Anthony Powell - A Question of Upbringing

If Bill Truscott’s arrival in the room made a fairly notable impression on myself, chiefly on account of the glowing picture Short had drawn of his charm and brilliance, the rest of Sillery’s party treated Truscott, if possible, with even closer attention. Members moved unobtrusively from the floor to a chair, and Quiggin, one of the legs of whose trousers had rucked up, revealing long hirsute pants of grey material, pulled the end of his trouser down towards a black sock, and sat more upright on the sofa. Both he and Members evidently felt that the opportunity had now arrived for Sillery’s disclosure regarding the adjacency of their respective homes to be forgotten in discussion of more important matters. Stringham turned out to know Truscott already. He said: “Hallo, Bill,” and for a minute or two they spoke of some party in London where they had met a month or two before.

“You must tell us about the polite world, Bill,” said Sillery, perching on the side of Truscott’s chair and slipping an arm round his shoulder. “Fancy the hostesses allowing you to steal away from their clutches and drop in to visit us here.”

Sillery made this remark gently, through his teeth, so that it was not easy to say whether he intended a compliment, an enquiry, or even an expression of disparagement of the fact that Truscott could spare time for dons and undergraduates at this stage of the Season; when a career had still to be carved out. Truscott certainly accepted the words as tribute to his popularity, and he threw his head back with a hearty laugh to express how great a relief it was for him to escape, even for a short period, from the world of hostesses thus somewhat terrifyingly pictured by Sillery: though he was, at the same time, no doubt aware that a more detailed explanation was required of him to show conclusively that his appearance in the university was due to nothing so ominous as lacking something better to do. “I have really come on business, Sillers,” he said.

“Indeed?”

“I saw no reason why I should not combine business with pleasure, Sillers. As you know, Pleasure before Business has always been my motto.”

“Pleasure can be so exhausting,” put in Members, fixing Truscott with a winning smile, and thrusting his face forward a little.

However, he seemed a little uncertain, apart from his smile, how best to captivate someone of Truscott’s eminence; though clearly determined to make an impression before the opportunity was past. Truscott, for his part, glanced attentively at Members: an appraisal that seemed to result in the decision that, although outwardly Members had not much to offer that was to Truscott’s taste, there might be elements not to be despised intellectually. Sillery watched their impact with evident interest. He said: “I expect you read Iron Aspidistra , Bill.”

Truscott nodded; but without producing any keen sense of conviction.

“Mark’s poem,” said Sillery, “It received quite a favourable reception.”

“Surrounded as usual by a brilliant circle of young men, Sillers,” said Truscott, laughing loudly again. “To tell you the truth, Sillers, I have come up to look for a young man myself.”

Sillery chuckled, pricking up his ears. Truscott stretched out his legs languidly. There was a pause, and muted laughter from the rest of the guests. Truscott looked round, archly.

“For my boss as a matter of fact,” he said.

He laughed quietly to himself this time, as if that were a good joke. Quiggin, who had been silent all the while, though not unattentive, spoke unexpectedly in his grating voice: “Who is ‘your boss’?” he asked.

I could not help admiring the cool way in which Truscott turned slowly towards Quiggin, and said, without the slightest suggestion of protest at Quiggin’s tone: “He is called Sir Magnus Donners.”

“The M.P.?”

“I fear that, at the moment, he cannot be so described.”

“But you work for him?” insisted Quiggin.

“Sir Magnus is kind enough to remunerate me as if I worked for him,” said Truscott. “But you know, really, I scarcely like to describe myself as doing anything that suggests such violent exertions undertaken on his behalf. He is, in any case, the kindest of masters.”

He cocked an eyebrow at Quiggin, apparently not at all displeased by this rather aggressive inquisition. As Truscott had not witnessed Quiggin’s arrival and earlier behaviour at the tea-party, I decided that he must find him less odd than he appeared to the rest of us: the thought perhaps he classed all undergraduate opinion together as inchoate substance, not to be handled too closely, occurring to me only several years later, after I had come down from the university. Sillery said: “I don’t expect “your master,” as you call him, would have much difficulty in returning to the House at any by-election, would he, Bill?”

“His industrial interests take up so much time these days,” said Truscott. “And really one must admit that ability of his sort is rather wasted in the House of Commons.”

“Isn’t he going to get a peerage?” said Stringham, unexpectedly.

Truscott smiled.

“Always a possibility,” he said; and Sillery grinned widely, rubbing his hands together, and nodding quickly several times.

“It’s a mortal shame that a big concern like his should be in the hands of a private individual,” said Quiggin, increasing the volume of his North Country accent, and speaking as if he were delivering the opening words of a sermon or address.

“Do you think so?” said Truscott. “Some people do. Of course, Sir Magnus himself has very progressive ideas, you know.”

“I think you would be surprised, Quiggin, if you ever met Sir Magnus,” said Sillery, “He has even surprised me at times.”

Quiggin looked as if there was nothing he would like better than to have an opportunity to meet Sir Magnus; but Sillery, who probably feared that conversation might decline from the handling of practical matters, like the disposal of jobs, to one of those nebulous discussions of economic right and wrong, of which he approved in general but obviously considered inopportune at that moment, brought back the subject of Truscott’s opening statement by saying: “And so Sir Magnus wants a man, does he?” However, Truscott was not disposed to say more of that for the time being. He may even have thought that he had already given away too much. His manner became perceptibly less frivolous, and he said: “I’ll tell you about it later, Sillers.”

Sillery concurred. It was probable that he, too, would prefer the details to be given in private. However, he evidently regarded the acquisition of further information on this matter to be of prime importance; because a minute or two later his impatience got the better of him, and, rising from the arm of Truscott’s chair, he announced: “Bill and I are a pair of very old friends who haven’t seen each other for many a long day, so that now I am going to drive you all out into the wind and rain in order that Bill and I can have a chat about matters that would no doubt appear to you all as very tedious.”

He put his head a little on one side. Neither Members nor Quiggin seemed very satisfied by this pronouncement: not at all convinced that they would find any such conversation tedious. Members tried to make some sort of protest by saying: “Now, Sillers, that is really too bad of you, because you promised that you were going to show me your Gerard Manley Hopkins letter the next time I came to see you.”

“And I wanted to borrow Fabian Essays , if it wasn’t troubling you,” said Quiggin, very sulky.

“Another time, Mark, another time,” said Sillery. “And you will find your book in that shelf, Quiggin, with the other Webbs. Take great care of it, because it’s a first edition with an inscription.”