Temporary Kings (19 page)

To
unAmerican eyes, probing the mysteries of American comportment and observance,
this seemed the antithesis of Gwinnett. Much going on in Gwinnett was never
likely to find outward expression. That was how it looked. No doubt a European
unfamiliarity heightened, rather than diminished, the contrast; even
caricatured its salient features. That did not remove all substance, the core
seeming to be the ease with which Glober manipulated the American way; Gwinnett’s
awkwardness in its employment. That was to put things crudely, possibly even
wrongly, just consequence of meeting both in Europe. Glober, only recently
sprung from the Continent, had about him something of the old fashioned
Jamesian American, seeking new worlds to conquer. Gwinnett was not at all like
that. With Gwinnett, everything was within himself. He had, so it seemed, come
to Europe simply because he was passionately interested in Trapnel, obsessed by
him, personally identified with him; again, one felt, inwardly, rather than
outwardly.

Dr
Brightman had called Gwinnett a ‘gothic’ American. What, in contrast, would she
call Glober? She had invoked Classicism and Romanticism. Here again it was hard
to apportion epithets. In one sense, Glober, the practical man, was also the ‘romantic’
– as often happens – Gwinnett, working on his own interior lines, the ‘classical’.
Gwinnett wanted to see things without their illusory trimmings; Glober forced
things into his own picturesque mould. In doing that, Glober retained some
humour. Could the same be said of Gwinnett? Would Gwinnett, for example, be
capable of taking pleasure in Tokenhouse as a medium for amusement? Was the
analogy to be found in quite other terms of reference: Don Juan for Glober,
Gwinnett in Faust?

The
wine, passing round rather rapidly, may have played some part in these
reflections. Tokenhouse was by now a little tight. Age, or abstinence, must
have weakened his head. Perhaps solitude, sheer lack of opportunity to air his
views, caused a few glasses to release the urgent need to hold forth again at a
crowded table. He now proceeded to reproduce, in greatly extended form, the
lecture he had given me earlier on the necessity for rejecting Formalism. In
doing this, Tokenhouse passed all reasonable bounds of dialectical prosiness.
Glober, showing American tolerance for persons outlining a favourite theme with
searching thoroughness, did not interrupt him, but, when coffee came,
Tokenhouse had gone too far in presuming on national forbearance in indicating
to a compulsive talker that he has become a bore. By that time Tokenhouse had
admitted he painted himself. Glober leant across the table.

‘Now
see here, Mr Tokenhouse. We’re going to drink a glass of Strega, then we’re all
coming back to your studio to admire your work.’

That
took Tokenhouse so much by surprise that he scarcely demurred at the Strega,
protesting only briefly, as a matter of form. It was hard for an amateur
painter – he kept on making a point of this status – to be other than
flattered. It was agreed the party should make their way to the flat after
leaving the restaurant. When the bill arrived, Glober insisted on paying. He
swept aside energetic, if rambling, efforts on the part of Tokenhouse to
prevent this on grounds that I was his guest. They argued for a time,
Tokenhouse producing a ten-thousand-lire note, Glober thrusting it aside. We
set off at last, Tokenhouse still talking hard. He was not drunk in any
derogatory sense, had merely taken a little more than accustomed, which had
transformed a prickly detachment into discursiveness not to be checked. He
hurried along, the old grey hat jammed down on his head, swinging his stick,
Glober taking long strides to keep up. Ada and I followed a short way behind.

‘How
on earth did you know the names of those painters, Ada? Are they Russian?’

Ada
smiled, justifiably pleased with herself.

‘Len
Pugsley’s at our Lido hotel. He’d brought the article with him, as basis of a
speech he’s going to make at the Conference. Getting something published in
Fission
was his first real step in life.’

‘His
last one too. Why hasn’t he appeared?’

‘Len’s
got a stomach upset. He’s in bed. He wanted to rehearse his speech. He read it
all to me. I say, I hear from Glober the Widmerpools have had a terrible row.’

‘Isn’t
that a permanent state?’

‘This
one’s worse than usual.’

Ada
could offer no more at that moment, because Glober, fearing dispersal of his
court, or that its courtiers were plotting against him, turned back to make
sure we were included in whatever he was discussing with Tokenhouse. A few
minutes later we entered the narrow calle in which the flat was situated.
Tokenhouse led the way up the stairs. He opened the door, pointing ahead.

‘Seat
yourselves. I’m afraid there is nothing luxurious about my way of life. You
must excuse that, take me as you find me, a humble amateur painter.’

He
stumped off in the direction of the canvases in the corner.

Glober
looked round the room.

‘Mr
Tokenhouse, you ought to advertise your studio as Annex to the Biennale
Exposition.’

‘I
should, I should. I shall have to wait another two years now.’

Tokenhouse
laughed excitedly, shuffling about arranging pictures at every angle. Glober’s
interest must have encouraged him to widen the scope of what he was prepared to
display. In addition to those shown in the morning were others stacked in two
cupboards.

‘Do
I detect the influence of Diego Rivera, Mr Tokenhouse?’

‘Ah-ha,
you may, you may.’

‘Or
is it José Clemente Orozco, who did those frescoes at Dartmouth? There is
something of that artist too.’

Tokenhouse
was in ecstasies, if such a word could be used of him at all.

‘I
would not deny influence of the former. I am less familiar with the work of the
latter. I flatter myself in these experiments in style, now wholly abandoned, I
have caught a small touch of Rivera’s gift for speaking in a popular language.
This, for instance – now who the devil can that be?’

A
heavy knock had been given on the outside door. Tokenhouse set down the two
pictures he was holding. He did not go to the door at once. Instead, he took a
small diary from his pocket, and studied it. The knock came again. Tokenhouse,
put out by this interruption, went into the passageway. The sound came of the
door being opened, followed by muffled conversation. The caller’s enquiry had
not been audible. Tokenhouse’s answer was testy, almost shrill.

‘Yes,
yes. Of course he mentioned your name to me. More than once in the past. I had
no idea you were attending the Conference. You’re not? Ah-ha, I see. Well, come
in then. It’s not very convenient, but now you’re here, you’d better stay. I
have some people looking at my pictures. Yes, my pictures, I said – but you can
wait till they’re gone. Then we can have a talk.’

He
returned to the studio-room accompanied by Widmerpool.

‘This
is – did you say
Lord
– yes, Lord Widmerpool. Ah-ha, you know everybody. That makes things easier.’

Tokenhouse
spoke the word ‘Lord’ with great contempt. Neither he, nor Widmerpool himself,
looked in the least as if they believed the fact of ‘knowing everyone’ made
things easier. Tokenhouse had spoken the words bitterly, ironically. In his own
eyes nothing much worse could happen, now that his Private View had been
interrupted, the chance of a lifetime mucked up; Widmerpool, armed with an
introduction, arriving at this particular moment. Tokenhouse seemed to know
instinctively that Widmerpool felt no interest whatever in pictures, good or
bad.

‘Take
a seat.’

Widmerpool
looked round. There was no very obvious place to do so. He was undoubtedly
surprised at finding Glober, Ada, myself, here; not more so than I, that he
should suppose it advantageous to visit Tokenhouse. The connexion could hardly
be publishing. By the time Widmerpool, in an advisory capacity, had been on the
Quiggin & Craggs board, Tokenhouse’s days as a publisher were over.
Possibly some link went back to Widmerpool’s time in a solicitor’s office; his
former firm perhaps that recording the ban on religious rites at the Tokenhouse
obsequies. Widmerpool had plainly not been warned that painting was Tokenhouse’s
hobby. He stared rather wildly at the pictures propped up all over the room,
then nodded to each of us in turn.

‘Yes
– we all know each other. How are you, Ada? We haven’t met since
Fission
. I expect you’re at the Conference, or come
for the Film Festival?’

The
last suggestion seemed to have struck him on the spur of the moment, probably
on account of Glober’s film connexions. Ada pretended to be piqued.

‘Didn’t
you notice me at the Bragadin palace, Kenneth? I saw you. Pam and I talked
away. I should have thought she’d have mentioned that to you.’

Widmerpool,
discerning a probe for information, rather than expression of wounded feelings,
gave nothing away. He smiled.

‘Pam
often forgets to tell me things. We think it best not to live in each other’s
pockets. It makes married life easier. You would agree, wouldn’t you, Louis?’

‘I
sure would.’

Glober
laughed in his usual quiet friendly way, which did not at all conceal dislike.
He also took the opportunity of stating his own situation.

‘Mrs
Quiggin and I were discussing the Biennale the time her Conference was looking
over Jacky’s place. We thought we’d take a look at the Biennale pictures
together too. Who should we meet but Mr Jenkins and Mr Tokenhouse. Now we’re
admiring Mr Tokenhouse’s pictures instead of those at the Biennale.’

That
was brief, exact description of just what had happened. If Glober had designs
on Pamela – it was hard to think otherwise – he might welcome opportunity of
emphasizing to Widmerpool that he had ‘picked up’ Ada, accordingly was not to
be taken as too serious a competitor for Pamela. Such was just a notion that
occurred. If it displayed Glober’s intention, Widmerpool showed no sign of
appreciating the point.

‘I
see.’

He
spoke flatly, staring round again at the rows of small canvases that cluttered
the studio. Obviously they conveyed nothing to him. He appeared more than ever
worried, but made an effort.

‘Have
you collected these over the years, Mr Tokenhouse?’

Tokenhouse
looked furious.

‘I
painted them.’

He
snapped out the answer.

‘Yourself.
I see. How clever.’

Widmerpool
said that without the smallest irony.

‘Merely
a hobby. Not at all clever. The last thing they are – or I should wish them to
be – is clever.’

Tokenhouse
did not conceal his annoyance. Widmerpool had ruined the afternoon. Here were
all his pictures spread out, a relatively sympathetic audience to whom he could
preach his own theories of art, a unique occasion, in short, wrecked by the
arrival of a self-important stranger – a ‘lord’ at that – with an introduction,
presumably about some business matter. Again, it was hard to see what business
interests Widmerpool and Tokenhouse could share, yet the connexion was clearly
not a friendly one, some common acquaintance’s suggestion that the two of them
would get on well together. Although nettled, Tokenhouse did not seem exactly
taken aback. Widmerpool, after whatever had been said at the door, must represent
some burden liable to be shouldered sooner or later. The botheration was for
such responsibility to have descended at this moment. Tokenhouse, accepting the
party was over, like a child putting away its toys, began gloomily replacing
the canvases in the nearer cupboard. Then one of Glober’s gestures went some
way towards saving the situation.

‘Just
a moment, Mr Tokenhouse. Don’t be in such a hurry with those pictures of yours.
Would you consider a sale? If you would – and don’t tell me to hell with it – I’d
like to know your price for the shipwreck scene.’

He
pointed to one of the illustrations of social injustice, such it must be,
seemingly enacted on the crowded deck of a boat, where several persons were in
trouble. Tokenhouse paused in his tidying up. He visibly responded to the
enquiry.

‘Sell
a picture?’

‘That’s
what I hoped.’

Tokenhouse
considered.

‘I’ve
only been asked that once before, apart from an occasion years ago – in my
Formalist days – when requested to present a picture of mine to be raffled for
a charity. It was one of those typical feckless efforts to bolster up the
capitalist system – some parson at the bottom of it, of course – attempting to
launch that sort of ameliorating endeavour, which I now recognize as worse,
more deliberately harmful, than brutal indifference, and should now naturally refuse
to have anything to do with.’

Tokenhouse
turned to Widmerpool. He spoke rather spitefully.

‘The
only other occasion when I sold one of my pictures was to our mutual friend.
The friend who sent you here. He very kindly bought one of my efforts.’

Widmerpool
seemed further embarrassed. He started slightly. Then he made a movement of the
hand to express appreciation.’

‘Oh,
yes. Did he, indeed? I didn’t know he liked painting.’

‘Of
course he does. He bought one of the army incidents. I called it
Any Complaints
? A typical mess-room injustice about
rations. To buy it was a charming return for a small service I had been able to
perform for him. I had, of course, expected no such return, having acted entirely
from principle.’

‘I’m
sorry I didn’t know you were an artist,’ said Widmerpool.

There
was silence. Tokenhouse blew his nose. Glober returned to the question of
buying a picture himself.

‘Then
I take it you will sell one, Mr Tokenhouse?’

‘I
see no reason why not, no reason at all.’