Temporary Kings

by Anthony Powell

  Tokenhouse did not join in this chatter about food. He ordered spaghetti for himself, and sat back in silence. He would probably have liked to continue talking about blocks, but Ada must have decided nothing more could be settled about the matter until put before Quiggin. The fact was, Tokenhouse had lost the habit of this sort of party. In his publishing days he had gone out a good deal, possessing the reputation of an aggressive talker when the evening was well advanced, and he had taken a fair amount to drink. Even dead sober, he was usually prepared to shout down the rest of the party, if there were disagreements. Now he gave the impression of once more beginning to disapprove, earlier distrust of such company rearoused in him. He was rather cross when Glober nodded for a repetition of the drinks, but swallowed the second glass of vermouth, also took several deep gulps of wine when it arrived. Ada switched her attention to him, now offering a clue to her own easy acceptance of breaking up a tête-à-tête with Glober.

  ‘You never published any of St John Clarke’s novels, Mr Tokenhouse, did you?’

  Tokenhouse, who had been particularly irritated when St John Clarke failed to produce the promised Introduction to The Art of Horace Isbister, made some non-commital answer about his firm not dealing in fiction, which Ada must have known already. She pressed the subject, not, so it appeared, because Tokenhouse was likely to throw light on St John Clarke, as from some wish of her own to emphasize the almost forgotten novelist’s unrecognized merits. Then her aim became clearer.

  ‘Louis – I shall call you Louis, Mr Glober – has come to Europe to look for a story to film. Of course, I hoped he would want one of my own novels – in default of one of yours, Nick – but we’ve been talking together, and he was saying the moment must have arrived for something nostalgic, something Edwardian. Then I had the brilliant idea that St John Clarke was the answer.’

  This was rather a different story from Pamela’s statement that Glober was going to film something by Trapnel. What subject Glober should choose struck me at the time as a perfectly endurable topic, during luncheon in these fairly idyllic surroundings, not one to take for a moment seriously. The same applied to Pamela’s earlier words on the matter, in that case easing the way for Gwinnett. Commercial deals like selling stories to film companies are more likely to emerge from tedious negotiation undertaken by agents in prosaic offices. Such was one’s melancholy conclusion. Glober, if not a producer in the top class, had been quite a figure in Hollywood; he was therefore tough. No doubt his mood accorded with this sort of chit-chat. To conclude any true buyer’s interest had been aroused would be to misconstrue the ways of film tycoons. All the same, to be too matter-of-fact about such possibilities could be wide of the mark, as to be too susceptive to pleasing possibilities. With businessmen, you can never tell; least of all when movies are in question. On Ada’s part, this looked like declaration of war on Pamela. She sounded very sure of herself.

  ‘Perhaps you don’t know, Nick, that we control the St John Clarke rights now. Clapham got the lot before he died. Just for the sake of tidiness – but I forgot, you probably do know, because St John Clarke left the royalties to your Warminster brother-in-law, and of course they came back to Quiggin & Craggs in the Warminster Trust. JG secured our own interest before Craggs died.’

  What Ada stated made sense. I had not known about the St John Clarke rights; at least never thought out that aspect. She was undoubtedly going to do her best to sell a St John Clarke novel to Glober.

  ‘A strange man I used to know in the army was devoted to Match Me Such Marvel. He’d worked in a provincial theatre or cinema, so he might be the right pointer for popular success.’

  Bithel’s view, twenty years later, could represent the winning number. Ada was enthusiastic.

  ‘Match Me Such Marvel is the one I suggested. There’s a homosexual undercurrent. Of course, you Americans are so jumpy about homosexuality. It would be a great pity to leave that sequence out.’

  ‘Who says we’re going to leave it out?’ said Glober lazily. ‘We Americans are getting round to hearing about all sorts of things of that kind these days. You don’t do us justice. When were you last in the States, Ada?’

  They were a well matched couple when it came to that sort of teasing, as cover for business negotiation. Tokenhouse, likely to disapprove of such levity, was ruminating on some matter of his own. Suddenly he joined in.

  ‘St John Clarke was a vain fellow. I never cared for such novels of his as I read. He behaved in a most unsatisfactory manner dealing with my firm. It was only quite by chance I came across a pamphlet he had written in the latter part of his life dealing with an interest of my own, that is to say Socialist Realism in painting. That pamphlet was not without merit.’

  Ada showed herself more than equal to this comment too. Her policy was, I think, to ventilate in a general way the claims of St John Clarke; get his name thoroughly into Glober’s head, without bothering too much whether the impression was good or bad. When St John Clarke had sunk in as a personality, she would plug the book she wanted to be filmed. She showed warm appreciation of this new aspect of the novelist.

  ‘Exactly, Mr Tokenhouse. St John Clarke is no back-number. His style may seem a little old-fashioned today, but there is nothing old-fashioned about his thought. He is full of compassion – compassion of his own sort, sometimes a little crudely expressed to the modern ear. I am most interested in what you say about his art criticism. I had missed that. Of course I know about Socialist Realism. I expect you used to read a magazine called Fission, which ran for a couple of years just after the war, and remember the instructive analysis Len Pugsley wrote there, called Integral Foundations of a Fresh Approach to Art for the Masse.’

  Tokenhouse got out his pencil. Making Ada repeat the tide of Pugsley’s article, he wrote it on a paper table napkin. I recalled Bagshaw’s editorial irritation at having to publish the piece.

  ‘If we’ve got to print everything written by whoever’s rogering Gypsy, we’ll have to get a new paper allocation. Even our Commy subscribers don’t want to read that stuff.’

  Bagshaw’s comment, partially disproved by Tokenhouse’s interest, was borne out to the extent that Gypsy (retaining her name and style) had gone to live with Pugsley, when she became a widow. Tokenhouse now found himself assailed by Ada with an absolute barrage of expertise on his own subject. She began to reel off the names of what were evidently Socialist Realist painters.

  ‘Svatogh? Gaponenko? Toidze? I can only remember a few of the ones Len mentioned. Of course you’ll be familiar with all their pictures, and lots more. There is so much in art of which one remains so dreadfully ignorant. I must look into all that side of painting again, when I have a moment to spare.’

  Tokenhouse, who had certainly begun luncheon in a mood of refusal to truckle to undue demands on making himself agreeable, could not fail to be impressed. I was impressed myself. In her days as employee at Quiggin & Craggs, the Left Wing bias of the firm had naturally demanded a smattering of Marxist vocabulary, but to retain enough political small talk of that period to meet Tokenhouse on his own Socialist Realist ground was no small achievement; not less because Quiggin himself, anyway commercially, had so far abrogated his own principles as to have lately scored a publishing bull’s eye with the Memoirs of a Tory ‘elder statesman’. Glober laughed quietly to himself.

  ‘You two take me back to the Film Writers’ Guild. Give me two minutes notice to beat it, before you throw the bomb.’

  Seen closer, over a longer period, he was observable as a little tired, a little melancholy, amusing himself with mild jaunts such as this one, which made small demand on valuable reserves. He was husbanding his forces. To suppose that, in no way implied a state of total exhaustion. You felt there was quite a lot left for future effort, even if requirement for everything to be played out in public, in a manner at once striking and elegant, increased need for exceptional energy. What did not happen in public had no reality for Glober at all. In spite of the quiet manner, there was
no great suggestion of interior life. What was going on inside remained there only until it could be materially expressed as soon as possible. The tress of hair had to record the sexual conquest.

  To unAmerican eyes, probing the mysteries of American comportment and observance, this seemed the antithesis of Gwinnett. Much going on in Gwinnett was never likely to find outward expression. That was how it looked. No doubt a European unfamiliarity heightened, rather than diminished, the contrast; even caricatured its salient features. That did not remove all substance, the core seeming to be the ease with which Glober manipulated the American way; Gwinnett’s awkwardness in its employment. That was to put things crudely, possibly even wrongly, just consequence of meeting both in Europe. Glober, only recently sprung from the Continent, had about him something of the old fashioned Jamesian American, seeking new worlds to conquer. Gwinnett was not at all like that. With Gwinnett, everything was within himself. He had, so it seemed, come to Europe simply because he was passionately interested in Trapnel, obsessed by him, personally identified with him; again, one felt, inwardly, rather than outwardly.

  Dr Brightman had called Gwinnett a ‘gothic’ American. What, in contrast, would she call Glober? She had invoked Classicism and Romanticism. Here again it was hard to apportion epithets. In one sense, Glober, the practical man, was also the ‘romantic’ – as often happens – Gwinnett, working on his own interior lines, the ‘classical’. Gwinnett wanted to see things without their illusory trimmings; Glober forced things into his own picturesque mould. In doing that, Glober retained some humour. Could the same be said of Gwinnett? Would Gwinnett, for example, be capable of taking pleasure in Tokenhouse as a medium for amusement? Was the analogy to be found in quite other terms of reference: Don Juan for Glober, Gwinnett in Faust?

  The wine, passing round rather rapidly, may have played some part in these reflections. Tokenhouse was by now a little tight. Age, or abstinence, must have weakened his head. Perhaps solitude, sheer lack of opportunity to air his views, caused a few glasses to release the urgent need to hold forth again at a crowded table. He now proceeded to reproduce, in greatly extended form, the lecture he had given me earlier on the necessity for rejecting Formalism. In doing this, Tokenhouse passed all reasonable bounds of dialectical prosiness. Glober, showing American tolerance for persons outlining a favourite theme with searching thoroughness, did not interrupt him, but, when coffee came, Tokenhouse had gone too far in presuming on national forbearance in indicating to a compulsive talker that he has become a bore. By that time Tokenhouse had admitted he painted himself. Glober leant across the table.

  ‘Now see here, Mr Tokenhouse. We’re going to drink a glass of Strega, then we’re all coming back to your studio to admire your work.’

  That took Tokenhouse so much by surprise that he scarcely demurred at the Strega, protesting only briefly, as a matter of form. It was hard for an amateur painter – he kept on making a point of this status – to be other than flattered. It was agreed the party should make their way to the flat after leaving the restaurant. When the bill arrived, Glober insisted on paying. He swept aside energetic, if rambling, efforts on the part of Tokenhouse to prevent this on grounds that I was his guest. They argued for a time, Tokenhouse producing a ten-thousand-lire note, Glober thrusting it aside. We set off at last, Tokenhouse still talking hard. He was not drunk in any derogatory sense, had merely taken a little more than accustomed, which had transformed a prickly detachment into discursiveness not to be checked. He hurried along, the old grey hat jammed down on his head, swinging his stick, Glober taking long strides to keep up. Ada and I followed a short way behind.

  ‘How on earth did you know the names of those painters, Ada? Are they Russian?’

  Ada smiled, justifiably pleased with herself.

  ‘Len Pugsley’s at our Lido hotel. He’d brought the article with him, as basis of a speech he’s going to make at the Conference. Getting something published in Fission was his first real step in life.’

  ‘His last one too. Why hasn’t he appeared?’

  ‘Len’s got a stomach upset. He’s in bed. He wanted to rehearse his speech. He read it all to me. I say, I hear from Glober the Widmerpools have had a terrible row.’

  ‘Isn’t that a permanent state?’

  ‘This one’s worse than usual.’

  Ada could offer no more at that moment, because Glober, fearing dispersal of his court, or that its courtiers were plotting against him, turned back to make sure we were included in whatever he was discussing with Tokenhouse. A few minutes later we entered the narrow calle in which the flat was situated. Tokenhouse led the way up the stairs. He opened the door, pointing ahead.

  ‘Seat yourselves. I’m afraid there is nothing luxurious about my way of life. You must excuse that, take me as you find me, a humble amateur painter.’

  He stumped off in the direction of the canvases in the corner.

  Glober looked round the room.

  ‘Mr Tokenhouse, you ought to advertise your studio as Annex to the Biennale Exposition.’

  ‘I should, I should. I shall have to wait another two years now.’

  Tokenhouse laughed excitedly, shuffling about arranging pictures at every angle. Glober’s interest must have encouraged him to widen the scope of what he was prepared to display. In addition to those shown in the morning were others stacked in two cupboards.

  ‘Do I detect the influence of Diego Rivera, Mr Tokenhouse?’

  ‘Ah-ha, you may, you may.’

  ‘Or is it José Clemente Orozco, who did those frescoes at Dartmouth? There is something of that artist too.’

  Tokenhouse was in ecstasies, if such a word could be used of him at all.

  ‘I would not deny influence of the former. I am less familiar with the work of the latter. I flatter myself in these experiments in style, now wholly abandoned, I have caught a small touch of Rivera’s gift for speaking in a popular language. This, for instance – now who the devil can that be?’

  A heavy knock had been given on the outside door. Tokenhouse set down the two pictures he was holding. He did not go to the door at once. Instead, he took a small diary from his pocket, and studied it. The knock came again. Tokenhouse, put out by this interruption, went into the passageway. The sound came of the door being opened, followed by muffled conversation. The caller’s enquiry had not been audible. Tokenhouse’s answer was testy, almost shrill.

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course he mentioned your name to me. More than once in the past. I had no idea you were attending the Conference. You’re not? Ah-ha, I see. Well, come in then. It’s not very convenient, but now you’re here, you’d better stay. I have some people looking at my pictures. Yes, my pictures, I said – but you can wait till they’re gone. Then we can have a talk.’

  He returned to the studio-room accompanied by Widmerpool.

  ‘This is – did you say Lord – yes, Lord Widmerpool. Ah-ha, you know everybody. That makes things easier.’

  Tokenhouse spoke the word ‘Lord’ with great contempt. Neither he, nor Widmerpool himself, looked in the least as if they believed the fact of ‘knowing everyone’ made things easier. Tokenhouse had spoken the words bitterly, ironically. In his own eyes nothing much worse could happen, now that his Private View had been interrupted, the chance of a lifetime mucked up; Widmerpool, armed with an introduction, arriving at this particular moment. Tokenhouse seemed to know instinctively that Widmerpool felt no interest whatever in pictures, good or bad.

  ‘Take a seat.’

  Widmerpool looked round. There was no very obvious place to do so. He was undoubtedly surprised at finding Glober, Ada, myself, here; not more so than I, that he should suppose it advantageous to visit Tokenhouse. The connexion could hardly be publishing. By the time Widmerpool, in an advisory capacity, had been on the Quiggin & Craggs board, Tokenhouse’s days as a publisher were over. Possibly some link went back to Widmerpool’s time in a solicitor’s office; his former firm perhaps that recording the ban on religious rites at th
e Tokenhouse obsequies. Widmerpool had plainly not been warned that painting was Tokenhouse’s hobby. He stared rather wildly at the pictures propped up all over the room, then nodded to each of us in turn.

  ‘Yes – we all know each other. How are you, Ada? We haven’t met since Fission. I expect you’re at the Conference, or come for the Film Festival?’

  The last suggestion seemed to have struck him on the spur of the moment, probably on account of Glober’s film connexions. Ada pretended to be piqued.

  ‘Didn’t you notice me at the Bragadin palace, Kenneth? I saw you. Pam and I talked away. I should have thought she’d have mentioned that to you.’

  Widmerpool, discerning a probe for information, rather than expression of wounded feelings, gave nothing away. He smiled.

  ‘Pam often forgets to tell me things. We think it best not to live in each other’s pockets. It makes married life easier. You would agree, wouldn’t you, Louis?’

  ‘I sure would.’

  Glober laughed in his usual quiet friendly way, which did not at all conceal dislike. He also took the opportunity of stating his own situation.

  ‘Mrs Quiggin and I were discussing the Biennale the time her Conference was looking over Jacky’s place. We thought we’d take a look at the Biennale pictures together too. Who should we meet but Mr Jenkins and Mr Tokenhouse. Now we’re admiring Mr Tokenhouse’s pictures instead of those at the Biennale.’

  That was brief, exact description of just what had happened. If Glober had designs on Pamela – it was hard to think otherwise – he might welcome opportunity of emphasizing to Widmerpool that he had ‘picked up’ Ada, accordingly was not to be taken as too serious a competitor for Pamela. Such was just a notion that occurred. If it displayed Glober’s intention, Widmerpool showed no sign of appreciating the point.

  ‘I see.’

  He spoke flatly, staring round again at the rows of small canvases that cluttered the studio. Obviously they conveyed nothing to him. He appeared more than ever worried, but made an effort.