Anthony Powell - Books Do Furnish a Room

‘What do you want?’

‘I can wait, sir.’

This assurance that his own hopes were wholly unimportant, that Youth was prepared to waste valuable time indefinitely while Age span out its senile conference, did not in the least impress Le Bas, too conversant with the ways of boys not to be for ever on his guard.

‘Can’t you find some book?’

‘Sir — the Dictionary of Phrase and Fable .’

‘Brewer’s?’

‘I think so, sir.’

‘You’ve looked on the proper shelf?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Akworth, sir.

Le Bas rose.

‘It will be the worse for you, Akworth, if Brewer turns out to be on the proper shelf.’

I explained to Le Bas why I had come; that it was time to move on to my appointment.

‘Good, good. Excellent. I’m glad we had a — well, a chat. Most fortunate you reminded me of that society of Widmerpool’s. I don’t know why he should think I am specially interested in the Balkans — though now I come to think of it, Templer’s … makes a kind of link. You know, Jenkins, among my former pupils, I should never have guessed Widmerpool would have entered the House of Commons. Fettiplace-Jones, yes — he was another matter.’

Le Bas paused. He had immediately regretted this implied criticism of Widmerpool’s abilities.

‘Of course, they need all sorts and conditions of men to govern the country. Especially these days. Sad about those fellows who were killed. I sometimes think of the number of pupils of mine who lost their lives. Two wars. It adds up. Come along, Akworth.’

The boy smiled, conveying at once apology for disruption of our talk, and his own certainty that its termination must have come as a relief to me. As he hurried off towards one of the shelves, beside which he had piled up a heap of books, he gave the impression that quite a complicated intellectual programme for ragging Le Bas had been planned. Le Bas himself sighed.

‘Goodbye, Jenkins. I hope the school will have acquired a regular librarian by your next visit.’

It was still wet outside, but, by the time my appointment was at an end, the rain had stopped. A damp earthy smell filled the air. The weather was appreciably colder. In spite of that a man in a mackintosh was sitting on the low wall that ran the length of the further side of the street in front of the archway and chapel. It was Widmerpool. He looked in great dejection. I had not seen him since the night at Trapnel’s flat, when he had, so to speak, expressed his confidence in Pamela’s return. Now that had come about. He had prophesied truly. Isobel, about a month before, soon after the destruction of Profiles in String , had pointed out a paragraph in a newspaper listing guests at some public function. The names ‘Mr Kenneth Widmerpool MP and Mrs Widmerpool’ were included. It was just as predicted. In the Governmental reshuffle at the beginning of October Widmerpool had received minor office. In spite of these two matters, both showing himself undoubtedly in the ascendant, he sat lonely and cheerless. I should have been tempted to try and slip by unnoticed, but he saw me, and shouted something. I crossed the road.

‘Congratulations on your new parliamentary job.’

‘Thanks, thanks. What are you doing down here?’

I told him, adding that I had been talking with Le Bas.

‘I ran into him too. I took the opportunity of giving him some account of my Balkan visit. Whatever one may think of Le Bas’s capabilities as a teacher, he is supposedly in charge of the young, and should therefore be put in possession of the correct facts.’

‘How did your trip go?’

‘We hear a lot about what is called an “Iron Curtain”. Where is this “Iron Curtain”, I ask myself? I found no sign. That was what I told Le Bas. You might think him a person to hold reactionary views, but I found that was not at all the case, now that the idea of world revolution has been dropped. By the way, how are you employed since Fission has closed down.

I mentioned various concerns that involved me. Widmerpool showed no embarrassment in mentioning the magazine. He even asked if it were true that Bagshaw had secured a job in television. However, when I enquired why, on such a damp and increasingly cold evening, he should be sitting on the wall, apparently just watching the world go by, he shifted uneasily, stiffening at the question.

‘Pam and I came down for the day.’

He laughed.

‘She’s got a young friend here whom she met somewhere during his holidays, and he invited her to tea. She’s having tea in his room now. I’m waiting for her.’

‘A boy, you mean?’

‘Yes — I suppose you’d call him a boy still.’

‘I meant still at the school?’

‘He was leaving, but stayed on for some reason — to captain some team, I think. Son or nephew of one of the Calthorpes. Do you remember them? Pam thought it would be an amusing jaunt. She insisted I mustn’t spoil the party by coming too. Rather a good joke.’

All the same, he did not look as if he found it specially funny. Blue-grey mist was thickening round us. I had a train to catch. The Widmerpools had come by car. They had no fixed plan about getting back to London. Pamela hated being tied down by too positive arrangements. She was going to pick her husband up hereabouts when the tea-party was over. I thought of what Trapnel had said of her couplings.

‘I must be off.’

‘I don’t believe I ever sent you details about that society I was telling Le Bas about. My secretary will forward them. I received Quiggin & Craggs’s Autumn List recently — their last. There were some interesting titles. Clapham has asked me to continue my association with publishing by joining his board.’

I too had received the list; later heard Quiggin’s comments on it. Sillery’s Garnered at Sunset , unexciting as the selection might be, had been noticed respectfully. Shernmaker, for example, was unexpectedly approving. Sales were not too bad, even if the advance was never recouped. Sillery might be said to have successfully imposed his will in this last fling. So did Ada Leintwardine. I Stopped at a Chemist upset several of the more old-fashioned reviewers who had survived the war, but they admitted a novel-writing career lay ahead of her. Even Evadne Clapham was impressed. In fact, Golden Grime was the last of Evadne Clapham’s books in her former style. Her subsequent manner followed Ada’s. Engine Melody — truncated title of The Pistons of Our Locomotives Sing the Songs of Our Workers — believed to be not too well translated, was by no means ignored, Nathaniel Sheldon’s mention including the phrase ‘muted beauty’. Vernon Gainsborough’s Bronstein: Marxist or Mystagogue? , with seven other books on similar subjects, was favourably noticed in a Times Literary Supplement ‘front’.

‘It’s a real apologia pro vita sua ,’ said Bagshaw. ‘Conversion from Trotskyism expressed in such unqualified terms must have warmed Gypsy’s heart after her reverses.’

The last reference was to Sad Majors . Odo Stevens had dealt effectively with efforts, such as they were, to suppress his book. He had enjoyed exceptional opportunities for knowing about such things. That may have put him at an advantage. As usual, he also had good luck. So far from being inconvenient, the whole matter worked out in his best interests. Having already grasped that he might have done better financially by going to some publisher other than Quiggin & Craggs, he at once recognized that the loss of the two typescripts would give a potent reason for requiring release from his contract. He did not mention the third typescript, which had been all the time in the hands of Rosie Manasch. Rosie had apparently suggested that her former Fleet Street contacts might be useful in exploiting serial possibilities. She was right. Sad Majors was serialized on excellent terms. It was published in book form in the spring.