Anthony Powell - Books Do Furnish a Room

Widmerpool’s demeanour gave no impression of having emerged from a trying domestic experience, though it could be argued the truth had been kept from him. Not long before, a speech of his in a parliamentary debate on the reduction of interest rates had been the subject of satirical comment in a Daily Telegraph leader, but, at the stage of public life he had reached, no doubt any mention in print was better than none. Certainly he appeared well satisfied with himself, clapping Craggs on the back, and giving an amicable greeting to Gypsy, with whom he must have established some sort of satisfactory adjustment. The article he had written for Fission had been called Affirmative Action and Negative Values . Stevens came over to talk.

‘Did you notice Pam’s lack of recognition? Her all over. What the hell’s she doing here?’

He laughed heartily.

‘Her husband’s part of the Quiggin & Craggs set-up. Why did you hit on them for your book?’

‘My agent thought they’d be the right sort of firm, as I was operating with the Commies most of the time I was in the Balkans. The publishers have only seen a bit of it. It’s not finished yet. Will be soon. I’m spreading culture with Mark Members at the moment, but I hope to get out of an office — if the book sells, and it will.’

‘All about being “dropped”?’

‘A murder or two. Some rather spicy political revelations. One of the former incidents mucked up my affairs rather — lost me a DSO.’

‘What did you haul in finally?’

‘MC and bar, also one of the local gongs from the new regime. Don’t know yet whether I’ll be permitted to put it up. I shall anyway.’

‘When did you get out of the army?’

‘It was rather premature. I was never much of a hand at regimental life, even though I wasn’t sure at one moment I wouldn’t take up soldiering as a trade. So many temptations in Germany. The Colonel didn’t behave too badly, but in the end he said I’d have to go. I agreed, so far as it went. I scrounged round for a bit selling space and little articles, then got myself fixed up in this culture-toting outfit. At the moment I’m in liaison with Mark Members and his conference project. I hear you’re doing the books on this mag. What about some reviewing for Odo?’

‘Why not, Odo? Why should you be the only man in England who’s not going to review for Fission ?’

‘Who’s the small dark lady talking to Sir Howard Craggs?’

‘Rosie Manasch. She too has an interest in the mag.’

‘Rather attractive. I think I’ll meet her.’

The war had washed ashore all sorts of wrack of sea, on all sorts of coasts. In due course, as the waves receded, much of this flotsam was to be refloated, a process to continue for several years, while the winds abated. Among the many individual bodies sprawled at intervals on the shingle, quite a lot resisted the receding tide. Some just carried on life where they were on the shore; others — the more determined — crawled inland. Stevens belonged to the latter category. He knew where his future lay.

‘Any books you can spare. Army matters, travel, jewellery — as you know, I’m interested in verse too. HQ, my cultural boys, always finds me.’

He strolled away. Widmerpool appeared.

‘I’ve been having a lot to do with your relations lately. It turned out your late brother-in-law was on bad terms with the family solicitor. I’ve managed to arrange that some of the work should be transferred to Turnbull, Welford & Puckering — my old firm, you remember I started the struggle for existence in Lincoln’s Inn — has the advantage of my being able to keep a weather eye on things from time to time. The Quiggin & Craggs interests will need a certain amount of attention. Hugo Tolland tells me he did not at all mind Mrs George Tolland giving birth to a son — one Jeremy, I understand — told me he was far from anxious to inherit responsibilities, myriad these days, of becoming head of the family. Titles are a survival one must deplore, but they can be a worry, as Howard Craggs was remarking last week. I see Hugo Tolland’s point. He is a sensible young man, in spite of what at first appears a foolish manner. I understand that, as mother of the little earl, Mrs George Tolland — who has two children of her own by an earlier marriage — is going to live in the wing of Thrubworth Park formerly occupied by the late Lord Warminster. Modest premises in themselves, and a good idea. Lady Blanche Tolland is to remain there as before. An excellent arrangement for one of her retiring nature. I talked to her, and greatly approved what she had to say for herself.’

Abandoning for a moment the intense pleasure people find in explaining in detail to someone the characteristics and doings of their own relations, he paused and glanced round the room. This could have been a routine survey to be taken wisely at regular intervals with the object of keeping check on his wife’s doings. She was at that particular moment revealed as listening to some sort of a harangue being given by a dark bespectacled personage in his thirties, whom I recognized as Werner Guggenbühl, now Vernon Gainsborough. There could be no doubt there was a look of Siegfried. Widmerpool marked them down.

‘I see Pam’s got caught up with Gainsborough. I don’t know whether you’ve come across him? He’s a German — a “good” German — a close friend of Lady Craggs, as a matter of fact. They go about a lot together. I’m giving away no secret. Craggs, very sensibly, takes an understanding view. He is a man of the world, though you might never guess that to look at him. Gainsborough is not a bad fellow. A little pedantic.’

‘He used to be a Trotskyist.’

‘No longer, I think. In any case I disapprove of witch-hunting. He stands, of course, considerably to the left of centre. I am not sure he is quite the sort of person Pam likes — she is easily bored — so perhaps it would be wise to come to her rescue.’

He gave the impression that Gainsborough’s relationship with Gypsy, however little Craggs might resent it, and however ‘good’ a German he might be, was not one to recommend sustained conversation with a wife like his own. Widmerpool was about to move off and break up the tête-à-tête. However, Trapnel came up at that moment. Rather to my surprise, he addressed himself to Widmerpool with a formal cordiality not at all like his usual manner. It looked as if he were playing one of his roles, a habit now becoming familiar.

‘It’s Mr Widmerpool, isn’t it? Do forgive my introducing myself. My name’s X. Trapnel. I’m a writer. JG was talking about you the other day. He said you were one of the few MPs who are trying to make the Government get a move on. I do hope you’ll do something about the laws defining certain kinds of writing as obscene, when it’s nothing of the sort. They really ought to be looked into. As a writer I can speak. You won’t have heard of me, but I’m published by Quiggin & Craggs. I’ve a short story in this opening number of Fission .’

‘Of course, of course.’

It was not possible to judge how far Widmerpool had taken in Trapnel’s identity. I was at a loss to understand the meaning of this move. Trapnel continued to speak his piece.

‘I don’t want to bother you, just to say this. It looks as if there might be a danger of their bringing a case against Alaric Kydd’s Sweetskin . I haven’t read it, of course, because it isn’t out yet — but we don’t want JG put inside just because some liverish judge happens to take a dislike to Kydd’s work.’

Widmerpool, if rather taken aback at being appealed to in this manner, was at the same time not unflattered to be regarded as the natural protector of publishers, now that he was in a sense a publisher himself. The manoeuvre was quite uncharacteristic of Trapnel. Like most writers in favour of abolishing current restrictions, such as they were, he was not so far as I knew specially interested in the question of ‘censorship’. Trapnel’s writing was not of the sort to be greatly affected by prohibitions of language or subject matter. He was competent to express whatever he wanted in an oblique manner. At the same time, he might well feel that, if obliquity in the context were less concordant than bluntness, it was absurd for bluntness to be forbidden by law. Language was a matter of taste. It looked as if the theme of censorship had been evoked on the spur of the moment as a medium convenient for making himself known to Widmerpool. Although Trapnel’s appearance was of a kind to which he was unused, Widmerpool showed himself equal to the challenge.