Anthony Powell - Temporary Kings

‘My first visit — and you?’

‘I’m asked from time to time. I’m afraid I’m not at all conversant with the current work of the guest of honour. I never read novels nowadays …’

Possibly thinking that admission, for more than one reason, suggested a too headlong falling-off from what had once been an all embracing intellectual coverage, Truscott corrected himself. He gave one of his winning smiles.

‘That is, you understand, I don’t find much time, with so many things going on — as we all have — of course I fully intend … and naturally…’

I told him what I had heard about Stringham, once his fellow secretary. Truscott showed interest.

‘Very sad. Poor Charles. He was a pleasant companion. One of the nicer people round Donners.’

Thought of his days working for Sir Magnus must have brought Widmerpool to mind; more specifically, as agent of his own sacking from Donners-Brebner. He lowered his voice.

‘Hardly a subject for discussion here, but one cannot help being a little intrigued by the embarrassments, at the moment, of another protégé of Sir Magnus of that period.’

‘What’s going to happen to him?’

By that time, having read the morning paper, I saw what Farebrother meant by speaking of Widmerpool’s position as insecure. Truscott certainly thought the same. He coughed, in a semi-official manner.

‘I should expect various enquiries of a — well, not exactly public nature — not immediately public, I mean — likely to be set on foot.’

‘You think it pretty serious?’

‘That would certainly be …’

‘Might come to a trial?’

‘One cannot tell. I — ’

Massive middle-aged waitresses had been bustling about the room, snapping out a sharp commentary to each other in their own language, as they clattered with the plates. Now, one of them interposed a large dish of fish between Truscott and myself, severing our connexion. At the same moment, my Russian neighbour began a conversation. Soon, by natural processes, we were discussing Russian writers. After Lermontov and Pushkin, Gogol and Gontcharov, Tchekov and Tolstoy, Dostoevsky’s name cropped up. Pennistone — who would never allow intellectual standards to be lowered, just because he was in the army, a war on — had complained that, when he spoke of Dostoevsky’s Grand Inquisitor to General Lebedev, the Soviet military attaché (unconvincing as a regular soldier) had recommended Nekrasov’s truer picture of Russian life. In short, Dostoevsky, impossible to ignore, equally impossible to assimilate into Communist life, a monolithic embarrassment to his countrymen, was a tendentious subject for the present luncheon party, however unequivocally political the tradition of the Russian novel. Remembering Trapnel once speculated on the meaning of the surname ‘Karamazov’, I put the question.

‘Am I right in thinking “kara” has some implication of blackness? The former Serbian royal house, Karageorgevitch, was not that founded by Black George? But ‘‘mazov “? How would that be translated into English?’

My Russian neighbour laughed. He seemed very willing that a Dostoevskian commentary should move into etymological channels, away from potentially political ones. The idea of giving The Brothers an English surname pleased him.

‘I shall consult a colleague.’

He spoke quickly in his own language across the table. There was a short discussion. He returned to me.

‘He says “kara” means “black” in Turkish. There is a Russian adjective “chernomazy” — do you say “swarthy”? Then “maz”, it is “grease”, the verb, to smear or to oil. Would that be “varnish” in English?’

Dr Brightman, sitting next to the informant on the other side of the table, was not to be left out of a discussion of this nature. She showed interest at once.

‘ The Brothers Blackvarnish ? No, that would hardly do, I think. We must find something better than that.’

She shook her head, giving the matter her full attention.

‘How would The Blacklacquer Brothers be?’

We discussed the question. While we did so, I reflected how this was all based on Trapnel’s meditation on the meaning of the name, his argument with Bagshaw in that dreary pub came back, Trapnel’s contention that there was no such thing as Naturalism in novel writing, one of his favourite themes.

‘Reading novels needs almost as much talent as writing them,’ he used to say.

The occasion had been just before Bagshaw and I had taken him home, on the way found that Pamela had thrown his manuscript into the Regent Canal. Trapnel had said something else that evening too. Now the words came back, in the way spoken words do, with quite a new meaning.

‘Call Hemingway’s impotent good guy naturalistic? Think of what Dostoevsky would have made of him? After all, Dostoevsky did deal with an impotent good guy in love with a bitch.’

Was that the answer? Was he a good guy? Was he in love? Was the condition only released by Death? The train of thought was interrupted by Dr Brightman offering a new suggestion.

‘Simply making use of the connexion with linseed oil — The Linseed Brothers ?’

‘That omits the element of blackness, of darkness, which obviously broods over the story, and must be conveyed by the name.’

When it was time to thank for the party, leave, Truscott, who was by then talking with the Ambassador, gave a smile that indicated he had hopes of the very worst for Widmerpool. Coming down the steps of the Embassy, I found myself with the Quiggins. We walked along Kensington Palace Gardens together, moving south towards the High Street. I asked Ada if any progress had been made in deciding what was to be Glober’s last great film.

‘Do you mean to say you don’t know? Louis is coming over next month. Everything is arranged.’

‘What’s it to be?’

‘ Match Me Such Marvel , of course. I’m sure it’s going to make a box-office record. I can’t wait.’

‘So Trapnel’s off?’

Ada showed more pity than astonishment.

‘Trapnel?’

‘Glober was going to do a Trapnel film when we were in Venice. Probably a kind of life of Trapnel, with Pamela Widmerpool in the lead. You’d only just begun to make St John Clarke propaganda with him.’

‘He saw at once the St John Clarke novel was a much better idea.’

‘Is Pamela equally happy?’

Quiggin cut in.

‘I’m bored to death with this film of Glober’s. I don’t believe we’re really going to make any money out of it, even if he does it. You never know with these people. Set against Ada’s time writing her own novels, or working in the firm, I’ve always doubted whether it’s worth while.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Ada.

She turned to me again.

‘Do you really not know about Louis deciding on another girl for his leading lady, as well as ditching the Trapnel idea? That was all settled months ago.’

‘Glober found Pamela too much in the end?’

‘He fell for someone else.’

Quiggin continued to show irritation about the film.

‘Do let’s discuss another subject. The food at lunch wasn’t too bad. I’m never sure Caucasian wine suits me. I thought he seemed rather a sulky little man, when I had a word with him through the interpreter.

‘Who’s Glober fallen for now?’

‘Why, Polly Duport, of course. You must live absolutely out of the world not to know that. He saw her in the Hardy film at the Venice Festival. She turned up there herself. It was an instantaneous click.’

‘Didn’t that cause trouble?’

‘With Pam?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t think Pam really cared by then, even if she cared much before. She was already mad about that other American, what was he called — Russell Gwinnett. She still is. Haven’t you heard about what happened at the Bagshaws’?’