. ‘You’re overdoing the flat cap and brown boots number, mate,’ he hissed.
There was talk of the Café Royal, the House of Lords, the London Palladium and other places of interest. Ashburner hadn’t been to any of them and he had never even heard of the Round House in Chalk Farm. The food at the Café Royal was apparently excellent, but when two of Russia’s most distinguished ballet dancers
had appeared at the Palladium right-wing agitators had thrown tintacks on to the stage. Ashburner, who had never got the hang of ballet, found this amusing and smiled broadly. Though still anxious about Nina it was difficult for him to remain gloomy in the midst of such cordiality and warmth. He became expert, whenever a toast was proposed, at leaping to his feet and swallowing his measure of vodka at one gulp.
Mr Karlovitch confided that it was always a problem when in London to choose a suitable present to bring home to his young son. ‘Though,’ he said, ‘I am happy shopping for clothes in Bond Street. The material and cut are splendid.’
‘Next time you’re in London,’ advised Ashburner, ‘give me a tinkle and I’ll take you to my Oxfam shop. I always go there for my sports jackets. As for the child, there’s a little shop
After a quarter of an hour of laboured conversation it became evident that a true and frank exchange would not be achieved. No one had any ideas worth exchanging. They’re just like us, thought Ashburner, neither better nor worse; he had attended many lunches in the City with people he didn’t know, simply for the sake of business. He gathered there were few actual artists in the room. A General was pointed out to him and an Admiral, both retired. He supposed they were Sunday painters, rather like Churchill and Roosevelt. The real painters, he imagined, if they were anything like Boris Shabelsky and his friend Tatiana, were all in homes for the alcoholic.
Quite soon he became involved in a harangue on property values in London and the rise in the cost of living in relation to workers’ wages. The people he addressed didn’t seem particularly interested in his views, and to his astonishment he suspected that he had instigated the discussion in the first place; far from defending beliefs he had held for a lifetime, he realised he was actually implying that the system was unjust and the investing of money immoral. He went further and indicated that educational standards in England, both in the private and the state sector, had collapsed, that consumer madness was rotting the fibre of the people and that a fairer distribution of wealth was vital. He couldn’t think what had got into him. He had never been known to vote Labour, his wife and he owned shares in Burmah Oil, and at the drop of a hat he was always more than ready to criticise the car workers at Dagenham. This is all due to my upbringing, he reasoned. If I am not careful, excessive politeness will have me warbling the Red Flag. Moments later, hearing a man telling Bernard that his wife kept a servant, and hardly able to believe his ears, he cried out ‘A servant, a servant ?’ in tones of such critical severity that Bernard leaned across the table and ordered him to belt up. ‘You’re overdoing the flat cap and brown boots number, mate,’ he hissed.
There was talk of the Café Royal, the House of Lords, the London Palladium and other places of interest. Ashburner hadn’t been to any of them and he had never even heard of the Round House in Chalk Farm. The food at the Café Royal was apparently excellent, but when two of Russia’s most distinguished ballet dancers
had appeared at the Palladium right-wing agitators had thrown tintacks on to the stage. Ashburner, who had never got the hang of ballet, found this amusing and smiled broadly. Though still anxious about Nina it was difficult for him to remain gloomy in the midst of such cordiality and warmth. He became expert, whenever a toast was proposed, at leaping to his feet and swallowing his measure of vodka at one gulp.
Mr Karlovitch confided that it was always a problem when in London to choose a suitable present to bring home to his young son. ‘Though,’ he said, ‘I am happy shopping for clothes in Bond Street. The material and cut are splendid.’
‘Next time you’re in London,’ advised Ashburner, ‘give me a tinkle and I’ll take you to my Oxfam shop. I always go there for my sports jackets. As for the child, there’s a little shop
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