Shernmaker represented literary criticism in a more eminent form. Indeed one of his goals was to establish finally that the Critic, not the Author, was paramount. He tended to offer guarded encouragement, tempered with veiled threats, to young writers; Trapnel, for example, when the Camel had first appeared. There was a piece by him in Fission contrasting Rilke with Mayakovsky, two long reviews dovetailed together into a fresh article. Shernmaker’s reviews, unlike Sheldon’s, would one day be collected together and published in a volume itself to be reviewed—though not by Sheldon. That was quite certain. Yet was it certain? Their present differences could become so polemical that Sheldon might think it worth while lampooning Shernmaker in his column. If Sheldon did decide to attack him, Shernmaker would have no way of getting his own back, however rude Sheldon might be. However, even offensive admission into Sheldon’s column was recognition that Shernmaker was worth abusing in the presence of a mass audience. That would to some extent spoil the pleasure for Sheldon, for Shernmaker allay the pain.
Publishers, especially Quiggin, endlessly argued the question whether Sheldon or Shernmaker ‘sold’ any of the books they discussed. The majority view was that no sales could take place in consequence of Sheldon’s notices, because none of his readers read books. Shernmaker’s readers, on the other hand, read books, but his scraps of praise were so niggardly to the writers he scrutinized that he was held by some to be an equally ineffective medium. It was almost inconceivable for a writer to bring off the double-event of being mentioned, far less praised, by both of them.
The dangerous juxtaposition of Sheldon and Shernmaker was worrying Quiggin. He continually glanced in their direction, and, when Gypsy joined his group with Craggs and the Cabinet Minister, he allowed husband and wife to guide the statesman to a corner for a more private conversation, while he himself moved across the room. He paused briefly with Trapnel and myself.
‘Where’s your wife?’
He spoke accusingly, as if he considered a covert effort had been made to undermine the importance of the Fission first number, also his own prestige as a director of the magazine.
‘Our child’s in bed with a cold. She sent many regrets at missing the party.’
Quiggin looked suspicious, but pursued the matter no further, as the Sheldon and Shernmaker situation had become more ominous. Bagshaw was reasonably well equipped to hold the balance between a couple like this, operating expertly on two fronts, provided the other parties did not too far overstep the bounds each felt the other allowed by convention, given the fact they were on bad terms. This rule appeared to have been observed so far, but Sheldon now began to embark on a detailed account of a recent visit to the Nuremberg trials, his report on which had already appeared in print. At this new development Shernmaker’s features had taken on the agonized, fractious contours of a baby about to let out a piercing cry. Quiggin stepped quickly forward.
‘Bernard, I’m going to take the liberty of sending you a proof copy of Alaric Kydd’s new novel Sweetskin. It will interest you.’
Shernmaker showed he had heard this statement by swivelling his head almost imperceptibly in Quiggin’s direction, at the same time signifying by an unaltered expression that nothing was less likely than that a work of Kydd’s would hold his attention for a second. However, he took the opportunity of moving out of the immediate range of Sheldon’s trumpeting narrative, giving Quiggin a look to denote rebuke for ever having allowed such an infliction to be visited on a sensitive critic’s nerves. Quiggin seemed to expect nothing more welcoming than this reception.
‘There may be trouble about certain passages in Kydd’s book—two especially. If it has to be toned down through fear of prosecution, I’d like you to have read what the author originally wrote.’
Shernmaker continued his stern silence. If he allowed his face to relax at all, it was only to register deeper suspicion of publishers and all their works. Quiggin was by no means to be put off by such severity. He smiled encouragingly. Although not by nature ingratiating, he could be industrious at the process if worth while.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve washed your hands of Kydd’s work, Bernard—like Pilate?’
Shernmaker did not return the smile. He thought for a time. Quiggin, unlike Pilate for his part, awaited an answer. Shernmaker brought his own out at last.
‘Pilate washed his hands—did he wash his feet?’
It was now Quiggin’s turn to withhold a smile. He was as practised a punch-line killer and saboteur of other people’s witticisms as Shernmaker himself. This disrespect for one of the firm’s new authors must also have annoyed him. A lot was expected from Kydd. Before further exchanges could take place, Quiggin’s old friend Mark Members arrived. With him was a young man whose khaki shirt, corduroy trousers, generally buccaneering aspect, suggested guerrilla warfare in the Quiggin manner, though far more effectively. This was appropriate enough in Odo Stevens, an unlikely figure to turn up at a publisher’s party, though apparently an already accepted acquaintance of Members. As Sillery had remarked, white locks suited Members. He allowed them to grow fairly long, which gave him the rather dramatic air of a nineteenth-century literary man who had loved and suffered, the mane of hair weighing down his slight, spare body. Stevens made a face expressing recognition, but, before we could speak, was at once buttonholed by Quiggin, with whom he also appeared on the best of terms. Members now introduced Stevens to Shernmaker.
‘I don’t know whether you’ve met Odo Stevens, Bernard? You probably read his piece the other day about life with the Army of Occupation. Odo and I have just been discussing the most suitable European centre for cultural congress—you know my organization is trying to get one on foot. Do you hold any views? Your own co-operation would, of course, be valuable.’
Shernmaker was still giving nothing away. Frowning, moving a little closer, he watched Members’s face as if trying to detect potential insincerities; allowing at the same time a rapid glance at the door to make sure no one of importance was arriving while his attention was thus occupied. Shernmaker’s party personality varied a good deal according to circumstance; this evening a man of iron, on guard against attempts to disturb his own profundities of thought by petty everyday concerns. His duty, this manner implied, was with a wider world than any offered by Quiggin & Craggs and their like; if a trifle sullen, he must be forgiven. He had already shown that, once committed to such inanities, the best defence was epigram. Members, who had known Shernmaker for years—almost as long as he had known Quiggin—evidently wanted to get something out of him, because he showed himself quite prepared to put up, anyway within reason, with the Shernmaker personality as then exercised.
‘You’ll agree, Bernard, that effective discussion of the Writer’s Position in Society is impractical in unsympathetic surroundings. Artists are vulnerable to circumstance, never more so than when compulsorily confined to their native shores.’
Still Shernmaker did not answer. Members became more blunt in exposition.
‘We’re none of us ever going to get out of England again, except as emissaries of culture. That’s painfully clear. We’re caught in a trap. Unless something is done, we’ll none of us ever see the Mediterranean again.’
Evadne Clapham, L. O. Salvidge and Malcolm Crowding, the last of whom had a poem in Fission, had joined the group. All agreed with this deduction. Evadne Clapham went further. She clasped her hands together, and quoted:
‘A Robin Redbreast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage.’
The lines suddenly brought Shernmaker to life. He stared at Evadne Clapham as if outraged. She smiled invitingly back at him.
‘Rubbish.’
‘You think Blake rubbish, Mr Shernmaker?’
‘I disagree with him in this particular case.’
‘How so?’
‘A robin redbreast in a rage
Puts all heaven in a cage.’
Evadne Clapham now unclasped her hands, and brought them together several times in silent
applause.
‘Very good, very good. You are quite right, Mr Shernmaker. I often notice what aggressive birds they are when I’m gardening. Your conclusion is, of course, that writers must not be held in check. Don’t you agree, Mark? We must make ourselves heard. Do tell me about the young man you came in with. Isn’t it true he’s had a very glamorous war career, and is terribly naughty?’
This question was answered by Quiggin introducing Odo Stevens all round as the man who was writing a war book to make all other war books seem thin stuff. It was to be about Partisans in the Balkans. Quiggin was a little put out to find that Stevens and I had already met, but we were again prevented from talking by an incident taking place that was in a small way dramatic. Pamela Widmerpool, followed by her husband, had come into the room. Quiggin turned to greet them. Stevens was obviously as surprised to see Pamela at this party as I had been myself to find him there. As they came past he spoke to her.
‘Why, hullo, Pam.’
She looked straight at, and through, him. It was not so much that she ignored what Stevens had said, as that she behaved as if he had never spoken, was not even there. She seemed to be looking at someone or something beyond him, unable to see Stevens himself at all. Stevens, by nature as sure of himself as a man could well be, was not in the least embarrassed, but certainly taken aback. When he grasped what had happened, he turned towards me and grinned. We were not near enough for comment.
‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet, dear heart,’ said Widmerpool. ‘We’ll talk business later, JG. There are two misprints in my own article, but on the whole Bagshaw must be agreed to have made a creditable job of the first number.’
Apart from her treatment of Stevens—or signalizing it by that—Pamela gave the impression of being on her best behaviour. She allowed herself to be piloted across to the Cabinet Minister. Cutting Stevens might be explained by the fact that, when last seen with him, she had slapped his face. It was quite possible that night, the first of the flying-bombs, had been also the last she had seen of him. To start again as total strangers was one way of handling such matters. The most recent news of her had been from Hugo Tolland. Pamela had appeared at his antique shop in the company of an unidentified man, who had paid cash for an Empire bidet, later delivered to the Widmerpool flat in Victoria Street; a highly decorative piece of furniture, according to Hugo. Inevitably her sickness at Thrubworth had developed into a legend of pregnancy, cut short artificially and not occasioned by her husband, but that was probably myth.
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 régime. 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 out-fit. 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. I
n 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 rôles, 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.