Temporary Kings

by Anthony Powell

  ‘Have you collected these over the years, Mr Tokenhouse?’

  Tokenhouse looked furious.

  ‘I painted them.’

  He snapped out the answer.

  ‘Yourself. I see. How clever.’

  Widmerpool said that without the smallest irony.

  ‘Merely a hobby. Not at all clever. The last thing they are – or I should wish them to be – is clever.’

  Tokenhouse did not conceal his annoyance. Widmerpool had ruined the afternoon. Here were all his pictures spread out, a relatively sympathetic audience to whom he could preach his own theories of art, a unique occasion, in short, wrecked by the arrival of a self-important stranger – a ‘lord’ at that – with an introduction, presumably about some business matter. Again, it was hard to see what business interests Widmerpool and Tokenhouse could share, yet the connexion was clearly not a friendly one, some common acquaintance’s suggestion that the two of them would get on well together. Although nettled, Tokenhouse did not seem exactly taken aback. Widmerpool, after whatever had been said at the door, must represent some burden liable to be shouldered sooner or later. The botheration was for such responsibility to have descended at this moment. Tokenhouse, accepting the party was over, like a child putting away its toys, began gloomily replacing the canvases in the nearer cupboard. Then one of Glober’s gestures went some way towards saving the situation.

  ‘Just a moment, Mr Tokenhouse. Don’t be in such a hurry with those pictures of yours. Would you consider a sale? If you would – and don’t tell me to hell with it – I’d like to know your price for the shipwreck scene.’

  He pointed to one of the illustrations of social injustice, such it must be, seemingly enacted on the crowded deck of a boat, where several persons were in trouble. Tokenhouse paused in his tidying up. He visibly responded to the enquiry.

  ‘Sell a picture?’

  ‘That’s what I hoped.’

  Tokenhouse considered.

  ‘I’ve only been asked that once before, apart from an occasion years ago – in my Formalist days – when requested to present a picture of mine to be raffled for a charity. It was one of those typical feckless efforts to bolster up the capitalist system – some parson at the bottom of it, of course – attempting to launch that sort of ameliorating endeavour, which I now recognize as worse, more deliberately harmful, than brutal indifference, and should now naturally refuse to have anything to do with.’

  Tokenhouse turned to Widmerpool. He spoke rather spitefully.

  ‘The only other occasion when I sold one of my pictures was to our mutual friend. The friend who sent you here. He very kindly bought one of my efforts.’

  Widmerpool seemed further embarrassed. He started slightly. Then he made a movement of the hand to express appreciation.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Did he, indeed? I didn’t know he liked painting.’

  ‘Of course he does. He bought one of the army incidents. I called it Any Complaints? A typical mess-room injustice about rations. To buy it was a charming return for a small service I had been able to perform for him. I had, of course, expected no such return, having acted entirely from principle.’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t know you were an artist,’ said Widmerpool.

  There was silence. Tokenhouse blew his nose. Glober returned to the question of buying a picture himself.

  ‘Then I take it you will sell one, Mr Tokenhouse?’

  ‘I see no reason why not, no reason at all.’

  ‘The emigrant ship?’

  ‘They are a poor family found travelling without a ticket on the vaporetto.’

  ‘Better still. A souvenir of Venice. That’s fine.’

  Glober, certainly aware of Widmerpool’s impatience to speak with Tokenhouse alone, was determined not to be hurried. Tokenhouse, equally recognizing Widmerpool’s claim on him, whatever that was, also showed no scruple about keeping him waiting. He seemed almost to enjoy doing so. Glober enquired about terms. Widmerpool was getting increasingly restive. He fidgeted about. Glober began to argue that the sum Tokenhouse had named as price for his picture was altogether inadequate. A discussion now developed similar to that about paying the restaurant bill. At last Widmerpool could bear it no longer. He interrupted them.

  ‘I expect you know our mutual friend was unable to come?’

  He addressed himself to Tokenhouse, who took no notice of this comment.

  ‘Our friend is not here,’ Widmerpool repeated.

  Although clear we should have to go soon, the strain of waiting for that moment was telling on him. Tokenhouse merely nodded, as much as to say he accepted that as regrettable, though of no great importance.

  ‘He mentioned when I last saw him he might not be able to undertake the trip this time… Now, about wrappings. It will have to be newspaper. You must not mind it being a not very pro-American journal.’

  Tokenhouse laughed quite heartily at his own joke. The all but unprecedented sale of a picture had for the moment quite altered him. He could not be bothered with Widmerpool’s problems, however grave, until the negotiation was completed.

  ‘It’s all – well – a bit unfortunate,’ said Widmerpool.

  ‘Ah-ha, it is? I’m sorry … Now, string? Here we are. We’ll have to unknot this. I think it good to have to make use of your hands from time to time. A bourgeois upbringing has given me no aptitude in that direction. I always tie granny knots. There we are. Not a very neat parcel, I fear, but people don’t fuss about that sort of thing in this quarter of Venice. There we are. There we are.’

  He handed Glober the picture, enclosed now in several sheets of Unità. Glober took it. Tokenhouse stood back.

  ‘Luckily my pictures are a manageable size. Patrons of Veronese or Tiepolo would need more than the painter’s morning paper to bring their purchases home wrapped up.’

  The name of Tiepolo seemed to cause a moment’s faint embarrassment, not only to Widmerpool, but also, for some reason, to Ada and Glober. In any case, if we did not leave, Widmerpool was soon going to request our withdrawal in so many words. I could recognize the signs. Glober, too, seeing a showdown imminent, and deciding against a head-on clash at that moment, brought matters to a close, shaking hands with Tokenhouse. Tokenhouse saw us to the top of the stairs.

  ‘I may get in touch with you again. Nick, before you leave Venice. There might be a small package I should like you to post for me in England. The mails are very uncertain here. Ah-ha, yes. Goodbye to you then, goodbye. I’m glad we had opportunity to meet again, Mr Glober. Yes, yes. I do my poor best. Ah-ha, ah-ha. I hope I may at least have acted as a signpost away from Formalism. Yes, do let me know about the blocks, Mrs Quiggin. I quite see your position. Goodbye, goodbye.’

  We left him to Widmerpool, whatever dialogues lay ahead of them. After reaching the street, nothing was said for a minute or two. Then Glober spoke.

  ‘That was a most interesting experience – and a superb addition to my collection of twentieth-century primitives.’

  ‘I adored Mr Tokenhouse,’ said Ada. ‘Those blocks could be quite a snip, if he’s prepared to consider a reasonable price. I remember JG talking of him now. I’m not sure JG didn’t know the psychiatrist – a Party member – who treated Tokenhouse for his breakdown, anyway treated some ex-publisher for a breakdown. He used to treat a friend of Howard Craggs, an old girl called Milly Andriadis, who died in Paris last year.’

  ‘I once went to a party given by Mrs Andriadis,’ said Glober. ‘That shows how old I am.’

  Neither he nor Ada spoke of Widmerpool. There seemed something almost deliberate about their avoidance of his name. Then Glober stopped suddenly.

  ‘Oh, hell.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I’d forgotten that contact man I was due to see at the Gritti.’

  He looked at his watch.

  ‘I’m going to be late. What’s to be done in a town without taxis, and not a gondola in sight?’

  Ada pointed.

  ‘If you ru
n, you’ll catch the circolare. It’s coming up. You could just about make it.’

  Glober, with a shout that we must meet again soon, seemed delighted to show his mettle as a short-distance sprinter. Taking Tokenhouse’s picture from under his arm, he bounded off. We saw him catch the boat, just as the rope was thrown across the rails. He turned and waved in our direction. We waved back.

  ‘What energy.’

  ‘All quite unnecessary too. He’s surrounded by secretaries and hangers-on of one kind or another, who are only there to give an impression big business is being transacted. I’m going to make for the Lido. Have a rest, before going out this evening with Emily Brightman.’

  We walked on towards the vaporetto stop.

  ‘Who’s this American called Gwinnett that Pam’s taken a fancy to?’

  ‘Has she taken a fancy to him? He’s writing a book about our old friend X. Trapnel. If you don’t deflect Glober’s film interests to St John Clarke, Gwinnett might help in making a Trapnel film. Did she tell you she liked him?’

  Ada laughed at such an idea.

  ‘I was hearing about Gwinnett from Glober. Can you keep a secret? Glober wants to marry Pam, not just have an affair with her. Don’t breathe a word to anyone. You won’t, will you? He revealed that to me when he found I was her old friend. Only in the strictest confidence.’

  ‘What does her husband think about that? He must have had plenty of opportunities to divorce her, if he wanted. Anyway, why should she herself decide to marry Glober?’

  ‘I doubt if Kenneth knows yet. He just thinks Glober’s one of her usuals. So far as Pam is concerned, the bait Glober holds out is the lead in this great film he’s going to make.’

  ‘Pamela? But she’s never acted in her life, has she?’

  Ada thought that a naive reaction.

  ‘What does that matter? Besides, Pam’s no fool. If she wants a thing, she’ll force herself to do it. What Glober’s worried about is this young American turning up, who’s a Trapnel fan. He doesn’t want Gwinnett sticking round, if he does a Trapnel film. That’s why he’s begun to look about for another book to make his picture from. There’s a character just like Pam in Match Me Such Marvel. Of course, St John Clarke didn’t know anything about women, but a competent script-writer could alter all that.’

  ‘Why should she want to act at all?’

  ‘Because Pam longs for fame.’

  ‘You mean publicity?’

  ‘Anything you like to call it. Nobody’s ever heard of her. She doesn’t care for that. For one thing, she isn’t keen on nobody having heard of her, and quite a lot of people having heard of me.’

  ‘Where did Glober meet her?’

  ‘At her father’s place in Montana. Cosmo Flitton married an American, and they run a dude ranch together. Wouldn’t you adore to meet some dudes? Anyway, Pam went up there to stay, when she was in the States with Kenneth, and Louis Glober fell.’

  ‘So Cosmo Flitton’s still going?’

  ‘Not only still going, but a highly regarded figure out there, with his one arm and reputation of an old hero. Everybody’s mad about him. About Pam too, Glober says. He also described a scene that took place last night at Jacky Bragadin’s, which went rather far even for Pam. It all arose from the Tiepolo ceiling. That was why Kenneth Widmerpool winced when Tiepolo was mentioned by Mr Tokenhouse, just before we left. Do you know the subject of the picture? I was brought up on significant form, colour values, all that sort of thing, so I hadn’t particularly noticed what was being illustrated. Unlike Mr Tokenhouse, and Len Pugsley, my family always rather looked down on people who thought a picture told a story. I know about Socialist Realism, but this is an Old Master. I just saw a classical subject, and left it at that. Apparently it’s a man showing his naked wife to a friend.’

  Ada spoke with clinical objectivity.

  ‘Perfectly right.’

  ‘For some reason Pam was determined to talk about that picture all through dinner. There were a lot of people there, Glober said. She was between a monsignore and a maharaja. You know how silent she is as a rule. That night she chattered incessantly. Went on and on. Nothing would stop her. She seemed to be doing this partly to get under the skin of a lady Glober knows, called Signora Clarini, the English wife of the Italian film director, but living apart. Apparently Signora Clarini was a girl-friend of Sir Magnus Donners years ago, and now wants to marry Glober. He conveyed that in his quiet way. Pam may decide not to marry him herself, she was going to make sure Signora Clarini didn’t either. She kept on talking about Donners, implying he was a voyeur.’

  ‘Pamela’s hardly in a position to take a high moral line, if only after some of the things being said about her at the more sensational end of the French press.’

  Ada had not heard about the Ferrand-Sénéschal revelations. She brushed them aside. Borrit, a War Office colleague, who had served in Africa, once spoke of the Masai tribe holding, as a tenet of faith, that all cows in the world belong to them. Ada, in similar manner, arrogated to herself all the world’s gossip, sources other than her own a presumption.

  ‘Pam didn’t take a high moral line. Quite the reverse. She spoke as if she and Signora Clarini were sister whores. That, according to Glober, was what made Signora Clarini so cross.’

  ‘This was all in front of Widmerpool?’

  ‘That’s what Glober found so fascinating. Kenneth didn’t attempt to shut her up. Of course he knows by now that’s impossible, but Glober thought he was not only afraid of her – almost physically afraid – but got a kind of kick from what she was saying.’

  ‘How did their host enjoy this small talk at his table?’

  ‘Jacky Bragadin wasn’t feeling well that evening, thought he was going to have one of his attacks, so wasn’t bothering much. The monsignore was one of those worldly priests, who take anything in their stride, but the maharaja didn’t know where to look. Louis Glober, to relieve the tension, persuaded the maharaja to teach him cricket. Jacky Bragadin found a Renaissance mace that belonged to some famous condottiere, and they used that for a bat. The maharaja bowled a peach, Glober hit it so hard he caught Kenneth on the jaw. That made further trouble.’

  ‘Somebody once did that with a banana at school. His face must have a radar-like attraction for fruit. Glober still wants to marry Pamela in spite of all this?’

  ‘I think so. He’s quite tough. He says all his contemporaries have drunk themselves crazy, undergone major surgery, discharged both barrels with their big toe, dropped down dead on the set, and he’s not going to fall for any of that. All the same, he’s disturbed about Gwinnett. Pam asked Louis if Gwinnett was queer. That’s what worried him. Her interest. Is he?’

  ‘Homosexual?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I don’t think he’s very normal either.’

  ‘Will Gwinnett’s book about Trapnel be good? Ought we to publish it? We’ll talk about that later. Here’s my vaporetto. See you at the Men of Letters | Men of Science session. I must polish up my speech. Don’t breathe a word about anything I’ve said, will you?’

  She boarded a vessel bound for the Lido. I waited for the next boat heading towards the Grand Canal. To present Sir Magnus Donners as Candaules at the Bragadin dinner party showed imagination on Pamela’s part. Bob Duport had offered much the same solution as to what Sir Magnus ‘liked’.

  ‘Donners never minded people getting off with his girls. I’ve heard he’s a voyeur.’

  Barnby, without arriving at that logical conclusion, had expressed the same mild surprise at Sir Magnus’s lack of jealousy. The subject, reduced to the crude medium of the peep-hole, recalled the visit to Stourwater, when, without warning, its owner had suddenly appeared through a concealed door, decorated with the spines of dummy books, just as if he had been waiting at an observation post. The principle could clearly be extended from a mere social occasion to one with intimate overtones. The power element in both uses was obvious enough.

  ‘Peter ma
y have developed special tastes too,’ Duport said. ‘Very intensive womanizing sometimes leads to that, and no one can say Peter hasn’t been intensive.’

  In days when Peter Templer had been pursuing Pamela, he might easily have talked to her about Sir Magnus, even taken her to see him, but not at Stourwater, the castle by then converted to wartime uses. The fact that his former home was now a girl’s school, looked on as expensive, could hardly be unpleasing to the shade of Sir Magnus, if it walked there. The practices attributed to him, justly or not, had to be admitted as inescapably grotesque, humour never more patently the enemy of sex. Perhaps Gyges, too, had felt that; as king, living his next forty years in an atmosphere of meticulous sexual normality. I should have liked to discuss the whole matter with Moreland, but, although he was no longer married to Matilda, the habits of Sir Magnus and his mistresses remained a delicate one to broach. He was like that. Moreland was not well. In fact, things looked pretty bad. He would work for a time with energy, then fall into a lethargic condition. There had been financial strains too. One of his recordings becoming in a small way a popular hit, made that side easier lately. We rarely met. He and Audrey Maclintick – whom he had never married – lived, together with a black cat, Hardicanute, an obscure, secluded life.

  At the hotel desk they handed out a letter from Isobel. I took it upstairs to read. Across the top of the page, an afterthought from personal things, that amorphous yet intense substance of which family life is made up, she had scribbled a casual postscript.

  ‘Have you seen about Ferrand-Sénéschal? Probably not as you never read the papers abroad. Fascinating rumours about Pamela Widmerpool.’

  I lay on the bed and dozed. It would have been wiser to have drunk less at lunch. I felt Glober was to blame. Quite a long time later the telephone buzzed, waking me.

  ‘Hullo?’

  ‘Is that Mr Jenkins?’

  It was a man’s voice, an American’s.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘It’s Russell Gwinnett.’