Anthony Powell - Temporary Kings

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.’

‘The emigrant ship?’

‘They are a poor family found travelling without a ticket on the vaporetto.’

‘Better still. A souvenir of Venice. That’s fine.’

Glober, certainly aware of Widmerpool’s impatience to speak with Tokenhouse alone, was determined not to be hurried. Tokenhouse, equally recognizing Widmerpool’s claim on him, whatever that was, also showed no scruple about keeping him waiting. He seemed almost to enjoy doing so. Glober enquired about terms. Widmerpool was getting increasingly restive. He fidgeted about. Glober began to argue that the sum Tokenhouse had named as price for his picture was altogether inadequate. A discussion now developed similar to that about paying the restaurant bill. At last Widmerpool could bear it no longer. He interrupted them.

‘I expect you know our mutual friend was unable to come?’

He addressed himself to Tokenhouse, who took no notice of this comment.

‘Our friend is not here,’ Widmerpool repeated.

Although clear we should have to go soon, the strain of waiting for that moment was telling on him. Tokenhouse merely nodded, as much as to say he accepted that as regrettable, though of no great importance.

‘He mentioned when I last saw him he might not be able to undertake the trip this time… Now, about wrappings. It will have to be newspaper. You must not mind it being a not very pro-American journal.’

Tokenhouse laughed quite heartily at his own joke. The all but unprecedented sale of a picture had for the moment quite altered him. He could not be bothered with Widmerpool’s problems, however grave, until the negotiation was completed.

‘It’s all — well — a bit unfortunate,’ said Widmerpool.

‘Ah-ha, it is? I’m sorry … Now, string? Here we are. We’ll have to unknot this. I think it good to have to make use of your hands from time to time. A bourgeois upbringing has given me no aptitude in that direction. I always tie granny knots. There we are. Not a very neat parcel, I fear, but people don’t fuss about that sort of thing in this quarter of Venice. There we are. There we are.’

He handed Glober the picture, enclosed now in several sheets of Unità . Glober took it. Tokenhouse stood back.

‘Luckily my pictures are a manageable size. Patrons of Veronese or Tiepolo would need more than the painter’s morning paper to bring their purchases home wrapped up.’

The name of Tiepolo seemed to cause a moment’s faint embarrassment, not only to Widmerpool, but also, for some reason, to Ada and Glober. In any case, if we did not leave, Widmerpool was soon going to request our withdrawal in so many words. I could recognize the signs. Glober, too, seeing a showdown imminent, and deciding against a head-on clash at that moment, brought matters to a close, shaking hands with Tokenhouse. Tokenhouse saw us to the top of the stairs.