A Dance to the Music of Time: 1st Movement

  When I had last seen him, earlier in the year, at a Rothschild dance chatting with the chaperones, there could be no doubt that Truscott was still a general favourite: a ‘spare man’ treated by everyone with respect and in quite a different, and distinctly higher, category in the hierarchy of male guests from, say, Archie Gilbert. It was, indeed, impossible to deny Truscott’s good looks, and the dignity of his wavy, youthfully grey hair and broad shoulders. All the same, the final form of his great career remained still, so far as I knew, undecided. It was not that he was showing signs of turning out less capable—certainly not less reliable—than his elders had supposed; nor, as had been evident on the night when I had seen him, was he growing any less popular with dowagers. On the contrary, many persons”, if not all, continued to speak of Truscott’s brilliance almost as a matter of course, and it was generally agreed that he was contriving most successfully to retain the delicate balance required to remain a promising young man who still survived in exactly the same place—and a very good place, too—that he had taken on coming down from the university; rather than preferring to make his mark as an innovator in breaking new, and possibly unfruitful, ground in forwarding ambitions that seemed, whatever they were, fated to remain long masked from friends and admirers. At least outwardly, he had neither improved nor worsened his position, so it was said, at least, by Short, who, upon such subjects, could be relied upon to take the entirely unimaginative view of the world in general. In fact, Truscott might still be expected to make name and fortune before he was thirty, though the new decade must be perilously near, and he would have to be quick about it. The promised volume of poems (or possibly belles lettres) had never appeared; though there were still those who firmly declared that Truscott would ‘write something’ one day. Meanwhile he was on excellent terms with most people, especially, for some reason, elderly bankers, both married and unmarried, with whom he was, almost without exception, a great favourite.

  On that earlier occasion when I had seen him at the dance, Truscott, although he might excusably have forgotten our two or three meetings with Sillery in days past, had dispensed one of those exhausted, engaging smiles for which he was noted; while his eyes wandered round the ballroom ‘ear-marking duchesses’, as Stringham—years later—once called that wistful, haunted intensity that Truscott’s eyes took on, from time to time, among any large concourse of people that might include individuals of either sex potentially important to an ambitious young man’s career. As he came through the door at that moment, he gave his weary smile again, to show that he still remembered me, saying at the same time to Widmerpool: ‘You went away so quickly that I had no time to tell you that the Chief will very likely be here tonight. He is an old friend of Milly’s. Besides, I happen to know that he told Baby Wentworth he would look in—so it’s a virtual certainty.’

  Truscott was still, so far as I knew, one of the secretaries of Sir Magnus Donners, to whom it was to be presumed he referred as ‘the Chief’. Stringham’s vagueness in speaking of his own employment had left me uncertain whether or not he and Truscott remained such close colleagues as formerly, though Sillery’s remarks certainly suggested that they were still working together.

  ‘Well, of course, that would be splendid,’ said Widmerpool slowly.

  But, although unquestionably interested in the information just given him, he spoke rather forlornly. His mind seemed to be on other things: unable to concentrate fully on the comings and goings even of so portentous a figure as Sir Magnus Donners.

  ‘He could meet you,’ Truscott said dryly. ‘And then we could talk things over next week.’

  Widmerpool, trying to collect himself, seemed still uncertain in his own mind. He smoothed down his hair, the disarrangement of which he must have observed in the mural looking-glass in front of us.

  ‘The Chief is the most unconventional man in the world,’ said Truscott, more encouragingly. ‘He loves informality.’

  He stood there, smiling down at Widmerpool, for, although not more than an inch or two taller, he managed to give an impression of height. His thick and glossy hair had grown perceptibly more grey round the ears. I wondered how Truscott and Widmerpool had been brought together, since it was clear that arrangements projected for that night must have been the result of earlier, possibly even laborious, negotiation between them. There could be no doubt, whatever my own opinion of Widmerpool’s natural endowments, that he managed to make a decidedly good impression on people primarily interested in ‘getting on’. For example, neither Tompsitt nor Truscott had much in common except concentration on ‘the main chance’, and yet both had apparently been struck—in Tompsitt’s case, almost immediately—by some inner belief in Widmerpool’s fundamental ability. This matter of making headway in life was one to which I felt perhaps I, too, ought to devote greater consideration in future, if I were myself not to remain inextricably fixed in a monotonous, even sometimes dreary, groove.

  ‘You don’t think I had better ring you up in the morning?’ said Widmerpool, rather anxiously. ‘My brain is a bit confused tonight. I don’t want to make a poor impression on Sir Magnus. To tell the truth, I was thinking of going home. I don’t usually stay up as late as this.’

  ‘All right,’ said Truscott, not attempting to repress a polite smile at the idea of anyone being so weak in spirit as to limit their chances of advancement by reluctance to keep late hours. ‘Perhaps that might be best. Donners-Brebner, Extension 5, any time after ten o’clock.’

  ‘I don’t expect it would be much use looking for my hostess to say good-bye,’ said Widmerpool, gazing about him wildly as if by now tired out. ‘You know, I haven’t managed to meet her properly the whole time I have been here.’

  ‘Not the slightest use,’ said Truscott, smiling again at such naïveté.

  He regarded Widmerpool as if he thought—now that a decision to retire to bed had been finally taken—that the sooner Widmerpool embarked upon a good night’s rest, the better, if he were to be fit for the plans Truscott had in store for him in the near future.

  ‘Then I’ll bid you good-night,’ said Widmerpool, turning to me and speaking in a voice of great exhaustion.

  ‘Sweet dreams.’

  ‘Tell Stringham I was sorry not to see him before I left the party.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Thank him for bringing us. It was kind. He must lunch with me in the City.’

  He made his way from the room. I wondered whether or not it had indeed been kind of Stringham to bring him to the party. Kind or the reverse, I felt pretty sure that Stringham would not lunch with Widmerpool in the City. Truscott showed more surprise at Widmerpool’s mention of Stringham than he usually allowed himself, at least in public.

  ‘Does he know Charles, then?’ he asked, as Widmerpool disappeared through the door.

  ‘We were all at the same house at school.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Widmerpool was a shade senior.’

  ‘He really might be quite useful in our new politico-legal branch,’ said Truscott. ‘Not necessarily full time—anyway at first—and the Chief always insists on hand-picking everyone himself. He’ll grow out of that rather unfortunate manner, of course.’

  I thought it improbable that Widmerpool would ever change his manner at the mandate of Sir Magnus Donners, Truscott, Stringham, or anyone else, though the projected employment—an aspect of those rather mysterious business activities, so different from those of my own small firm—sounded normal enough. In fact the job, as such, did not at the time make any strong impression on me. I felt more interest in trying to learn something of Stringham’s life. This seemed an opportunity to make some enquiries.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Truscott, almost with enthusiasm. ‘Of course Charles is still with us. He can really be quite an asset at times. Such charm, you know. But I see my Chief has arrived. If you will forgive me . . .’

  He was gone instantaneously, stepping quickly across the floor to meet, and intercept, a tallish man, who
, with Mrs. Wentworth at his side, had just entered the room. At first I was uncertain whether this outwardly unemphatic figure could indeed be Sir Magnus Donners, the person addressed by Truscott being so unlike my pre-conceived idea of what might be expected from the exterior of a public character of that particular kind. Hesitation on this point was justifiable. The name of Sir Magnus Donners, both in capacity of well-known industrialist and former member of the Government (in which he had never reached Cabinet rank) attached to the imagination, almost automatically, one of those paraphrases—on the whole uncomplimentary—presented by the cartoonist; representations that serve, more or less effectually, to supply the mind on easy terms with the supposedly salient traits, personal, social, or political, of individuals or types: such delineations being naturally concerned for the most part with men, or categories of men, to be thought of as important in exercising power in one form or another.

  In the first place, it was unexpected that Sir Magnus Donners should look at least ten years younger than might reasonably have been supposed; so that, although well into his middle fifties—where he stood beneath an unsatisfying picture executed in the manner of Derain—he seemed scarcely middle-aged. Clean-shaven, good-looking rather than the reverse, possibly there was something odd, even a trifle disturbing, about the set of his mouth. Something that perhaps conveyed interior ferment kept in severe repression. Apart from that his features had been reduced, no doubt by laborious mental discipline, to a state of almost unnatural ordinariness. He possessed, however, a suggestion about him that was decidedly parsonic: a lay-reader, or clerical headmaster: even some distinguished athlete, of almost uncomfortably rigid moral convictions, of whose good work at the boys’ club in some East End settlement his own close friends were quite unaware. The complexion was of a man whose life appeared to have been lived, on the whole, out of doors. He seemed, indeed, too used to the open air to be altogether at ease in evening clothes, which were carelessly worn, as if only assumed under protest, though he shared that appearance of almost chemical cleanliness characteristic, in another form, of Archie Gilbert. At the same time, in spite of these intimations of higher things, the heavy, purposeful walk implied the professional politician. A touch of sadness about his face was not unprepossessing.

  That ponderous tread was also the only faint hint of the side expressed by common gossip, for example, at Sillery’s—where Bill Truscott’s connexion with Donners-Brebner made Sir Magnus’s name a relatively familiar one in the twilight world of undergraduate conversation—that is to say, of a kind of stage ‘profiteer’ or ‘tycoon’: a man of Big Business and professionally strong will. Such, indeed, I had previously pictured him. Now the matter, like so many others, had to be reconsidered. Equally, he showed still less of that aspect called up by the remark once let fall by Stringham: ‘He is always trying to get in with my mother.’ Everything about Sir Magnus seemed far too quiet and correct for any of his elements even to insinuate that there could be in his conduct, or nature, anything that might urge him to push his way into a world where welcome admission might be questionable—even deliberately withheld. Indeed, much later, when I came to hear more about him, there could be no doubt that whatever efforts Sir Magnus may have made to ingratiate himself with Mrs. Foxe, through her son, or otherwise—and there was reason to suppose such efforts had in truth been made—must have been accountable to one of those whims to which men of his sort are particularly subject; that is to say, desire to cut a figure somewhere outside the circle familiar to themselves; because Sir Magnus was, after all, in a position, so far as that went, to ‘go’ pretty well anywhere he might happen to wish. The social process he elected to follow was rather like that of mountaineers who chose deliberately the sheer ascent of the cliff face; for it was true I found particular difficulty in associating him with Stringham, or, so far as I knew of them, with Stringham’s family. Widmerpool, on the other hand, though this was by the way, was a victim easily imaginable; no doubt, as I guessed, fated to be captivated irrevocably at his pending interview by that colourless, respectable, dominating exterior of ‘the Chief’.

  What part Mrs. Wentworth played in Sir Magnus’s life was, of course, a question that at once suggested itself. He was not married. Truscott’s words: ‘He told Baby Wentworth he would look in—so it’s a virtual certainty’, seemed to imply a fairly firm influence, or attachment, of one kind or another, probably temporary. However, as Sir Magnus and Mrs. Wentworth came through the door, side by side, there was nothing in their outward appearance to denote pleasure in each other’s company. On the contrary, they had entered the room together, both of them, with an almost hang-dog air, and Mrs. Wentworth’s features had lost all the gaiety and animation assumed earlier to charm Prince Theodoric. She now appeared sulky, and, if the word could be used at all of someone so self-possessed, and of such pleasing face and figure, almost awkward. It was rather as if they were walking away together from some excessively embarrassing scene in which they had been taking joint part: some incident for which the two of them felt both equally to blame, and heartily ashamed. I could not help thinking of one of those pictures—neither traditional, nor in Mr. Deacon’s vernacular, but in ‘modern dress’ a pictorial method of treating Biblical subjects then somewhat in vogue—of Adam and Eve leaving the Garden of Eden after the Fall: this impression being so vivid that I almost expected them to be followed through the door by a well-tailored angel, pointing in their direction a flaming sword.

  Any such view of them was not only entirely fanciful, but perhaps also without any foundation in fact, because Truscott seemed to regard their bearing as perfectly normal. He came up to them buoyantly, and talked for a minute or two in his accustomed easy style. Mrs. Wentworth lit a cigarette, and, without smiling, watched him, her eyebrows slightly raised. Then she spoke to Sir Magnus, at which he nodded his head heavily several times. Perhaps arrangements were being made for sending her home in his car, because he looked at his watch before saying good-night, and asked Truscott some questions. Then Mrs. Wentworth, after giving Sir Magnus little more than a nod, went off with Truscott; who returned a minute or two later, and settled down with his employer on the sofa. They began to talk gravely, looking rather like father and son, though, strangely enough, it might have been Truscott who was playing the paternal rôle.

  By now the crowd had thinned considerably, and the music of the hunchback’s accordion had ceased. I was beginning to feel more than a little exhausted, yet, unable to make up my mind to go home, I wandered rather aimlessly round the house, throughout which the remaining guests were now sitting about in pairs, or larger groups. Chronological sequence of events pertaining to this interlude of the party became afterwards somewhat confused in my head. I can recall a brief conversation with a woman—not pretty, though possessing excellent legs—on the subject of cheese, which she alleged to be unprocurable at the buffet. Prince Theodoric and Sillery had disappeared, and already there was the impression, given by most parties, sooner or later, that the residue still assembled under Mrs. Andriadis’s roof was gradually, inexorably, sinking to a small band of those hard cases who can never tear themselves away from what still remains, for an hour or so longer, if not of gaiety, then at least some sort of mellow companionship, and protection from the austerities of the outer world.

  Two young men strolled by, and I heard one of them say: ‘Poor Milly really got together quite an elegant crowd tonight.’

  The other, who wore an orchid in his button-hole, replied: ‘I felt that Sillery imparted a faintly bourgeois note—and there were one or two extraordinary figures from the lofts of Chelsea.’

  He added that, personally, he proposed to have ‘one more drink’ before leaving, while the other murmured something about an invitation to ‘bacon and eggs at the Kit-Cat’. They parted company at this, and when the young man with the orchid returned from the bar, he set down his glass near me, and without further introduction, began to discuss, at large, the house’s style of decoration, of which he ap
peared strongly to disapprove.

  ‘Of course it must have cost a fortune to have had all those carpets cut right up to the walls,’ he said. ‘But why go and spoil everything by these appalling Italianate fittings—and the pictures—my God, the pictures.’

  I asked if the house belonged to Mrs. Andriadis.

  ‘Good heavens, no,’ he said. ‘Milly has only taken it for a few months from a man named Duport.’

  ‘Bob Duport?’

  ‘Not an intimate friend of yours, I hope?’

  ‘On the contrary.’

  ‘Because his manners don’t attract me.’

  ‘Nor me.’

  ‘Not that I ever see him these days, but we were at the same college—before he was sent down.’

  I commented to the effect that, however unsatisfactory its decoration might be, I found the house an unexpectedly sumptuous place for Duport to inhabit. The young man with the orchid immediately assured me that Duport was not short of money.

  ‘He came into quite a bit,’ he said. ‘And then he is one of those men money likes. He is in the Balkans at the moment—doing well there, too, I have no doubt. He is, I regret to say, that sort of man.’

  He sighed.

  ‘Is he married?’

  ‘Rather a nice wife.’

  Although I scarcely knew Bob Duport, he had always remained in my mind on account of his having been one of the company when Peter Templer, in a recently purchased car, had driven Stringham and myself into the ditch, together with a couple of shop-girls and another unprepossessing friend of Templer’s called Brent. That episode had been during the single term that Stringham had remained in residence at the university. The incident seemed absurd enough when looked back upon, but I had not greatly liked Duport. Now I felt, for some reason, inexplicably annoyed that he should own a house like this one, however ineptly decorated, and also be the possessor of a wife whom my informant—whose manner suggested absolute infallibility on such matters—regarded as attractive; while I myself, at the same time, lived a comparative hand-to-mouth existence in rooms, and was no longer in love with Barbara—a girl to whom, in my own case, there had never been any serious prospect of getting married. This seemed, on examination, a contrast from which I came out rather poorly.