Anthony Powell - Temporary Kings

‘He’s arriving today.’

‘In Venice?’

‘Yes.’

This manner of stating Widmerpool’s movements recalled the habit of referring always to ‘him’, rather than using a name. Ada’s question was at least answered.

‘That awful night-flight? I was a wreck when I arrived at four in the morning.’

Pamela laughed derisively.

‘He wasn’t man enough to take the night-flight this time. He’s on a plane as far as Milan, from there by train.’

Ada was persistent.

‘Is he feeling worried then?’

‘Why should he be?’

‘I don’t know. I just wondered. He always has such a lot on his plate, as he himself always says. I must congratulate him on becoming a lord — and you too, darling.’

‘Oh, that?’

‘Aren’t you pleased?’

Pamela did not bother to answer.

‘I’m longing for a talk.’

Pamela did not answer that either. She began to frown again. It did not look as if she herself were longing for a talk at all. Her bearing suggested quite the contrary. In spite of such discouragement, Ada rattled on. She was, after all, used to Pamela and her ways. An affection of simplicity was simply part of Ada’s tactic. She judged, probably rightly, that even if Pamela’s prevailing aspect did not at present show a good disposition towards old acquaintance, that could in due course be overcome.

‘How long are you both staying in Venice?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’ve a story I must tell you.’

Ada lowered her voice. Gwinnett, finished with the Longhis, had proceeded on to examination of the Tiepolo. He was moving steadily in our direction. At any moment now opportunity would be offered for putting him in touch with Pamela. Obligation to effect an introduction, so that he could relate her to his work on Trapnel, was not to be ignored. On the other hand, was this the right moment? From Gwinnett’s point of view the risk was considerable. Head-on presentation might — almost certainly would — result in one of Pamela’s sudden capricious antagonisms, possibly aversion so keen that all further enquiry in her direction would be at an end. Nevertheless, in whatever manner Gwinnett were to approach her, that eventuality had to be faced. There was no way of guarding against their temperaments proving mutually antipathetic. This was as good a chance as likely to occur. In the case of flat refusal to cooperate, he would have to do the best he could. To bring them together in this neutral spot, even if Gwinnett did not, here and now, speak of Trapnel — an awkward subject to broach in the first few seconds after introduction — circumstances would at least allow him to absorb something of Pamela’s personality, useful material for his book he might never secure again, if opportunity were missed. Before I could make up my mind how best to act, Glober, left on his own by Ada’s monopoly of Pamela, Shuckerly’s of Dr Brightman, began to speak of the ceiling again.

‘The way the painter’s contrived to illuminate those locations of dark pigmentation is just great. Dwell on that multi-coloured luminosity of cloud effect. To think I spent twenty-four hours in Jacky’s Palazzo before stepping over to gaze.’

Continuous companionship, with the conversation that brought, was necessary to Glober all the time. His manner made one feel even momentary isolation of himself required ending instantly, if he were not to risk grave nervous strain. His words postponed need for decision about bringing together Gwinnett and Pamela. Gwinnett himself came up at that moment, and started off an enquiry of his own.

‘Do you know the legend depicted up there? It’s not familiar to me.’

Glober, recognizing another American, but taking charge probably more from instinct to speak authoritatively, than because a fellow-countryman had asked the question, stepped in with an answer.

‘We’ve just been told the story by Dr Brightman. It’s a great one.’

He preceded to recapitulate, briefly and proficiently. Gwinnett listened with attention. I did not know whether he recognized Glober, nor, if so, whether he wanted to meet him. His own vague manner almost suggested unawareness that Glober and I had been talking together; that nothing was further from his mind than that Glober should reply to his question. At the same time, one never quite knew with Gwinnett; what he was thinking, how he would behave. That his action in approaching us at that moment was deliberate, premeditated, could not be entirely ruled out.

‘Thanks a lot. That’s an interesting story.’

Gwinnett evidently meant what he said. Although I was aware of hazards incident on introducing to each other nationals of the same country (Americans not least), without carefully reconnoitring the ground, no alternative was offered. I spoke their names, coupled with that of the college where Gwinnett taught English. He smiled faintly when this was done, but with an impassivity that gave nothing away, least of all any hint that he was already conversant with Glober’s reputation. If interested in making this encounter, Gwinnett did not show it, holding his cards to his chest in a manner, to the popular European view, ‘un-American’. Anyway, it was in contrast with Glober’s exuberance, intact from younger days, tempered with that unnoisy manner which so well suited him. There was nothing in the least forced about Glober’s friendliness, none of that sense of inadequacy sometimes noticeable after a gushing approach has lacked basic vitality to sustain its first impact. Glober possessed that inner strength. When he caught Gwinnett’s two hands, the gesture managed to be warm, amusing, not at all reckless or overdone.

‘One of the rarest signatures too,’ he said.

Although he spoke in that quiet way, he might just as well have shouted, from the punch he put into this piece of banter, for, even if complimentary, banter was what it turned out to be. At the time, the bearing was obscure to me, unconnected with Dr Brightman’s reference to the surname’s link with a ‘Signer’ family; though I noted inwardly the odd coincidence of Gwinnett himself speaking ironically of Glober being ‘able to sign his name’. The conjunction of phrase, a mere chance, made Gwinnett’s reply seem the more enigmatic. Later, I wondered whether, in fact, he ever signed his own name without thinking of his ancestor. That was not impossible. At the moment he appeared a little put out, laughing in a deprecatory manner, as he tried to withdraw his fingers from Glober’s grip.

‘I take care my own signature’s a rare one too,’ he said. ‘Anyway on cheques.’

There was a touch of reproof in this rather knockabout rejoinder. Gwinnett was probably flattered too. How much flattered was hard to assess, the incident not immediately explicable, its implications only subsequently revealed. Gwinnett was in any case, so it seemed to me, too good an American to persist, after all that, in his earlier, more distant air; to make absolutely unambiguous a preference for different, less overpowering, modes of address between strangers. There was no question of ‘putting Glober in his place’, an inclination that might easily have emerged in England from a personality of Gwinnett’s type. At the same time, to the extent of showing the smallest spark of exuberance himself, he did not at all retreat from his own chosen position, just keeping a dead level of civility, to which exception could not possibly be taken.

In due course, Dr Brightman explained that, among endorsements of the Declaration of Independence, Button Gwinnett’s signature happened to be much prized among collectors purposing to possess an example of each. In Gwinnett’s light dismissal, as an individual, of Glober’s commendatory teasing, in quite another form, something was reminiscent of Pamela’s neutralization of Ada’s affectionate embrace. Neutralization was the process Gwinnett’s manner often called to mind. Pamela’s exterior, to the uninformed observer, could have been interpreted as hostile. No hostility was present in Gwinnett’s reply, just unspoken announcement of another way of life. If that were hostility, it was to be detected by only the most delicate instrument. Glober himself showed not the smallest awareness of even that antithesis. Constitutionally habituated, simply as a man, to being liked by people, he could have become insensitive to antipathy, unless explicit; alternatively, so intensely conscious of any attitude towards himself short of total surrender, that he was conditioned utterly to conceal any such awareness.