Anthony Powell - A Question of Upbringing

Stringham had been due to come into residence the same term as myself, but he was thrown from a horse a day or two before his intended return to England, and consequently laid up for several months. As a result of the accident, he did not appear at his college until the summer when he took against the place at once. He could scarce be persuaded to visit other undergraduates, except one two that he had known at school, and he used to spend hours together sitting in his room, reading detective stork and complaining that he was bored. He had been given small car by his mother and we would sometimes drive round the country together, looking at churches or visiting pubs.

On the whole he had enjoyed Kenya. When I told him about Peter Templer and Gwen McReith — an anecdote that seemed to me of oustanding significance — he said: “Oh, well, that sort of thing is not as difficult as all that,” and he proceeded to describe a somewhat similar incident, in which, after a party, he had spent the night with the divorced wife of a coffee planter in Nairobi. In spite of Madame Dubuisson, this story made me feel very inexperienced. I described Suzette to him, but did not mention Jean Templer.

“There is absolutely nothing in it,” Stringham said. “It is just a question of keeping one’s head.”

He was more interested in what I had to report about Widmerpool, laughing a lot over Widmerpool’s horror on hearing the whole truth of Le Bas’s arrest. The narrative of the Scandinavians’ quarrel struck him only on account of the oddness of the tennis court on which we had been playing the set. This surprised me, because the incident had seemed of the kind to appeal to him. He had, however, changed a little in the year or more that had passed since I had seen him; and, although the artificial categories of school life were now removed, I felt for the first time that the few months between us made him appreciably older than myself. There was also the question of money — perhaps suggested by Widmerpool’s talk on that subject — that mysterious entity, of which one had heard so much and so often without grasping more than that its ownership was desirable and its lack inconvenient: heard of, certainly, without appreciating that its possession can become as much part of someone as the nose on the face. Even Uncle Giles’s untiring contortions before the altar of the Trust, when considered in this light, now began to appear less grotesque formerly; and I realised at last, with great clearness, that a sum like one hundred and eighty pounds a year might indeed be worth the pains of prolonged and acrimonious negotiation. Stringham was, in fact, not substantially richer than most undergraduates of his sort, and, being decidedly free with his money, was usually hard-up, but from the foothills of his background was, now and then, wafted the disturbing, aromatic perfume of gold, the scent which, even at this early stage in our lives, could sometimes be observed to act intoxicatingly on chance acquaintances; whose unexpected perseverance, and determination not to take offence, were a reminder that Stringham’s mother was what Widmerpool had described as “immensely wealthy.”

Peter Templer, as I have said, rarely wrote letters, so that we had, to some extent, lost touch with him. Left to himself there could be little doubt that he would, in Stringham’s phrase, “relapse into primeval barbarism.” Stringham often spoke of him, and used to talk, almost with regret, of the adventures they had shared at school: already, as it were, beginning to live in the past. Some inward metamorphosis was no doubt the cause of Stringham’s melancholia, because his attacks of gloom, although qualified by fairly frequent outbursts of high spirits, could almost be given that name. There was never a moment when he became reconciled to the life going on round him. “The buildings are nice,” he used to say. “But not the undergraduates.”

“What do you expect undergraduates to be like?”

“Keep bull-pups and drink brandies-and-soda. They won’t do as they are.”

“Your sort sound even worse.”

“Anyway, what can one do here? I am seriously thinking of running away and joining the Foreign Legion or the North-West Mounted Police — whichever work the shorter hours.”.

“It is the climate.”

“One feels awful if one drinks, and worse if one’s sober. I knew Buster’s picture of the jolly old varsity was not to be trusted. After all he never tried it himself.”

“How is he?”

“Doing his best to persuade my mother to let Glimber to an Armenian,” said Stringham, and speaking with perhaps slightly more seriousness: “You know, Tuffy was very much against my coming up.”

“What on earth did it have to do with her?”

“She takes a friendly interest in me,” said Stringham, laughing. “She behaved rather well when I was in Kenya as a matter of fact. Used to send me books, and odds and ends of gossip, and all that sort of thing. One appreciates that in the wide open spaces. She is not a bad old girl. Many worse.”

He was always a trifle on the defensive about Miss Weedon. I had begun to understand that his life at home was subject to exterior forces like Buster’s disapproval, or Miss Weedon’s regard, which brought elements of uncertainty and discord into his family life, not only accepted by him, but almost enjoyed. He went on: “There has been talk of my staying here only a couple of years and going into the Foot Guards. You know there is some sort of arrangement now for entering the army through the university. That was really my mother’s idea.”

“What does Miss Weedon think?”

“She favours coming to London and having a good time. I am rather with her there. The Household Cavalry has been suggested, too. One is said — for some reason — to ‘have a good time in The Tins’.”

“And Buster’s view?”

“He would like me to remain here as long as possible — four years, post-graduate course, research fellowship, anything so long as I stay away — since I shattered his dream that I might settle in Kenya.” It was after one of these conversations in which he had complained of the uneventfulness of his day that I suggested that we should drop in on Sillery.

“What is Sillery?”

I repeated some of Short’s description of Sillery, adding a few comments of my own.

“Oh, yes,” said Stringham. “I remember about him now. Well, I suppose one can try everything once.”

We were, as it happened, first to arrive at that particular party. Sillery, who had just finished writing a pile of letters, the top one of which, I could not avoid seeing, was addressed to a Cabinet Minister, was evidently delighted to have an opportunity to work over Stringham, whom he recognised immediately on hearing the name.

“How is your mother?” he said, “Do you know, I have not seen her since the private view of the Royal Academy in 1914. No, I believe we met later at a party given by Mrs. Hwfa Williams, if my memory serves me.”

He continued with a stream of questions, and for once Stringham, who had shown little interest in coming to the party, seemed quite taken aback by Sillery’s apparent familiarity with his circumstances.

“And your father?” said Sillery, grinning, as if in spite of himself, under his huge moustache. “Pretty well.”

“You were staying with him in Kenya?”

“For a few months.”

“The climate suits him all right?”

“I think so.”

“That height above sea-level is hard on the blood-pressure,” Sillery said; “but your father is unexpectedly strong in spite of his light build. Does that shrapnel wound of his ever give trouble?”

“He feels it in thundery weather.”

“He must take care of it,” said Sillery. “Or he will find himself on his back for a time, as he did after that spill on the Cresta. Has he run across Dicky Umfraville yet?”