Temporary Kings

by Anthony Powell

  ‘We were talking of courts and harems, Russell,’ said Dr Brightman. ‘Those who need them. I’m sure you must have experienced friends like that’

  Gwinnett smiled, but did not comment. The relationship between himself and Dr Brightman appeared good, the best yet, so far as observable. There was none of the coyness that might be suggested by the idea of a distinguished female professor becoming friends with a young academic colleague of the opposite sex. You felt they liked each other, had perhaps learnt from each other, would not for a second hesitate to be tough with each other, if required by circumstance. There was no suggestion of sentimental feelings, a kind of mother/son relationship, just because Dr Brightman had been far from home, Gwinnett something of an oddity in his own surroundings.

  ‘Talking of harems’, she said, ‘the owner of the Palazzo we’re invited to visit tomorrow bears the famous name of Bragadin, and claims to be descended from Casanova’s patron, though not, of course, in the legitimate line.’

  Gwinnett showed no great interest in that. I asked which of the several Bragadin palaces this was. I had not studied the extra-mural programme carefully, preferring these excursions to come as a series of bracing surprises.

  ‘One never open to the public. Our Conference is greatly favoured. There’s a Tiepolo ceiling there on which I’ve longed to gaze for years. In fact the hint that Conference members might gain access was the chief weapon of Mark’ Members in overcoming any hesitation in agreeing to attend.’

  ‘It’s the Jacky Bragadin one reads about in gossip columns?’

  Dr Brightman nodded.

  ‘The Palazzo wasn’t inherited. All sorts of people have lived there at one time or another. Jacky Bragadin – though I’ve no right to speak of him in this familiar manner – bought it just after the war.’

  Gwinnett, who had been looking about him without paying much apparent attention to what Dr Brightman was saying, joined in at that.

  ‘Jacky Bragadin’s mother’s was one of the big American fortunes of the last century. She was a Macwatters of Philadelphia. That’s where the funds for the Bragadin Foundation come from.’

  ‘Which have been of good use to most of us in our time,’ said Dr Brightman. ‘My knowledge of the benefactor, like that of Mr Jenkins, derives chiefly from gossip columns. His well publicized personality remains, all the same, for me an elusive one, beyond an evident taste for entertaining persons as rich as himself. Remarkable that he should have found time enough from that hobby to have given birth to a Foundation.’

  ‘He’s not married, I think?’

  ‘Do you imply the Bragadin Foundation is illegitimate too? A case of parthenogenesis, I expect. In any case, I am more concerned with his Tiepolo.’

  Tiepolo ranking with Poussin as one of my most admired Masters, I asked the subject of the ceiling, the very existence of which was unknown to me. The bare fact that members of the Conference could visit the Palazzo had been announced, knowledge of its contents no doubt taken for granted in an assembly of intellectuals.

  ‘One of the painter’s classical scenes – Candaules and Gyges. The subject, thought to have some contemporary reference, caused trouble at the time the ceiling was painted. That’s why the tradition of playing the picture down, keeping it almost a secret, has persisted to the present day. The owner is in any case said to be more than a little neurasthenic in approach to his possessions, and much else too.’

  Gwinnett knew about the ceiling.

  ‘I’ve been told it’s not unlike the Villa Valmarana Iphigenia in composition,’ he said. ‘The owner won’t allow it to be photographed.’

  He turned to me.

  ‘Speaking about the Iphigenia again made me think of what we were talking about at that luncheon.’

  He picked up from the table the paper he had brought with him, opened it, folding back a page. It was Détective, Içi Paris, or another of those French periodicals that explore at greater length cases, usually already reported, which through expansion promise more pungent details of crime or scandal. Gwinnett singled out two sheets, the central spread. He was about to hand them over, but Dr Brightman, catching the name under a photograph, intercepted the paper.

  ‘Good gracious,’ she said. ‘That ugly little man? I should never have thought it.’

  I looked over her shoulder. The headline ran along the top of both pages.

  L’APRES-MIDI D’UN MONSTRE?

  Two large cut-out photographs stretched across the typeface, the story, whatever it was, fitting round their edges. In spite of Dr Brightman’s lack of principle in appropriating the letterpress to herself, and although I was not close enough to read the sub-titles, the likenesses of the two persons portrayed were immediately recognizable. Both photographs had manifestly been taken some years before, ten at least. In fact that of Ferrand-Sénéschal made him look a man in early middle-age. He had been caught on some public occasion, mouth wide open, hands raised above his head in a passionate gesture, almost as if he, too, were singing Funiculì-Funiculà, miming the ascending cable. No doubt he had been snapped addressing a large audience on some political or cultural theme.

  The other photograph, also far from recent, though less time-expired than Ferrand-Sénéschal’s, was more interesting. It was of Pamela Widmerpool. Her hair-do suggested the end of the war, or not long after. The picture could have dated from the year of her marriage to Widmerpool, possibly even taken at the moment of emergence from the ceremony. In spite of heavy touching-up on the part of the blockmaker, the expression was resentful enough for that. This touching-up had added a decidedly French air to her appearance. That could have been acquired not only from the cupid’s bow mouth, brutally superimposed on her own, but, more universally, from the manner in which photographic portraiture in the press automatically assumes the national characteristics of whatever country has processed the blocks, fabricated their ‘screen’; an extension of the law that makes the photographer impose his personal view of them on individuals photographed. Dr Brightman scrutinized carefully both pictures.

  ‘Lady Widmerpool? A very bedworthy gentlewoman, I understand. But Ferrand-Sénéschal? I am frankly surprised. I should never have guessed … assoiffé de plaisir… dévoré de désir … terrible obsession … How unchanged remains the French view of English life – phlegmatic, sadistic aristocrats, moving coldly and silently from one atrocity to another through the fogs of le Hyde Park and les Jardins de Kensington.’

  I tried to peer over Dr Brightman’s shoulder at what was written. Clutching the paper obstinately, she refused to surrender an inch of its surface.

  ‘The implication is that Lady Widmerpool visited Ferrand-Sénéschal in his luxurious hotel suite – accommodation Sardanapalus would have found over-indulgent – only a few hours before the Reaper. Even that is chiefly my own assumption. Nothing definite is even hinted.’

  Gwinnett laughed abruptly, rather uncomfortably. His laugh was high and nervous. He addressed me again.

  ‘Isn’t that the lady we talked about – Trapnel’s girl?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘The implication is she was in bed with this Frenchman after he was dead.’

  ‘Is that how you read it?’

  Dr Brightman disregarded our exchange, too engrossed to hear, or because Trapnel’s name meant nothing to her. From time to time she read out a phrase that took her fancy.

  ‘Fougueuse sensualité … étranges caprices … amitiés equivoques… We never seem to get anything solid. Odieux chantages… but of whom? Situation gênante.. . Then why not tell us about it? Le scandale éclate… It never seems to have done so. I am still not at all sure what happened, scarcely wiser than after reading the headline.’

  She handed the paper over at last. Reservations about its interest were more than justified. As usual in such journalism, promise was far short of performance. There was a hint that some scandal about Ferrand-Sénéschal had been hushed up in France fairly recently, no details given, only pious horror expressed. That
social engagements since arrival in London sufficiently explained taking an afternoon’s rest, even between sheets, in the light of medical advice, was altogether ignored. References to Pamela – called ‘Lady Pamela Widmerpool’ – were even less specific. Indeed, they were written without serious attempt to fit her into the Ferrand-Sénéschal story, such as it was. Nothing whatever was alleged against her, except that she – apparently other persons too – had visited the hotel suite at one time or another. By implication, Ferrand-Sénéschal’s habits so notorious, that visit in itself was damaging enough. Her own pranks were touched on only vaguely, not very accurately, though more directly than the law of libel would have allowed an English paper. Widmerpool was treated simply as a great nobleman of the Old School.

  ‘One of my maiden aunts – a social category no longer extant – used to live permanently in that hotel,’ said Dr Brightman. ‘I’m sure she had no idea things like that were going on there. The place did not at all suggest gaiety. She would have been surprised. Rather thrilled too, I think.’

  The respectable, unpretentious style of Ferrand-Sénéschal’s hotel disavowed the grand luxe attributed to his two-room suite. It was only a few streets away from the former Jeavons residence in South Kensington, converted by Ted Jeavons after the war into several small flats, one of which he inhabited himself. The fact that Ferrand-Sénéschal was on his way to the Conference later on found no place in the Détective story, probably regarded as a banal detail likely to prejudice inferences that he had come to London with the sole purpose of participating in an orgy. Dr Brightman reached out for the paper again. She examined the picture of Pamela.

  ‘I can add my own small contribution to the bulletin,’ she said. ‘The lady in question is in Venice at this moment.’

  Gwinnett, who had been sitting silent, chewing at his thumbnail, shifted forward.

  ‘She is, Emily? You’ve seen her?’

  This time he sounded quite excited. Dr Brightman made a gesture to indicate she had enjoyed no such luck.

  ‘I was so informed by a French colleague, who is also attending the Conference. We normally correspond about Gallo-Roman personal names, with special reference to Brittany. On this occasion I fear we descended to gossip. My friend must be unaware of the reference here to Lady Widmerpool, or I’m sure he would have mentioned it. He had witnessed what he described as an extraordinary incident at the French Embassy in London, where Lady Widmerpool, quite deliberately, broke the back of a small gilt chair during supper. That made such an impression, he immediately recognized her profile seen at Quadri’s.’

  ‘I’d give something to meet that lady.’

  Gwinnett did not sound hopeful. Dr Brightman and I assured him there should be no difficulty in arranging that.

  ‘You’ve just got to sit in the Piazza long enough. You see everyone in the world, if you do that.’

  ‘But I don’t know Lady Widmerpool.’

  ‘I’ll introduce you.’

  That was said in the heat of the moment. Afterwards, immediately afterwards, it was to be seen as a rash offer. I hoped she would not walk into the hotel at that moment. The very idea of her being in Venice made Gwinnett restless, a state alternating in him with a kind of torpor. He rose from the table, then paused for a moment, again unsure what he wanted to do. He came to a decision.

  ‘I’ll take a stroll in the Piazza right now. Do you mind if I retain this journal?’

  That could not be refused, since it belonged to him, though I had not yet studied the piece thoroughly. He folded it again, stood in thought for a moment, said goodnight. We said goodnight to him in return. It was not impossible that he might see Pamela Widmerpool in St Mark’s Square. Perhaps he hoped to pick up someone there in any case. A girl? A man? One felt rather ashamed of these speculations, as earlier of wondering whether he was an ex-alcoholic. He had shown no sign whatever of seeking in Venice any sort of dissipation. The notion that he was bent on some such goal, no doubt quite unfounded, attached to his withdrawn mysterious air, a little uncommon in an American, anyway in Gwinnett’s form. As soon as he was gone, Dr Brightman, without any prompting, began to speak of him.

  ‘Let me tell you about Russell Gwinnett.’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘He is a small fragment detached from the comparatively extensive and cavernous grottoes of gothic America. He is part of an Old America – the oldest – yet has become in some respects the New America. I hardly know how to put it.’

  ‘Halfway between Henry Adams and Charles Addams?’

  ‘Not bad. In fact alpha plus, insomuch as Henry Adams says that true eccentricity is in a tone, and only the conventional approach loves to assume unconventionality. Russell is unconventional by nature, not by choice. Even then, only in certain respects. He is good at such sports as racquets, skating, skiing. If there is a superfluity of Edgar Allan Poe brought up to date, there is also a touch of Edwin Arlington Robinson.’

  ‘You outrun my literary bounds.’

  ‘But you can at least understand that Russell is at once intensely American, yet allergic to American life. That, in itself, can be paralleled, though not quite in Russell’s terms. To quote Adams again, he is not one of those Americans who can only assert or deny. I did not use the comparison of the two poets recklessly. Russell, too, hoped to be a poet. He was sufficiently self-critical to see that was not to be. He also draws quite well. Almost always portraits of himself. We saw a lot of each other when I was over there. He is a nice young man, cagey in certain moods.’

  ‘You know he is writing a book about X. Trapnel. That’s why he wants to meet Pamela Widmerpool.’

  ‘Trapnel is only a name to me. One of my pupils used to rave about his books. If Russell does that, he will do it well. He is industrious, in spite of his singularities, perhaps because of them. Had he been an English undergraduate, his rooms would have been equipped with black candles, skulls, the odour of incense. He likes Death. That atmosphere is not the American tradition. The taste has told against him, notwithstanding the significance of his name. There was also some kind of a tragedy in his early college days. He was friendly with a girl who committed suicide – at least she seems to have committed suicide. Perhaps it was an accident. He was not in the smallest degree to blame.’

  ‘Why is his name significant?’

  ‘He is descended – collaterally, I understand – from what is known as a “Signer”, one Button Gwinnett, who set his name to the Declaration of Independence. Both halves of the name are of interest to persons like oneself, “Gwinnett”, of course, “Gwynedd”, meaning North Wales – the Buttons, a South Wales family, probably advenae. A small piece of topographical history neatly established by nomenclature.’

  ‘I don’t know how these things are looked on in America.’

  ‘Like so much else, the attitude is ambivalent. In general, anyway in the right circles, to be descended from a Signer can be highly regarded, even if many such have passed into obscurity. Some Americans will, of course, deny any interest whatever in such trivial matters.’

  ‘Kind hearts are more than Cabots?’

  ‘And simple faith than Mormon blood. This is something of a paradox in that the transgression – crime perhaps – of America has been to reject Classicism for Romanticism. The national distaste for moderation – to which Henry Adams referred – inevitably leads to such a choice. Russell himself is far from immune, though you might not guess that from outward bearing. Profound Romanticism is bound in due course to dilate towards its gothic extremities. In his particular case, family history may have helped.’

  ‘It is often pointed out that one form of Romanticism is to be self-consciously Classical, but what you say accords with Gwinnett’s choice of Trapnel as a subject. Let’s hope he treats Trapnel’s own Romanticism in a Classical manner.’

  ‘Naturally the terms are hopelessly imprecise. That does not make them valueless. Baudelaire and Swinburne have Classical statements to make – more than many people are aware who r
egard them as pure Romantics – but their gothic side is equally undeniable. Underneath Russell Gwinnett’s staid exterior I suspect traces of an American Byron or Berlioz. I spoke of Poe, the preoccupation with Death. When there was trouble about this girl, it was because he had broken into the place where her body was. Some found it deeply touching… others… well…’

  ‘Were there a lot of girls?’

  ‘Apparently none after that. No one seems to know why. Again, some look on that with admiration, others deem it unsatisfactory.’

  ‘As to Byron – what you said about Button Gwinnett – was this Gwinnett brought up in a similar tradition of high descent, I mean in American terms?’

  ‘His grandfather was a fairly successful lawyer, the father some sort of a bad lot, alcoholic, spendthrift, deserted Russell’s mother at an early age. He is still alive, I believe. There were money difficulties about going to college, and so on. But we will talk more of Russell Gwinnett, and American gothicism, another time. Now I must go to bed. Fatigue comes on one suddenly here, delayed action after listening to all those speeches in demotic French about the Obligations of the Intellectual. I shall bid you goodnight. Tomorrow we meet under the Tiepolo ceiling.’

  Not long after that I turned in too. The night had become a trifle cooler. Through the window of my bedroom the musicians’ refrain was to be heard in the distance. Perhaps the songs were no longer theirs, cadences wafted now synthetically from the radio. For a while I tried to read in bed, The Castle of Fratta, a translation brought with me as appropriate. Nievo’s view of Bonaparte’s invasion of Italy was an antidote to Stendhal’s. The novel might make a good film in the epic manner. I rather regretted not staying on for the Film Festival, more since I had never attended a Film Festival than because of anything very exciting on offer. A German picture about a prostitute who blackmailed her clients aroused a faint sense of curiosity. Then there was a British one, much recommended, adaptation of a Thomas Hardy story, in which Polly Duport was playing the lead.