Anthony Powell - Temporary Kings

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.’