Anthony Powell - Hearing Secret Harmonies

‘As a matter of fact he’s not an author, though I believe he’s writing a book. He’s called Lord Widmerpool.’

‘Not the Lord Widmerpool?’

‘There’s only one, so far as I know.’

‘But I’ve seen him on television. He didn’t look like that.’

‘Perhaps he was well made-up. In any case he’s said to have changed a good deal lately. I haven’t seen him for a long time myself. He’s certainly changed since I last saw him.’

Her bewilderment was understandable.

‘Are the girls his daughters?’

‘No — he’s never had any children.’

‘Who are they then? They look rather sweet. Are they twins? I love their wearing dirty old jeans at this party.’

‘They’re the twin daughters of J. G. Quiggin, the publisher, and his novelist wife, Ada Leintwardine. Their parents are sitting over there at the table opposite. J. G. Quiggin’s the bald man, helping himself to vegetables, his wife the lady with her hair piled up rather high.’

‘I believe I’ve read something by Ada Leintwardine — The Bitch — The Bitches — something like that. I know bitches came into the title.’

‘ The Bitch Pack meets on Wednesday .’

‘That’s it. I don’t remember much about it. Are the girls with Lord Widmerpool, or are they just joining their parents?’

‘They’re with him.’

‘Are they his girlfriends?’

The party was evidently coming up to expectations.

‘He’s chancellor of their university. They threw paint over him last summer. I don’t know how close the relationship is apart from that.’

‘Those two little things threw paint over him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Didn’t he mind?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘And now they’re all friends?’

‘That’s what it looks like.’

‘What do you think about the Permissive Society?’

Widmerpool had entered the dining-room with the air of Stonewall Jackson riding into Frederick, that is to say glaring round, as if on the alert for flags representing the Wrong Side. Amanda and Belinda, apart from looking as ready for a square meal as the rebel horde itself seemed otherwise less sure of their ground, sullen, even rather hangdog. Their getup, admired by my neighbour, was identical. As companions for Widmerpool they belonged, broadly speaking, to the tradition of Gypsy Jones, so far as physical appearance was concerned. (A couple of lines had announced, not long before, the death of ‘Lady Craggs, widow of Sir Howard Craggs, suddenly in Czechoslovakia’; and I had made up my mind to ask Bagshaw, when next seen, if he knew anything of Gypsy’s end.) This Gypsy Jones resemblance gave a certain authenticity to the twins’ Widmerpool connexion. Their bearing that evening, on the other hand, had none of her aggressive self-confidence. It more approximated to that of Baby Wentworth (also deceased the previous year, at Montego Bay, having just married a relatively rich Greek), when, as his discontented mistress, Baby entered a room in the company of Sir Magnus Donners. In the case of the Quiggin twins, as Delavacquerie had observed, sexual relations with Widmerpool highly improbable, the girls may have been embarrassed by merely appearing in front of this sort of public as his guests. If so, why did they accompany him? Perhaps there was a small gratifying element of exhibitionism for them too; in that a meeting of true minds. Emily Brightman allowed a murmur to escape her.

‘I hope those young ladies are going to behave.’

Delavacquerie, already on the look out and seeing action required, had risen at once from his seat, when the Widmerpool party came in. Now he led them to the table indicated earlier, where three chairs remained unoccupied. The Donners-Brebner lady lost interest after they disappeared.

‘What do you think about Vietnam?’

Widmerpool and the twins once setded at their table, dinner passed off without further notable incident. Isobel reported later that Gwinnett had given no outward sign of noticing Widmerpool’s arrival. Possibly he had not even penetrated the disguise of the red sweater. That would have been reasonable enough. Alternatively, Gwinnett’s indifference could have been feigned, a line he chose to take, or, quite simply, expression of what he genuinely felt. Neither with Isobel, nor Matilda, did he display any of his occasional bouts of refusing to talk. He had, Isobel said, continued to abstain from alcohol.

‘What do you think of Enoch?’ asked the Donners-Brebner lady.

The time came for speeches. Delavacquerie said his usual short introductory word. He was followed by Members, who settled down to what sounded like the gist of an undelivered lecture on The Novel; English, French, Russian; notably American, in compliment to Gwinnett, and recognition of the American Novel’s influence on Trapnel’s style. Members went on, also at some length, to consider Trapnel as an archetypal figure of our time. The final reference to his own gone-for-ever five pounds was received with much relieved laughter.

‘Was the last speaker a famous writer too?’

‘A famous poet.’

Members seemed owed this description, within the context of the question. Gwinnett followed. He did not speak for long. In fact, without almost impugning the compliment of the award, he could hardly have been more brief. He said that he had admired Trapnel’s work since first reading a short story found in an American magazine, taken immediate steps to discover what else he had written, in due course formed the ambition to write about Trapnel himself. His great regret, Gwinnett said, was never to have met Trapnel in the flesh.

‘I called my book Death’s-head Swordsman , because X. Trapnel’s sword-stick symbolized the way he faced the world. The book’s epigraph — spoken as you will recall, by an actor holding a skull in his hands — emphasizes that Death, as well as Life, can have its beauty.

‘Whether our death be good

Or bad, it is not death, but life that tries.

He lived well: therefore, questionless, well dies.’

Gwinnett stopped. He sat down. The audience, myself included, supposing he was going to elaborate the meaning of the quotation, draw some analogy, waited to clap. Whatever significance he attached to the lines, they remained unexpounded. After the moment of uncertainty some applause was given. Emily Brightman whispered approval.

‘Good, didn’t you think? I impressed on Russell not to be prosy.’

Conversation became general. In a minute or two people would begin to move from their seats — a few were doing so already — and the party break up. I turned over in my mind the question of seeing, or not seeing, Gwinnett, while he remained in England. Now that his work on Trapnel was at an end we had no special tie, although in an odd way I had always felt well disposed towards him, even if his presence imposed a certain strain. The matter was likely to lie in Gwinnett’s hands rather than mine, and in any case, he was only to stay a week. It could be put off until research brought him over here again.

‘In the end we decided against the Bahamas,’ said the director’s lady.

At the far end of the dining-room a guest at one of the tables had begun to talk in an unusually loud voice, probably some author, publisher or reviewer, who had taken too much to drink. There had been enough on supply, scarcely an amount to justify anything spectacular in the way of intoxication. Whoever was responsible for making so much row had probably arrived tipsy, or, during the time available, consumed an exceptional number of pre-dinner drinks. Members, for instance — who put away more than he used — was rather red in the face, no more than that. Conceivably, the noise was simply one of those penetrative conversational voices with devastating carrying power. Then a thumping on the table with a fork or spoon indicated a call for silence. Somebody else wanted to make a speech. There was going to be another unplanned oration, probably on the lines of Alaric Kydd’s tribute to the memory of the homosexual politician, whose biography had received the Prize that year.