‘I was in publishing. Art books. Now it is the film business.’
‘Indeed? What unusual ways you choose to earn a living. Not acting, surely?’
‘Hardly. I am on what is called the “scenario side”, I help to write that part of the programme known as the “second feature”. For every foot of American film shown in this country, a proportionate length of British film must appear. The Quota, in fact.’
‘Ah, yes, the Quota, the Quota,’ said Widmerpool, cutting short any further explanation, which would certainly have been tedious enough. ‘Well, I never expected to sit at the same table as host of a man who wrote films for the Quota. Do you like the work?’
‘Not greatly.’
‘It may lead to something better. If you are industrious, you get on. That is true of all professions, even the humblest. You will probably end up in Hollywood, or somewhere like that. But tell me, do you still see those friends of yours, Stringham and Templer?’
‘Stringham I haven’t seen since the night he got so tight, and you and I helped to put him to bed. I rang up a day or two later and found he had gone abroad. From what I hear, he is drinking enough to float a battleship. There was even a question of taking a cure.’
‘And Templer?’
‘I see him occasionally. Not for rather a long time, as it happens. You know his marriage broke up?’
‘Like Stringham’s,’ said Widmerpool. ‘Your friends do not seem very fortunate in their matrimonial ventures. I run across Templer sometimes in the City. We have even done a little business together. I was able to fix up a job for Bob Duport, that rather disreputable brother-in-law of his.’
‘So I heard.’
‘Oh, he told you, did he?’ said Widmerpool, gratified at this action of his being so widely known. ‘I believe there were various repercussions from that good turn I was able to do him. For instance, Duport was living apart from his wife. He had behaved rather badly, so people say. When he got this job, the two of them patched things up again, and she went back to him. I was glad to have been the cause of that. We all three had dinner together. Rather an odd woman. Moody, I should think. She didn’t seem particularly pleased at the reunion. Not at all grateful to me, at least.’
‘Why not?’
I couldn’t say. She hardly spoke a word throughout the course of an extremely good dinner at the Savoy. I may say it cost me quite a lot of money. Not that I grudge it. They are in South America now, I believe. Did you ever meet either of them?’
‘Met him once with Templer when I was an undergraduate.’
‘And her?’
‘I knew her a bit. In fact I first met her ages ago when I stayed with the Templers. Peter’s father was still alive then.’
‘Not unattractive.’
‘No.’
‘Quite elegant in her way too.’
‘Yes.’
‘Too good for Duport, I should have thought.’
‘Possibly.’
Widmerpool could not have had the smallest notion of anything that had taken place between Jean Duport and myself; but people are aware of things like this within themselves without knowing of their own awareness. In any case, conscious or unconscious, Widmerpool had the knack of treading on the corns of others. His next question seemed to show the extraordinary telepathic connection of ideas that so often takes place in the mind when anything in the nature of being in love is concerned.
‘You are not married yourself, are you, Nicholas?’
‘No.’
‘Not—like me—about to take the plunge?’
‘I haven’t properly congratulated you yet.’
Widmerpool bowed his head in acknowledgment. The movement could almost have been called gracious. He beamed across the table. At that moment the prospect of marriage seemed all he could desire.
‘I do not mind informing you that my lady mother thinks well of my choice,’ he said.
There was no answer to that beyond agreeing that Mrs. Widmerpool’s approval was gratifying. If Mrs. Haycock could face such a mother-in-law, one hurdle at least—and no minor one, so it seemed to me—had been cleared.
‘There are, of course, a few small matters my mother will expect to be satisfactorily arranged.’
‘I expect so.’
‘But Mildred will fall in with these, I am sure.’
I thought the two of them, Mrs. Widmerpool and Mrs. Haycock, were probably worthy of the other’s steel. Perhaps Widmerpool, in his heart, thought so too, for his face clouded over slightly, after the first look of deep satisfaction. He fell into silence. When pondering a matter of importance to himself, his jaws would move up and down as if consuming some immaterial substance. Although he had finished his slices of tongue, this movement now began. I guessed that he intended to pose some question, the precise form of which he could not yet decide. The men with yellow faces at the next table were talking international politics.
‘C’est incontestable, cher ami, Hitler a renoncé à son intention d’engouffrer l’Autriche par une agression directe.’
‘A mon avis—et d’ailleurs je l’ai toujours dit—la France avait tort de s’opposer à l’union douanière en ’31.’
The fat man had moved on to steak-and-kidney pudding, leeks and mashed potato, with a green salad. Widmerpool cleared his throat. Something was on his mind. He began in a sudden burst of words.
‘I had a special reason for inviting you to lunch today, Nicholas. I wanted to speak of my engagement. But it is not easy for me to explain in so many words what I desire to say.’
He spoke sententiously, breaking off abruptly. I had an uneasy feeling, unlikely as this would be, that he might be about to ask me to act as best man at his wedding. I began to think of excuses to avoid such a duty. However, it turned out he had no such intention. It seemed likely, on second thoughts, that he wanted to discuss seriously some matter regarding himself which he feared might, on ventilation, cause amusement. Certainly I found it difficult to take his engagement seriously. There is, for some reason, scarcely, any subject more difficult to treat with gravity if you are not yourself involved. Obviously two people were contemplating a step which would affect their future lives in the most powerful manner; and yet the outward appearance of the two of them, and Widmerpool’s own self-sufficiency, made it impossible to consider the matter without inner amusement.
‘Years ago I told you I was in love with Barbara Goring,’ said Widmerpool slowly.
‘I remember.’
‘Barbara is a thing of the past. I want her entirely forgotten.’
‘Why not? I shan’t stand up at your wedding and say: “This ceremony cannot continue—the bridegroom once loved another!”.’
‘Quite so, quite so,’ said Widmerpool, grunting out a laugh. ‘You are absolutely right to make a joke of it. At the same time, I thought I should mention my feelings on that subject. One cannot be too careful.’
‘And I presume you want Gipsy Jones forgotten too?’
Widmerpool flushed.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She too, of course.’
His complacency seemed to me at that time intolerable. Now, I can see he required only to discuss his own situation with someone he had known for a long period, who was at the same time not too closely associated with his current life. For that rôle I was peculiarly eligible. More than once before, he had told me of his emotional upheavals—it was only because of that I knew so much about Barbara Goring and Gipsy Jones—and, when a confessor has been chosen, the habit is hard to break. At the same time, his innate suspicion of everyone inhibited even his taste for talking about himself.
‘Mildred is, of course, rather older than I,’ he said.
I felt in some manner imprisoned by his own self-preoccupation. He positively forced one to agree that his own affairs were intensly important: indeed, the only existing question of any real interest. At the same time his intense egoism somehow dried up all sympathy for him. Clearly there was much about his present circumstances that made hi
m nervous. That was, after all, natural enough for anyone contemplating marriage. Yet there seemed more here than the traditionally highly-strung state of a man who has only lately proposed and been accepted. I remembered that he had never asked Barbara Goring to marry him, because in those days he was not rich enough to marry. He read my thoughts, as people do when their intuition is sharpened by intensity of interest excited by discussing themselves.
‘She was left with a bit of money by Haycock,’ he said. ‘Though her financial affairs are in an appalling mess.’
‘I see.’
‘How long have you known Lady Molly?’
‘That was the first night I had been there.’
‘I wish I had known her in the great days,’ he said. ‘I cannot say that I greatly care for the atmosphere of her present home.’
‘You would prefer Dogdene?’
‘I believe that in many ways Dogdene was far from ideally run either,’ said Widmerpool curtly. ‘But at least it provided a suitable background for a grande dame. Mildred is a friend of the present Lady Sleaford, so that I dare say in due course I shall be able to judge how Lady Molly must have looked there.’
This manner of describing Molly Jeavons somehow affronted me, not so much from disagreement, or on account of its pretentious sound, but because I had not myself given Widmerpool credit for thus estimating her qualities, even in his own crude terms. I was, indeed, surprised that he did not dismiss her as a failure, noting at the same time his certainty of invitation to Dogdene. From what Chips Lovell used to say on that subject, I was not sure that Widmerpool might not be counting his chickens before they were hatched.
‘It is because of Dogdene, as you know yourself, that Mildred is such an old friend of Lady Molly’s. Perhaps not a very close friend, but they have known each other a long time.’
‘Yes?’
I could not guess what he was getting at.
‘In fact we first met at Lady Molly’s.’
‘I see.’
‘Mildred is—how shall I put it—a woman of the world like Lady Molly—but—well—hardly with Lady Molly’s easy-going manner of looking at things—I don’t mean that exactly—in some ways Mildred is very easy-going—but she likes her own way—and—in her own manner—takes life rather seriously——’
He suddenly began to look wretched, much as I had often seen him look as a schoolboy: lonely: awkward: unpopular: odd; no longer the self-confident business-man into which he had grown. His face now brought back the days when one used to watch him plodding off through the drizzle to undertake the long, solitary runs across the dismal fields beyond the sewage farms: runs which were to train him for teams in which he was never included. His jaws ceased to move up and down. He drank off a second glass of water.
‘Anyway, you know General and Mrs. Conyers,’ he said.
He added this rather lamely, as if he lacked strength of mind to pursue the subject upon which he hoped to embark.
‘I am going to tea with them this afternoon as it happens.’
‘Why on earth are you doing that?’
‘I haven’t seen them for a long time. We’ve known them for ages, as I told you.’
‘Oh, well, yes, I see.’
He seemed disturbed by the information. I wondered whether Mrs. Conyers had already shown herself ‘against’ the marriage. Certainly she had been worried about her sister at the Jeavons house. I had supposed the sight of Widmerpool himself to have set her worst fears at rest. Even if prepared on the whole to accept him, she may have let fall some remark that evening unintentionally wounding to his self-esteem. He was immensely touchy. However, his present uneasiness appeared to be chiefly vested in his own ignorance of how much I already knew about his future wife. Evidently he could not make up his mind upon this last matter. The uncertainty irked him.
‘Then you must have heard all about Mildred?’ he persisted.
‘No, not much. I only know about Mrs. Conyers, so to speak. And I have often been told stories about their father, of course. I know hardly anything about the other sisters. Mrs. Haycock was married to an Australian, wasn’t she? I knew she had two husbands, both dead.’
‘Only that?’
Widmerpool paused, disappointed by my ignorance, or additionally suspicious; perhaps both. He may have decided that for his purposes I knew at once too much and too little. ‘
You realise,’ he said slowly, ‘that Mildred has been used to a lot of her own way—her own way of life, that is. Haycock left her—in fact even encouraged her—so it seems to me—to lead—well—a rather—rather independent sort of life. They were—as one might say—a very modern married couple.’
‘Beyond the fact that they lived on the Riviera, I know scarcely anything about them.’
‘Haycock had worked very hard all his life. He wanted some relaxation in his later days. That was understandable. They got on quite well so far as I can see.’
I began to apprehend a little of what Widmerpool was hinting. Mrs. Haycock’s outline became clearer. No doubt she had graduated from an earlier emancipation of slang and cigarettes, to a habit of life with threatening aspects for a future husband.
‘Did they have any children?’
‘Yes,’ said Widmerpool. ‘They did. Mildred has two children. That does not worry me. Not at all. Glad to start with a family.’
He said all this so aggressively that I suspected a touch of bravado. Then he paused. I was about to ask the age and sex of the children, when he began to speak hurriedly again, the words tumbling out as if he wanted to finish with this speech as quickly as possible.
‘I should not wish to appear backward in display of affection,’ he said, developing an increased speed with every phrase, ‘and, in addition to that, I don’t see why we should delay unduly the state in which we shall spend the rest of our life merely because certain legal and religious formalities take time to arrange. In short, Nicholas, you will, I am sure, agree—more especially as you seem to spend a good deal of your time with artists and film-writers and people of that sort, whose morals are proverbial—that it would be permissible on my part to suppose—once the day of the wedding has been fixed—that we might—occasionally enjoy each other’s company—say, over a week-end——’
He came to a sudden stop, looking at me rather wildly.
‘I don’t see why not.’
It was impossible to guess what he was going to say next. This was all far from anything for which I had been prepared.
‘In fact my fiancée—Mildred, that is—might even expect such a suggestion?’
‘Well, yes, from what you say.’
‘Might even regard it as usage du monde?’
‘Quite possible.’
Then Widmerpool sniggered. For some reason I was conscious of embarrassment, even of annoyance. The problem could be treated, as it were, clinically, or humorously; a combination of the two approaches was distasteful. I had the impression that the question of how he should behave worried him more on account of the figure he cut in the eyes of Mrs. Haycock than because his passion could not be curbed. However, to have released from his mind these observations had clearly been a great relief to him. Now he cheered up a little.
‘There is a further point,’ he said. ‘As my name is an uncommon one, I take it I should be called upon to provide myself with a sobriquet.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘In your own case, the difficulty would scarcely arise—so many people being called “Jenkins”.’
‘It may surprise you to hear that when I embark on clandestine week-ends, I call myself “Widmerpool”.’
Widmerpool laughed with reasonable heartiness at that fancy. All the same, the question of what name should cover the identity of Mrs. Haycock and himself when first appearing as husband and wife still worried him.
‘But what surname do you think should be employed?’ he asked in a reflective tone, speaking almost to himself.
‘“Mr. and Mrs. Smith” would have the merit of
such absolute banality that it would almost draw attention to yourselves. Besides, you might be mistaken for the Jeavonses’ borrowed butler.’
Widmerpool, still pondering, ignored this facetiousness, regarding me with unseeing eyes.
‘“Mr. and the Honourable Mrs. Smith?” You might feel that more in keeping with your future wife’s rank and station. That, in any case, would strike a certain note of originality in the circumstances.’
At this suggestion, Widmerpool laughed outright. The pleasantry undoubtedly pleased him. It reminded him of the facts of his engagement, showing that I had not missed the point that, whatever her shortcomings, Mildred was the daughter of a peer. His face lighted up again.
‘I suppose it should really be quite simple,’ he said. ‘After all, the booking clerk at an hotel does not actually ask every couple if they are married.’
‘In any case, you are both going to get married.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said.
‘So there does not seem much to worry about.’
‘No, I suppose not. All the same, I do not like doing irregular things. But this time, I think I should be behaving rightly in allowing a lapse of this kind. It is expected of me.’
Gloom again descended upon him. There could be no doubt that the thought of the projected week-end worried him a great deal. I could see that he regarded its achievement, perhaps rightly, as a crisis in his life.
‘And then, where to go?’ he remarked peevishly.
‘Had you thought at all?’
‘Of course it must be a place where neither of us is recognised—I don’t want any——’
His words died away.
‘Any what?’
‘Any jokes,’ he said irritably.
‘Of course not.’
‘The seaside, do you think?’
‘Do you play any games still? Golf? You used to play golf, didn’t you? Some golfing resort?’
Dance to the Music of Time, Volume 2 Page 6