A Man of Parts Read Online Free Page A

part, but for once it turned out well. Kitty, older and considerably more mature than Anthony, convinced him to give up his ambitions to be a painter because he would never be really good at it, and to become a writer instead, like his parents, and although he has yet to produce anything of consequence he has shown some flair in reviewing novels for the New Statesman . They have seemed happy together, especially after Anthony resolved his feelings about the war, which were divided between his pacifist principles and a reluctance to seem to shirk patriotic duty, by becoming a dairy farmer, a reserved occupation. He has taken to farming surprisingly well, as has Kitty, but about a year ago he accepted the offer of a part-time job with the BBC which seemed to him a more dignified contribution to the war effort, and now it has led to this silly infatuation. ‘Who is she?’ Rebecca demands of Anthony on the telephone, but he refuses to tell her. ‘I want to meet her,’ says Rebecca. ‘Well, you can’t,’ he says. ‘This is nothing to do with you, Rac. It’s between Kitty and me.’ ‘How can you think of deserting those two adorable children?’ Rebecca says, referring to Caroline aged two and a half and Edmund aged one, on whom she dotes. ‘Well, you wanted H.G. to desert his children,’ Anthony replies. Rebecca slams down the phone in a fury, and then regrets doing so, as she has more questions she wanted to ask. For instance, does H.G. know about this latest folly of his natural son?
    H.G. does indeed know, because Anthony tells him, and receives a tongue-lashing on the evils of divorce that takes him by surprise. ‘But you divorced your first wife,’ he points out, ‘and were very happy with your second, I believe.’ ‘That has nothing to do with it,’ says his father, his voice rising to a high-pitched squeak, as it always does when he is agitated. ‘Isabel and I had no children.’ ‘Kitty and I will share time with the children,’ says Anthony. ‘Kitty is not vindictive. She’s really been very reasonable about this.’ ‘It’s more than you deserve,’ says H.G. ‘You’re a fool. I don’t understand you. I never have.’ ‘I’m in love,’ Anthony says. H.G. gives a snort of derision. ‘I should have thought you of all men would have understood that,’ Anthony says.
    H.G. is silent, and glancing at him Anthony sees that his eyes are closed. Whether he is asleep or feigning sleep there is no way of knowing, but he does not stir when Anthony adjusts the rug over his feet and miserably leaves the room. He finds the night nurse in the kitchen, chatting to the housekeeper, and tells her that he is going back to Mr Mumford’s.
    – I suppose he has a point .
    – What?
    – You’ve had more than your fair share of love affairs in your lifetime .
    – I had a lot of affairs. Love didn’t come into most of them. As far as I was concerned – and for most of the women too – it was just a mutual giving and receiving of pleasure. The idea that you have to pretend to be in love with a woman in order to have sex with her – which we owe to Christianity and romantic fiction – is absurd. It has caused nothing but physical frustration and emotional misery. The desire for sex is constant in a healthy man or woman and needs to be constantly satisfied. Love, real love, is rare. As I said in Experiment in Autobiography , I’ve only loved three women in my life: Isabel, Jane and Moura.
    – Didn’t you love Rebecca?
    – I was in love with her. And before her with Amber. But that’s a different matter. The most dangerous of all.
    – Why dangerous?
    – You think you’ve found the perfect partner at last – soulmate and bedmate …
    – What you call the ‘Lover-Shadow’ in that secret Postscript you’ve written to your autobiography .
    – Exactly.
    – You’d been reading Jung .
    – Yes, but it’s not quite the same as his Shadow. It’s a person, someone who embodies everything lacking in