Temporary Kings (14 page)

‘So
I told Bernard he was just like the lame boy in the Pied Piper, getting left
behind as a critic, whenever a fashionable tune was played. I clinched my
argument by using a word he didn’t know – allotropic – a variation of
properties that doesn’t change the substance. My dear, the poor man was
completely crushed.’

That
seemed the term for Glober and Gwinnett, at least how they looked to one across
the abyss of uncertainty that precluded definition, with any subtlety, of
American types and ways. Meanwhile, the question of whether or not to introduce
Gwinnett to Pamela, without saying some preliminary word first, was becoming
more urgent than ever. Thinking about allotropy was no help. Then all at once,
in a flash, the problem was solved, the Gordian Knot cut, possibly in interplay
of that allotropic element. Personal responsibility was all at once removed.
Glober, taking Gwinnett by the arm, broke in between Pamela and Ada.

‘I
want you to meet Professor Gwinnett, Pam. This is Lady Widmerpool, who’s
stopping in the Palazzo.’

Why
Glober did that I could not guess at the time, have never since quite decided.
The step may have been due to a compulsive, all-embracing need to arrange, in a
manner satisfactory to himself, everyone within orbit – creating an instant
court, as Dr Brightman might have said – the spirit in Glober that brought
together the Mopsy Pontner dinner party. He may, on the other hand, having
favourably marked down Ada, grasped that the simplest way to talk with her for
a minute or two would be to occupy Pamela with Gwinnett. Alternatively, the
consigning of Gwinnett to Pamela might have appealed to him as a delicate
revenge for Gwinnett’s latent superciliousness, at least refusal to fall in
more amicably with Glober’s own more effusive mood. To introduce Gwinnett to
Pamela was as likely as not to cause a clash. That clash might be what Glober
wished, not necessarily in a mood of retaliation, but with the object of
bringing the two of them together for the spectacle, the sheer fun, mildly
sadistic, of watching what was likely to be a ‘scene’ – any scene – in which
Pamela was involved. What he certainly did not know was that Gwinnett’s highest
ambition at that moment was just what had taken place through Glober’s own
instrumentality.

If
Glober sought drama, he was disappointed. At least he was disappointed if he
wanted fireworks in the form of violent opposition or bad temper. In another
sense – for anyone who knew the stakes for which Gwinnett was playing – the
reception he received was intensely dramatic, more so than any brush-off could
have been, however defiant. The mere fact that Gwinnett himself, not Pamela,
took the offensive was in itself impressive.

‘I’d
hoped very much to meet you while I was in Venice, Lady Widmerpool. I didn’t
know I’d have this luck.’

He
spoke very simply. Pamela gave him one of her blank stares. She did not speak.
At that stage of their meeting it looked as if Gwinnett were going to get, if
nothing worse, a characteristic rejection. She allowed him to take her hand,
withdrawing it quickly.

‘I’m
writing a book on X. Trapnel,’ Gwinnett said.

He
paused. This frontal attack, taking over an active role, thrusting Pamela even
momentarily into the passive, suggested something of Gwinnett’s potential. He
said the words quietly, quite a different quietness from Glober’s, though
suggesting something of the same muted strength. They were spoken almost
casually, a statement just given for information, no more, before going on to
speak of other things. There was no question of blurting out in an uncontrolled
manner the nature of his ‘project’, what he wanted for it from her. To use such
a tone was to tackle the approach in an effective, possibly the only effective,
manner. It exhibited a fine appreciation of the fact that to gain Pamela’s
cooperation with regard to the biography was a matter of now or never. He must
sink or swim. Gwinnett undoubtedly saw that. I admired him for attempting no
compromise. There was again a parallel between Gwinnett’s tone with Pamela, and
the way he had replied to Glober, the one conveying only the merest atom of
overt friendliness, just as the other conveyed possibly the reverse, difference
between the two almost imperceptible. While this had been taking place, Glober
had transferred his attention to Ada. They were chattering away together as if
friends for years.

‘I
think you knew him,’ said Gwinnett. ‘Trapnel, I mean.’

Pamela,
who had as usual registered no immediate outward reaction to his first
statement, still remained silent. Gwinnett was silent too. In that, he showed
his strength. After making the initial announcement of his position, he made no
effort to develop the situation. They stood looking at each other. There was a
long pause during which one felt anything might happen: Pamela walk away: burst
out laughing: overwhelm Gwinnett with abuse: strike him in the face. After what
seemed several minutes, but could only have been a second or two, Pamela spoke.
Her voice was low.

‘Poor
X,’ she said.

She
sounded deeply moved, not far from tears. Gwinnett inclined his head a little.
That movement was no more than a quiver, quick, awkward, at the same time
reverential in its way, wholly without affectation. He too seemed to feel
strong emotion. Something had been achieved between them.

‘Yes
– Trapnel wasn’t always a lucky guy it seems.’

Now,
it had become Trapnel’s turn to join the dynasty of Pamela’s dead lovers.
Emotional warmth in her was directed only towards the dead, men who had played
some part in her life, but were no more there to do so. That was how it looked.
The first time we had ever talked together, she had described herself as ‘close’
to her uncle, Charles Stringham, almost suggesting a sexual relationship.
Stringham’s circumstances made nothing more unlikely, in any physical form,
although, in the last resort, close relationship of a sexual kind does not
perhaps necessarily require such expression, something even undesired, except
in infinitely sublimated shape. When, for example, Pamela had been racketing
round during the war, with all sorts of lovers, from all sorts of nations, she
had refused to give herself to Peter Templer (in his own words ‘mad about her’);
after he was killed calling him the ‘nicest man I ever knew’.

Trapnel,
whose rapid declension as a writer had been substantially accelerated by Pamela’s
own efforts, notably destruction of his manuscript, was now to be
rehabilitated, memorialized, placed in historical perspective, among those
loves with whom, but for unhappy chance, all might have been well. It was Death
she liked. Mrs Erdleigh had hinted as much on the night of the flying-bombs.
Would Gwinnett be able to offer her Death? At least, in managing to catch and
hold the frail line cast to him, he had not made a bad beginning. There was
hope for his book. Glober, after instigating the Gwinnett/Pamela conversation,
must now have decided to put an end to it, having said all he wanted to say to
Ada. Seeing out of the corner of his eye that Gwinnett’s communion with Pamela
produced no immediately lively incident, he may have judged it better to cut it
short. Pamela herself anticipated anything he might be about to say.

‘Why
didn’t you explain at first Professor Gwinnett was the man you need for the
Trapnel film?’

Glober
was not quite prepared for that question. It opened up a new subject. Pamela
turned to Gwinnett again.

‘Louis
wants to make a last film. I’ve told him it’s to be based on the Trapnel novel
that got destroyed. X himself said there was a film there. I’ve been telling
Louis the best parts of the book, which I remember absolutely. He’s not very
quick about taking facts in, but he’s got round to this as a proposition.’

Glober
smiled, but made no effort to elaborate the subject put forward.

‘Naturally
I never read the last novel,’ said Gwinnett. ‘Did it have close bearing on
Trapnel’s own life.’

‘Of
course.’

Circumstances
came to Glober’s aid at that moment, in the manner they do with persons of
adventurous temperament put in momentary difficulty. He brought an abrupt end
to the matter being discussed by jerking his head towards the far side of the
room.

‘Here’s
Baby – with your husband.’

Two
persons, without much ceremony, were forcing a channel between the dense
accumulation of intellectuals, pottering about or gazing upward. One of these
new arrivals was Widmerpool, the other a smartly dressed woman of about the
same age-group. Widmerpool was undoubtedly seeking his wife. Even at a distance,
symptoms of that condition were easily recognizable. They were a little
different, a little more agitated, than any of his other outward displays of
personal disturbance. As he pushed his way through the crowd, he had the look
of a man who had not slept for several nights. No doubt the journey, even by
train, had been tiring, but hardly trying enough to cause such an expression of
worried annoyance, irritation merging into fear.

Thinner
than in his younger days, Widmerpool was less bald than Glober, even if such
hair as remained was sparse and grizzled. Rather absurdly, I was a little taken
aback by this elderly appearance, physical changes in persons known for a long
time always causing a certain inner uneasiness – Umfraville’s sense of being
let down by the rapidity with which friends and acquaintances decay, once the
process has begun. Widmerpool’s air of discomfort was by no means decreased by
the heavy texture, in spite of the hot weather, of the dark suit he wore. Built
for him when more bulky, it hung about his body in loose folds, like clothes on
a scarecrow. He seemed to have come straight from the City; having regard to
recent elevation in rank, more probably the House of Lords.

The
woman with him was Baby Wentworth – or whatever she was now called. When last
heard of, she had been married to an Italian. I remembered her beauty, sly
look, short curly hair, thirty years before, when, supposedly mistress of Sir
Magnus Donners, she had also been pursued, at different levels, by both Prince
Theodoric and Barnby. Now in her fifties, Baby had not at all lost her smart
appearance – she too wore trousers – but, if she looked less than her age, her
features also registered considerable ups and downs of fortune. She made
towards Glober, abandoned again by Pamela who had resumed talk with Gwinnett.
Widmerpool went straight for his wife, inserting himself without apology
between her and Gwinnett, in order to reduce delay in speaking to a minimum.

‘Pam
– I want a word in private at once.’

Gwinnett
took a step back to allow Widmerpool easier passage. No doubt he guessed the
relationship. Pamela, on the other hand, showed not the least recognition of
the fact that her husband had just arrived. She took no notice of him
whatsoever. Instead of offering any facility for speech, she quickly moved
sideways and forward, again decreasing distance between Gwinnett and herself,
blocking Widmerpool’s way, so that she could continue a conversation, which, so
far as could be judged, was going relatively well.

‘Pam…’

Pamela
threw him a glance. Her manner suggested that a man – a very unprepossessing
man at that – was trying to pick her up in a public place; some uncouth
sightseer, not even a member of the Conference, having gained access to the
Palazzo because the door was open, was now going round accosting ladies
encountered there. Widmerpool persisted.

‘You
must come with me. It’s urgent.’

She
answered now without turning her head.

‘Do
go away. I heard you the first time. Can’t you take a hint? I’m being shown
round the house by Louis Glober. You knew he was going to be staying with
Jacky. At the moment I’m talking about a rather important matter to Professor
Gwinnett.’

Widmerpool’s
reaction to this treatment was complex. On the one hand, he was obviously not
at all surprised by blank refusal to cooperate; on the other, he could not be
said to have received that refusal with anything like indifference. He paused
for a moment, apparently analysing means of forcing his wife to obey; then he
must have decided against any such attempt. His expression suggested the
existence of one or two tricks up his sleeve, to be played when they were alone
together. He was about to move away, return from wherever he had come, but,
catching sight of me, stopped and nodded. Recognition evidently suggested more
to him than the fact that we had not met since the night of the Election party.
He went straight to the point, his manner confirming existence of some problem
on his mind desperate to solve.

‘Nicholas,
how are you? Staying with Jacky Bragadin? No – then you are almost certainly a
member of this Conference going round? That is what I expected. Just the man I
want to talk to.’

‘Congratulations
on the peerage.’

‘Ah,
yes. Thank you very much. Not very contemporary, such a designation sounds
today, but it has its advantages. I didn’t want to leave the Commons, no one
less. 1955 may have been a moral victory – several of my constituents described
my campaign as a greater
personal
triumph than the previous poll, when I was returned – but past efforts were
forgotten in a fight that was not always a clean one. As I still have a lot of
work in me, the Upper Chamber, so long as it hangs on, seemed as good a place
to do that work as any other. As it happens, my normal activities are rather
impeded at the moment by a number of irksome matters, indeed one domestic
tragedy, since my mother passed away only a few days ago at her cottage in
Kirkcudbrightshire, which she always spoke of as an ideal home for her
declining years. She had reached a ripe age, so that the end was not
unexpected. Unfortunately, it was quite impossible for me to make a journey as
far as Scotland at this particular moment. I could not attempt it. At the same
time, it was painful to leave a matter like my mother’s burial in the hands of
a secretary, competent as my own secretary happens to be. Something a little
over and above routine competence is required at such a moment. None the less,
that was what had to be done. I couldn’t be in Kirkcudbrightshire and Venice at
the same time, and, little as I like the place, I had to come to Venice.’