Anthony Powell - Temporary Kings

Gwinnett was, after all, well able to look after himself. He needed no surveillance, would resent anything of the sort. Besides, from Gwinnett’s point of view, there was something to be said for hearing about Trapnel, while living side by side with Bagshaw. If he decided that to stay with the Bagshaws was convenient to his purpose, he would do so; if not, either refuse, or after brief trial withdraw. That was the situation. In any case, Gwinnett was not concerned with living a life of ease, but — something very different — living the life of Trapnel. To lodge with the Bagshaws would in no way run counter to that ambition, in spite of Trapnel himself never having undergone the experience. He must have done similar things. At that moment a girl, recognizable as sister of Avril, probably a year or so older, came into the room. She took no notice of us, but knelt down, and began hunting about in the bookcase. She, too, was fairly good-looking.

‘What do you want, Felicity?’

‘A book.’

‘This is Mr Jenkins.’

‘Hullo,’ she said, without turning round.

‘Where’s Stella?’ asked Bagshaw.

‘God knows.’

She found her book, and went away, slamming the door after her. Bagshaw grimaced at the noise.

‘That one’s rather a worry too. Young people are nowadays. It’s either Regan or Goneril. Look here, have you seen this? Only one paper reported the item.’

He searched about among the assortment of journals lying on the floor, indicating a short paragraph on the foreign news page, when he found the special one he wanted. Its subject was a recent state trial in one of the countries of Eastern Europe, action somewhat unexpected in an atmosphere, in general, of relaxed international tension. Representatives of an outgoing Government had been expelled from the Party, and a former police minister, with one or two others, imprisoned by the new administration taking over. No great prominence was being given by the London press to these proceedings, which appeared to be of a fairly stereotyped order in the People’s Republic concerned. That morning a modest headline in my own paper had drawn attention to allegations that some of the accused had been in the pay of the British Secret Service. The three or four persons named as having set out to corrupt members of the fallen Government (together with certain officials and ‘intellectuals’) were all British Communists of some public standing, or at least prominent fellow-travellers, malting little or no concealment of their political affiliations; in short, as little likely to be connected with the British Secret Service, as the accused of being in touch with that organization. An additional name, unintelligibly translated, had been put within inverted commas in Bagshaw’s newspaper paragraph.

‘Who is…?’

The row of consonants, unlinked by vowels, was not to be spoken aloud. Bagshaw was quite excited. He was no longer an oppressed family man, nor even a television ‘personality’.

‘Is it one of their own people?’

‘You don’t recognize the name?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Try speaking it.’

On the tongue the syllables were no more significant.

‘An old friend.’

‘Of yours?’

‘Both of us.’

‘A hanger-on of Gypsy’s?’

That was just a shot at possibles.

‘Once, I believe. A Fission connexion.’

‘A foreigner?’

‘Not at all.’

‘You’re not suggesting the name’s “Widmerpool”?’

‘What else could it be?’

‘Denounced as — what amounts to being denounced as a Stalinist?’

‘In fact, a Revisionist, I think.’

‘But — ’

‘I always said he was at the game.’

‘Docs a certain Dr Belkin mean anything to you?’

Among the scores of such names proverbial to Bagshaw, Dr Belkin’s did not figure. That did not alter the conviction Bagshaw had already reached about Widmerpool.

‘There have been some odd stories going round about both the Widmerpools since Ferrand-Sénéschal died.’

Bagshaw was not greatly interested in whatever part Pamela had played. It was the political angle he liked.

‘That woman may have invented the whole tale about herself and Ferrand-Sénéschal. A sexual fantasy. It wouldn’t surprise me at all. The denunciations at the trial are another matter. It’s become a routine process. Nagy in Hungary, earlier in the year. Slansky in Czechoslovakia. I’d like to know just what happened about Widmerpool. He probably didn’t move quite quick enough. Might be a double bluff. You can’t tell. He himself could have felt he needed a little of that sort of attention to build up his reputation as an anti-Communist of the extreme Left. Make people think he’s a safe man, because he’s attacked from the Communist end. Pretend he’s an enemy, when he’s really a close friend.’

Bagshaw rambled on. Time came to leave. I was rather glad to go. The Bagshaw house was on the whole lowering to the spirit. Its other members did not appear again, but, when Bagshaw opened the front door, discordant sounds were still audible from the higher floors, together with the noise of loud hammering in the basement. Bagshaw came down the steps.

‘Well, goodbye. I expect you’re hard at work. I’ve been thinking a lot about Widmerpool. He’s a very interesting political specimen.’

The Venetian trip, contrary to the promises of Mark Members, had not renewed energies for writing. All the same, established priorities, personal continuities, the confused scheme of things making up everyday life, all revived, routines proceeding much as before. The Conference settled down in the mind as a kind of dream, one of those dreams laden with the stuff of real life, stopping just the right side of nightmare, yet leaving disturbing undercurrents to haunt the daytime, clogging sources of imagination — whatever those may be — causing their enigmatic flow to ooze more sluggishly than ever, periodically cease entirely.

Gwinnett showed no sign of arrival in England. In the light of his general behaviour, changing moods, estrangement from social life, distaste for doing things in a humdrum fashion, that was not at all surprising. If still engaged in the unenviable labour of sampling first-hand former Trapnel anchorages, he might well judge that enterprise liable to prejudice from outside contacts. Some writers require complete segregation for getting down to a book. Gwinnett could be one of them. He was, in any case, under no obligation to keep me, or anyone else, informed of his movements. He might quite easily have decided that, so far as I was concerned, any crop of Trapnel memories had been sufficiently harvested by him in Venice. When it comes to recapitulation of what is known of a dead friend, for the benefit of a third party (whether or not writing a biography), remnants transmissible in a form at once lucid, unimpeded by subjective considerations, are astonishingly meagre.

I felt a little concerned by being left with the Commonplace Book on my hands, and would have liked opportunity to return it to Gwinnett. Scrappy, much abbreviated, lacking the usual neatness of Trapnel’s holographs, its contents were not without interest to a professional writer, who had also known Trapnel. The notes gave an idea, quite a good idea, of what the novel destroyed by Pamela might have been like, had it ever been finished. Certain jottings, not always complimentary, had obvious reference to herself. Clearly obsessive, they were not always possible to interpret. If Pamela had her way, a film based on Profiles in String — more likely on Trapnel’s own life — made by Glober, the Commonplace Book could be of assistance.

If Gwinnett wanted to ‘understand’ Trapnel, two aspects emerged, one general, the other peculiar to Trapnel himself. There was the larger question, why writers, with apparent reserves of energy and ideas, after making a good start, collapse, or fizzle out in inferior work. In Trapnel’s case, that might have been inevitable. On the other hand, its consideration as an isolated instance unavoidably led to Pamela. Gwinnett’s approach, not uncommon among biographers, seemed to be to see himself, at greater or lesser range, as projection of his subject. He aimed, anyway to some extent, at reconstructing in himself Trapnel’s life, getting into Trapnel’s skin, ‘becoming’ Trapnel. Accordingly, if, in the profoundest sense, he were to attempt to discover why Trapnel broke down, failed to surmount troubles, after all, not greatly worse than many other writers had borne — and mastered — the inference could not be dodged that Gwinnett himself must have some sort of a love affair with Pamela. So far as he had revealed his plans, Gwinnett appeared to aim at getting into Trapnel’s skin, but not to that extent. In fact everything about Gwinnett suggested that he did not at all intend to have a love affair with Pamela. If he accepted the possibility, he was playing his cards with subtlety, holding them close to his chest. It was, of course, possible something of the sort had already taken place. Instinctively, one felt that had not happened.