The list of these relations and friends grew longer and longer, as, one after another, from love’s shining circle the gems dropped away. A queue formed; and Anthony, in self-defence, had to omit certain names in order to make room for others, just as, in the cemetery of San Michele in Venice, the bodies of the dead are only allowed a few years of earthly habitation before they are turned out. Without having to accuse himself of favouritism, Anthony had to decide whose relations were in the greater need of his prayers, who should stay and who should go.
There was another thing. Some of Anthony’s friends whom, living, he had prayed for, had before they died and passed out of the land of the living, changed their names, owing to divorce, re-marriage, titles for themselves or their husbands. Would God know the original ‘Mary’ of his prayers for the living, for the Mrs. X, or the Lady X, for whose bereaved relations Anthony asked God for sympathy? Anthony knew how absurd this question was. God was no student of Who’s Who or Debrett; he would know who Mary was; but just as in ordinary conversation one has to explain who ‘Mary’ may be, so, in Anthony’s appeals to the Deity, he felt he ought to explain who this ‘Mary’ was. God was no respecter of persons; but Anthony felt he should take the trouble to differentiate this Mary from the other Marys, one of whom had been the mother of Christ.
Another thing that made praying laborious was that in this long list of names he might have left out someone. Every religion has its ritual which must be strictly observed; a small fault, a casual omission, may invalidate the whole proceedings. Anthony knew his prayers by heart, and wasn’t ashamed of rattling them off at high speed so long as he gave a flick of affection to each name, alive or dead, for whom he prayed. But sometimes he had the feeling that one name—just one—had escaped him. And then he must start all over again, and sometimes twice, to make sure that no one had been omitted. Apart from the effort of repetition, he didn’t like doing this; he felt it smacked of conscience, not of devotion, but all the same, he had to.
His prayers for the living, who had not been bereaved, but were perhaps sad, and ill, and unfortunate, were easier, because he felt that for them his intercessions were the living word of encouragement, and not the dead word of condolence. For them he did not have to pray for the negative blessings, if negative they were, of consolation and comfort; he could pray for their future happiness (if not, of course, based on some improper relationship), the success of their undertakings, their personal, general and material welfare. There was nothing wrong in this. The Old Testament had condemned many, indeed most things, but not the ideal of prosperity. Prosperity had been taken from Job: it was indeed the gravamen of his spiritual suffering. But in the end it had been restored to him ten-fold.
So Anthony did not feel it was irreligious to wish for his friends, not too much burdened and borne down by sorrow, the desire of their hearts, even in the material sphere. Did not devout Roman Catholics pray to St. Anthony, his namesake, for the recovery of some unimportant object, a wrist-watch, for instance, which they had lost? One could not, oneself, pray to God for the recovery of a wrist-watch; in relation to God it would be outside one’s terms of reference; and, as a Protestant, one did not pray to the Saints. But on behalf of someone else, one might, and that was how Anthony came to pray that Copperthwaite, to whom he was much attached, might be granted the gift of a Roland-Rex motor-car. He did not think of himself as concerned in the gift: he only wanted it for Copperthwaite.
Rising stiffly from his knees, after an unusually long and laborious session of intercession, he felt he might have done someone a good turn. It is difficult to know what a friend really wants; and what will be good for him if he wants it. Copperthwaite wanted a Roland-Rex.
A few days later Copperthwaite came to him with a rather stiff face and said,
‘I’m afraid, sir, I shall have to ask for my cards.’
Copperthwaite had been with Anthony for a good many years, and the phrase was unfamiliar to him.
‘Your cards, what cards, Copperthwaite?’ He thought they might be some sort of playing cards.
‘My cards, sir, my stamps and my P.A.Y.E., same as you have always paid for.’
‘You can have them, of course,’ said Anthony, bewildered. ‘That is, if I can find them. But what do you want them for?’
Copperthwaite’s face stiffened yet more: Anthony could hardly recognize him.
‘Because I’ve been offered a better job sir, if you’ll excuse me saying so. I’ve been happy with you, sir, and you mustn’t think I don’t appreciate what you have done for me. But a man in my position has to look after himself—you might not understand that, sir, being a gentleman.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Anthony, still bewildered.
Copperthwaite’s face grew stiffer.
‘An American gentleman—no offence to you, sir—has asked me to go to him. The porter in this block of flats told him about me. He pays very good money.’
‘I can raise your salary, if you like,’ said Anthony, his own face beginning to stiffen.
‘Oh no, sir, I couldn’t ask you to do that, I’m not a gold-digger, and besides—’
‘Besides what?’ asked Anthony crossly.
‘Besides, he has a Roland-Rex car, and it’s always been my ambition to drive one, as you know, sir.’
‘When do you want to go?’ asked Anthony.
‘A week next Saturday. That will give you time to find another man.’
‘I’m not sure it will,’ said Anthony. ‘But meanwhile I’ll look for your cards.’
The week passed, and Anthony tried in vain to find a replacement for Copperthwaite. In answer to his advertisement, several candidates for the job presented themselves and interviews were arranged. He was on his best behaviour, and they were on their best behaviour; who could tell? ‘There is no art,’ as Shakespeare, or his spokesman, truly said, ‘to find the mind’s construction in the face.’ As for references, so his friends assured him, they were often written by the applicants themselves. ‘Mr. Anthony Bragshaw’ (surprising how many of them were called by his own name) ‘is honest, sober, and trustworthy: a good driver, and an excellent plain cook. I have no hesitation whatever in recommending him for the situation he is applying for.’
Two or three of these replies were written on the writing-paper, and contained the telephone number of the applicant’s employer: but when he rang up the number, he did not get a reply.
Anthony himself could not cook, nor could he drive: pushing up the seventies, he needed outside help. Meals were not so difficult; he could go out for food. And as for transport, there were buses, and tubes and taxis, if one could find a taxi at the right moment. It was ridiculous to complain of things which, as Sir Thomas Browne said, ‘all the world doth suffer from’ (including death).
He didn’t know what to do with his car, so he left it in the communal garage, where it had a place, 5A. Sometimes, when he engaged one of the porters, or a casual man to drive it, it was neither found in 5A, nor returned to 5A. Someone else had been taking it for a ride.
Copperthwaite himself Anthony saw, from time to time, for his employer lived on the opposite side of the Square, in one of the few houses that hadn’t been ‘converted’ into flats. Anthony didn’t always recognize him, for Copperthwaite had been so smartened up. He wore the conventional chauffeur’s uniform, blue suit, black tie, peak cap—and he looked straight ahead of him, as if other cars were in the way (as they often were).