‘Perhaps it was the efficiency Jimmy Stripling liked?’
‘I hope you’re right, Nicholas. I hadn’t thought of that. Jimmy just needed somebody to look after him in his old age. I expect that was it. We all need that. I see I’ve been uncharitable. I’m glad I went to the funeral, all the same. I make a point of going to funerals and memorial services, sad as they are, because you always meet a lot of people at them you haven’t seen for years, and that often comes in useful later. Jimmy’s was the exception. I never expect to set eyes on mourners like his again, Kensal Green, or anywhere else.’
The train was approaching my station.
‘How are you yourself, Sunny?’
‘Top-hole form, top-hole. Saw my vet last week. Said he’d never inspected a fitter man of my age. As you probably know, Nicholas, I’m a widower now.’
‘I didn’t. I’m sorry to hear—’
‘Three years ago. A wonderful woman, Geraldine. Marvellous manager. Knew just where to save. Never had any money of her own, left a sum small but by no means to be disregarded. A wonderful woman. Happy years together. Fragrant memories. Yes, I’m in the same little place in the country. I get along somehow. Everyone round about is very kind and helpful. You and your wife must come and see my roses. I can always manage a cup of tea. Bless you, Nicholas, bless you …’
As I walked along the platform towards the Exit staircase the train moved on past me. I saw Farebrother once more through the window as the pace increased. He was still sitting bolt upright, and had begun to smile again. On the visit to which he had himself referred, the time when Stripling’s practical joke had fallen so flat, Peter Templer had pronounced a judgment on Farebrother. It remained a valid one.
‘He’s a downy old bird.’
3
IRRITATED BY WHAT HE JUDGED the ‘impacted clichés’ of some review, Trapnel had once spoken his own opinions on the art of biography.
‘People think because a novel’s invented, it isn’t true. Exactly the reverse is the case. Because a novel’s invented, it is true. Biography and memoirs can never be wholly true, since they can’t include every conceivable circumstance of what happened. The novel can do that. The novelist himself lays it down. His decision is binding. The biographer, even at his highest and best, can be only tentative, empirical. The autobiographer, for his part, is imprisoned in his own egotism. He must always be suspect. In contrast with the other two, the novelist is a god, creating his man, making him breathe and walk. The man, created in his own image, provides information about the god. In a sense you know more about Balzac and Dickens from their novels, than Rousseau and Casanova from their Confessions.’
‘But novelists can be as egotistical as any other sort of writer. Their sheer narcissism often makes them altogether unreadable. A novelist may inescapably create all his characters in his own image, but the reader can believe in them, without necessarily accepting their creator’s judgment on them. You might see a sinister strain in Bob Cratchit, conventionality in Stavrogin, delicacy in Molly Bloom. Besides, the very concept of a character in a novel—in real life too—is under attack.’
‘What you say, Nick, strengthens my contention that only a novel can imply certain truths impossible to state by exact definition. Biography and autobiography are forced to attempt exact definition. In doing so truth goes astray. The novelist is more serious—if that is the word.’
‘Surely biographers and memoir-writers often do no more than imply things they chronicle, or put them forward as uncertain. A novelist is subjective, and selective, all the time. The others have certain facts forced on them, whether they like it or not. Besides, some of the very worst novelists are the most consciously serious ones.’
‘Of course a novelist is serious only if he is a good novelist. You mention Molly Bloom. She offers an example of what I am saying. Obviously her sexual musings—and her husband’s—derive from the author, to the extent that he invented them. Such descriptions would have been a thousand times less convincing, if attributed to Stephen Dedalus—let alone to Joyce himself. Their strength lies in existence within the imaginary personalities of the Blooms. That such traits are much diminished, when given to a hero, is even to some extent exemplified in Ulysses. It may be acceptable to read of Bloom tossing off. A blow by blow account of the author doing so is hardly conceivable as interesting. Perhaps, at the base of it all, is the popular confusion of self-pity with compassion. What is effective is art, not what is “true”—using the term in inverted commas.’
‘Like Pilate.’
‘Unfortunately Pilate wasn’t a novelist.’
‘Or even a memoir-writer.’
‘Didn’t Petronius serve as a magistrate in some distant part of the Roman Empire? Think if the case had come up before him. Perhaps Petronius was a different period.’
The Satyricon was the only classical work ever freely quoted by Trapnel. He would often refer to it. I recalled his views on biography, reading Gwinnett’s—found on return home—and wondered how far Trapnel would have regarded this example as proving his point. That a biography of Trapnel should have been written at all was surprising enough, an eventuality beyond all guessing for those to whom he had been no more than another necessitous phantom at the bar, to stand or be stood a half pint of bitter. Now, by a process every bit as magical as any mutations on the astral plane claimed by Dr Trelawney, there would be casual readers to find entertainment in the chronicle of Trapnel’s days, professional critics adding to their reputation by analysis of his style, academics rummaging for nuggets among the Trapnel remains. It seemed unlikely that much was left over. Gwinnett had done a thorough job.
I had been friends with Trapnel only a few years, but in those years witnessed some of his most characteristic attitudes and performances. Here was a good instance of later trimmings that throw light on an already known story. Gwinnett had not only recorded the routine material well, he had dealt judiciously with much else of general interest at that immediately post-war period; one not specially easy to handle, especially for an American by no means steeped in English life. Prudently, Gwinnett had not always accepted Trapnel (given to self-fantasy) at his own estimation. The final disastrous spill (worse than any on the racecourse by his jockey father)—that is to say Trapnel’s infatuation with Pamela Widmerpool—had been treated with an altogether unexpected subtlety. Gwinnett had once implied that his own involvement with Pamela might impair objectivity, but only those who knew of that already were likely to recognize the extent to which author identified himself with subject. I wrote to Delavacquerie recommending that Death’s-head Swordsman should receive the year’s Magnus Donners Memorial Prize. He replied that, Emily Brightman and Mark Members being in agreement, he himself would, as arranged, approach Widmerpool. If Widmerpool objected to our choice, we should have to think again. In due course, Delavacquerie reported back on this matter. His letters, like his speech, always possessed a touch of formality.
‘There are to be no difficulties for the judges from that quarter. Lord Widmerpool’s assurances justify me in my own eyes. You would laugh at the professional pleasure I take in being able to write this, the quiet satisfaction I find in my own skill at negotiation. To tell the truth no negotiation had to take place. Lord Widmerpool informed me straightaway that he did not care a fart—that was his unexpected phrase—what was said about him in Professor Gwinnett’s book, either by name or anonymously. He gave no reason for this, but was evidently speaking without reservation of any kind. At first he said he did not even wish to see a copy of Death’s-head Swordsman, as he held all conventional writings of our day in hearty contempt, but, thinking it best to do so, I persuaded him to accept a proof. It seemed to me that would put the committee of judges in a stronger position. Lord Widmerpool said that, if he had time, he would look at the book. Nothing he found there would make any difference to what he had already told me. That allays all fears as to the propriety of the award. Have you seen Lord Widmerpool lately? He is greatly altered
from what I remember of him, though I only knew him by sight. Perhaps the American continent has had that effect. As you know, I regard the Western Hemisphere as a potent force on all who are brought in contact with its influences, whether or not they were born or live there—and of course I do not merely mean the US. Possibly I was right in my assessment of how Lord Widmerpool would react towards Professor Gwinnett’s book. At present I cannot be sure whether my triumph—if it may so be called—was owed to that assessment. Lord Widmerpool made one small condition. It will amuse you. I will tell you about it when we next lunch together—next week, if you are in London. I have kept Matilda in touch with all these developments.’
The news of Widmerpool’s indifference to whatever Gwinnett might have written, unanticipated in its comprehensive disdain of the whole Trapnel—and Gwinnett—story, certainly made the position of the Prize committee easier. It looked as if the publishers had already cleared the matter with Widmerpool. They seemed to have no fear of legal proceedings, and Delavacquerie’s letter gave the impression that his interview might not have provided Widmerpool’s first awareness of the book. Even so, without this sanction, there could have been embarrassments owed to the Donners-Brebner connexion. I wrote to Gwinnett (with whom I had not corresponded since his Spanish interlude), addressing the letter to the English Department of the American college named at the beginning of his book.
The recipient of the Magnus Donners Prize was given dinner at the expense of the Company. A selection of writers, publishers, literary editors, columnists, anyone else deemed helpful to publicity in the circumstances, was invited. Speeches were made. It was not an evening-dress affair. Convened in a suite of rooms on the upper floor of a restaurant much used for such occasions, the party was usually held in the early months of the year following that for which the book had been chosen. As a function, the Magnus Donners Memorial Prize dinner was just what might be expected, a business gathering, rather than a social one. Delavacquerie, who had its arranging, saw that food and drink were never less than tolerable. When he and I next met for one of our luncheons together I asked what had been Widmerpool’s condition for showing so easygoing an attitude.
‘That he should himself be invited to the dinner.’
‘Did he make the request ironically?’
‘Not in the least.’
As a public figure of a sort, although one fallen into comparative obscurity, issue of an invitation to Widmerpool would in no way run counter to the general pattern of guests; even if his presence, owing to the particular circumstances, might strike a bizarre note. It was likely that a large proportion of those present would be too young to have heard—anyway too young to take much interest in—the scandals of ten years before.
‘No doubt Widmerpool can be sent a card. You were right in thinking the stipulation would amuse me.’
‘You haven’t heard it all yet.’
‘What else?’
‘He wants to bring two guests.’
‘Donners-Brebner can presumably extend their hospitality that far.’
‘Of course.’
‘Who are to be Widmerpool’s guests?’
‘Whom do you think?’
The answer was not so easy as first appeared. Whom would Widmerpool ask? I made several guesses at personalities of rather his own kind, figures to be judged useful in one practical sphere or another. In putting forward these names, I became aware how little I now knew of Widmerpool’s latest orientations and ambitions. Delavacquerie shook his head, smiling at the wrongness of such speculation.
‘I told you Lord Widmerpool had greatly changed. Let me give you a clue. Two ladies.’
I put forward a life peeress and an actress, neither in their first youth.
‘Not so elderly.’
‘I give it up.’
‘The Quiggin twins.’
‘The girls who threw paint over him?’
‘The same.’
‘But—is he having an affair with both of them?’
Delavacquerie laughed. He was pleased with the effect of the information he had given.
‘Not, I feel fairly sure, in any physical sense, although I gather he has no objection to girls who frequent his place—boys too, Etienne assures me—being good to look at. If the weather is warm, undressing is encouraged. I doubt if he contemplates sleeping with either sex. You know Widmerpool is not far from making himself into a Holy Man these days, certainly a much venerated one in his own circle.’
‘What will Gwinnett think of this, if he comes to the dinner himself? I imagine it is quite possible he will. Have you heard from him about getting the Prize? I wrote a line of congratulation, but have had no reply.’
That Gwinnett had not replied was no surprise. It did not at all diverge from the accustomed Gwinnett manner of going on. If anything, lack of an answer suggested that Gwinnett’s harassing London experiences had left him unchanged.
‘Professor Gwinnett wrote to me, as secretary of the Prize committee, to say he would take pleasure in travelling over here to receive the Prize in person.’
‘That will add to the drama of the dinner.’
‘He said he was on the point of visiting this country in any case. He would speed up his plans.’
‘Was Gwinnett pleased his book was chosen?’
‘Pleased—far from overwhelmed. He wrote a few conventional phrases, saying he was gratified, adding that he would turn up for the dinner, if I would let him know time and place. No more. He was not at all effusive. In fact, from my own experience of Americans, his appreciation was restrained to the point of being brusque.’
‘That’s his line.’
The publishers issued Death’s-head Swordsman just in time to be eligible for the Prize, though not at an advantageous moment to receive much attention from reviewers. That was inevitable in the circumstances. Such notices as appeared were favourable, but still few in number by the time of the Magnus Donners dinner, which took place, as usual, in the New Year.
‘I’m asking the committee to come early,’ said Delavacquerie. ‘It’s going to be rather an exceptional affair this year. Last-minute problems may arise.’
When I arrived he was moving about the dining-room, checking that seating was correct. Emily Brightman and Mark Members had not yet turned up.
‘Professor Gwinnett is on Matilda’s right, of course, and I’ve put Isobel on his other side. Emily Brightman thought it might look too much as if she had been set to keep an eye on him, if she were next door. Emily is sitting next to you, Nick, and a Donners-Brebner director’s wife on the other side. Let me see, Mrs—’
The winner of the Prize was always beside Matilda Donners, at a long table, which included judges, representatives of the Company, and wives of these. At the end of dinner Delavacquerie’s duty was to say a few words about the Prize itself. One of the judges’ panel then introduced the recipient, and spoke of his book. Members, a compulsive public speaker, had been easily persuaded to undertake this duty. Brevity would not be attained, but it was more than possible that, having known Trapnel personally, he would in any case have risen to his feet. To tell the story of the borrowed five pounds would be tempting. Members had once before ‘said a few words’, after the scheduled speeches were at an end, followed by Alaric Kydd, who also felt that a speech was owed from him. Kydd had been expatriate for some years now, so there was no risk of that tonight. Delavacquerie took a last look round the tables.
‘I’ve placed Lord Widmerpool and the Miss Quiggins out of the way of the winner of the Prize and the judges. In the far corner of the room by the other door. I think that is wise, don’t you? A quiet table. Elderly reviewers and their wives or boyfriends. No young journalists. That’s just being on the safe side.’
‘I doubt if the present generation of young journalists remember about Gwinnett’s connexion with Widmerpool. They may recall that the Quiggin twins threw paint over him. Even that’s back last summer, and ancient history. What sort of form is Gwinnett himself in?’ br />
‘I haven’t seen him.’
‘Didn’t he call you up on arrival?’
‘I’ve heard nothing from him since his reply to my second letter. I suggested we should make contact before this dinner. He answered that he had all the information he needed. He would just turn up at the appointed time.’
‘Where’s he staying?’
‘I don’t even know that. I offered to fix him up with an hotel. He said he’d make his own arrangements.’
‘He’s being very Gwinnett-like. I hope he will turn up tonight. On second thoughts, it might be better if he did not appear. We can easily go through the motions of awarding the Prize in absentia. The presence of the author is not required for voicing correct sentiments about his book. Various potential embarrassments might be avoided without Gwinnett himself.’
‘Gwinnett will be here all right. He writes the letter of a man of purpose.’
I agreed with that view. Gwinnett was, without doubt, a man of purpose. Before we could discuss the matter further Emily Brightman came in, followed a moment later by Members. She was dressed with care for her rôle of judge, a long garment, whitish, tufted, a medal hanging from her neck that suggested a stylish parody of Murtlock’s medallion. Delavacquerie fingered this ornament questioningly.
‘Coptic, Gibson. I should have thought a person of your erudition would have recognized its provenance immediately. Is Lenore coming tonight, Mark?’
‘Lenore was very sad at not being able to attend. She had to dash over to Boston again.’
‘Congratulations on your own award.’
Members bowed. He was in a good humour. Emily Brightman referred to the poetry prize he had just received—nothing so liberal in amount as the Magnus Donners, but acceptable—for his Collected Poems, a volume which brought together all his verse from Iron Aspidistra (1923) to H-Bomb Eclogue (1966), the latter, one of the few poems Members had produced of late years.
‘Thank you, Emily.’
‘You have heard that the Quiggin twins are to be here tonight?’