Temporary Kings

by Anthony Powell

  ‘Do you remember a man in your sub-unit called Stringham?’

  Cheesman looked surprised at the question.

  ‘Of course I do. How did you know Stringham?’

  ‘We were friends in civilian life.’

  ‘You were?’

  Cheesman found that statement hard to credit. He thought about it for a second or two. Stringham and I – that was the impression – seemed miles apart. He wrestled with the question inwardly. When at last he answered, it was as if prepared to accept my word, even then the claim scarcely believable.

  ‘I see. I do recall now Stringham wasn’t just the ordinary bloke you find in the ranks. I was taken aback at first when you said you’d known him. Of course, you get all sorts in a war. He was a superior type, an educated man. You could see that. All the same I never thought about it much. He never made any difficulties. I’d forgotten altogether. Just remember him in the jobs he used to do. I could never place him myself. What was his work in civilian life?’

  That was a hard question to answer. What did Stringham do? Cheesman must be told something. What about the time when (with Bill Truscott as dominant colleague) he had been a sort of personal secretary to Sir Magnus Donners? I fell back on that. To be a secretary implied at least a measure of professional identity. That would serve the purposes of the moment.

  ‘Stringham was private secretary to a business tycoon.’

  ‘Oh, was he?’

  Cheesman seemed at first more surprised than ever. He did not pursue the matter. His own job could well have brought him face to face with eccentric business tycoons. Either that struck him, or he decided to leave the question vague in solution.

  ‘He was very fond of making jokes, but I always found him an excellent worker in my sub-unit.’

  Cheesman said that without the least disapproval. He spoke as one merely registering an unusual characteristic. So far as jokes were concerned, his own features proclaimed a state of intact virginity as to any experience or sense of them, immaculately so. Cheesman had never made a joke, never seen a joke, could live – and die – without jokes, even if he knew they existed. It did him credit to have so far rationalized Stringham’s behaviour as to be capable of thus defining it Stringham might have been worse typified.

  ‘Stringham made jokes in the camp,’ he added.

  ‘He wasn’t taken from Singapore too?’

  ‘No.’

  Again the ghastly forked lightning flashed, a flicker of Death’s vision, reflected for a dreadful instant behind the wire spectacles’ plates of glass. The flesh of Cheesman’s face, softly wrinkled, made one think of those old servants of the past, who had worked unquestioningly for a lifetime in a single household. In Cheesman’s case this unchanging interior had been, no doubt, his own austere, limited – one might reasonably say heroic – personality. There was the same self-assurance as Dan Tokenhouse, the same impression of having dispensed with sex. There was something else too.

  ‘Stringham died in the camp. He behaved very well there.’

  Cheesman thought for a moment after saying that.

  ‘Very well. Yes. A good man. He wasn’t too strong, you know. Fancy your having met him. They’re odd these things. Sergeant-Major Ablett, you may remember him. He was rescued. He’s quite prosperous now.’

  The matter was better pressed no further. More information could easily become too much, too much anyway for one’s peace of mind. Cheesman gave no sign that might be so. He also made no attempt to enlarge. Lintot, understandably, had not been much interested in these reminiscences. If Cheesman were his personal accountant, as well as his firm’s, he may have felt he had a better right than myself to Cheesman’s attention, even if he had brought us together again.

  ‘Don’t mind my talking shop for a moment, Mr Cheesman. It will save a letter. Now about Tax Reserve Certificates …’

  By then Farebrother’s senior officer had managed to get away, with or without buying the shares remained unknown. Farebrother himself was making preparations to leave the party, giving a final look round the room to make sure he had missed no one worthy of a few minutes’ conversation. I went across to him. His friendliness was positively enormous. The powerful extrusion of Farebrother charm remained altogether undiminished by age. He was specially pleased about something, possibly success in whatever he had recommended his neighbour.

  ‘There’s an empty stretch of table over there, Nicholas. Let’s sit at it. I don’t feel like any more to drink, do you? Got to cut down on the pleasures of life nowadays. Something I want to ask you. What do you think of the latest development in the Widmerpool case?’

  ‘I didn’t know there was a case.’

  ‘You haven’t read the evening paper? The Question in the House? I think he’s for it now.’

  Farebrother was amazed anyone should have missed such a pleasure as that night’s evening paper. His handsome greyhound profile, additionally distinguished with increased age, lighted up while he supplied a commentary. He made clear that, in his opinion, this news was going to offer no minor revenge. The Parliamentary Question had been on the subject of Widmerpool’s commercial activities in Eastern Europe. To outward appearance worded in terms not at all sensational, they were, to an initiate in that form of attack, ominous in the extreme. The country concerned was the one where Widmerpool had been named in connexion with the State trial. Farebrother said he understood there had also been a denunciation on the air in one of their official broadcasts.

  ‘The implications are of the most damaging order.’

  ‘What’s he really been up to?*

  Farebrother, usually in the habit of cloaking his own imputations or reprisals in mild, vaguely expressed language, now made no bones about the disaster threatening his old enemy. He seemed to know more than was easily to be drawn from the mere wording of the Question, however much that were open to sophisticated interpretation. His war service (like that of Odo Stevens) had given Farebrother contacts from which such enlightenment might be derived. Someone in a position to ‘know’ could have dropped a hint. That was certainly the impression Farebrother himself, truly or not, hoped to give.

  ‘Some underling on their side was accepting bribes, and has now defected, so I’ve heard said. That had been done with Widmerpool’s connivance. He had been giving encouragement, too, by passing across little bits of information himself from time to time. How valuable that information was remains to be seen. In any case, I’m just putting two and two together. Most of it guesswork.’

  ‘Will it come to arrest, a trial?’

  ‘That depends what the employee reveals – if that story is true.’

  ‘In any case that would be in camera?’

  ‘You can’t say. Some evidence probably.’

  ‘The Question is just a ranging shot?’

  ‘Not far from the target. Give him a jolt. I can tell you something else too.’

  Farebrother looked about to make sure no one was sitting near us, who might overhear what he was going to say. Most of the diners were now congregated round the bar. Many had left, or were leaving. He put his arm over the back of my chair.

  ‘I’ve just retired from one of the smaller merchant banks. We deal with European and overseas commercial activities and investments. Fascinating work.’

  I toyed with the fantasy that Trapnel’s former girl, Tessa, was going to abut on to what Farebrother had to say, then remembered Gwinnett had described her as working for the chairman of a large, rather than small, merchant bank.

  ‘I don’t mind telling you some of the Eastern European deals of our friend might be of interest from the taxation angle, if figures had to be produced in a court of law. Nothing to do with treasonable dealings, just bank statements. I make no accusations. Just of interest, I suggest.’

  Farebrother smiled his charming smile. He settled back into his own chair. Then he looked at his watch.

  ‘Good gracious me, I must be getting home. Geraldine and I are not at all late birds.’
/>   ‘She is well, I hope.’

  Farebrother snapped his fingers in the air to give some idea of his wife’s overflowing health and spirits. He was in his gayest mood. The Parliamentary Question had made his day. It provided something far better, in a different class, from the occasion when Widmerpool’s career had been threatened by nothing worse than the disapproval of General Liddament.

  ‘We’ve found a nice little flat, not too expensive, well appointed as you could wish. Geraldine has a wonderful instinct for the right sort of economies, so we don’t have to be thinking about the pennies all the time now. In fact we find we can run a country cottage too. Roses are my interest these days. I don’t mind telling you, Nicholas, I’m rather proud of my roses. You and your wife must look us up, if you’re ever passing. We can’t always manage luncheon. Tea certainly. Well, it’s been a most enjoyable evening. I heard Ivo Deanery was to be present as a guest – can’t remember if you know him, he’s a major-general now – and we settled some useful matters. Don’t forget that invitation – preferably when the roses are in bloom.’

  He repeated the address of the cottage, waved one of his genial goodbyes, was gone. The following day, the Parliamentary Question was brought up again at another party, in very different circumstances. This occasion owed something to the diplomatic detente of which Bagshaw had spoken. The so-called ‘thaw’ had been reflected, in a minor manner, by the tour through some of the European capitals of a well-known Russian author, bestseller in his own country. To give a few of our own literary world opportunity to meet a confrere not in general encountered in the West, a luncheon, to which I found myself invited, was given at the Soviet Embassy.

  At this gathering, a foreseen profusion of literary figures had been perceptibly infused with a sprinkling of MPs, other notabilities, official and semi-official, either with a view to imparting additional robustness of texture to the party, or, more probably, simply to work off individuals, whose names were listed for entertainment, sooner or later, on the ambassadorial roster. Including our hosts of the Embassy staff, a large number of whom were present, about forty or fifty persons were drinking vodka, sampling zakuski, sitting in small groups scattered about a long, austerely decorated drawing-room. There was a faint atmosphere of constraint, as if someone or something essential to the party had not yet been manifested, but that would happen in a moment, when, from then on, all would be well, much easier, more relaxed.

  The invitation had not included wives of writers asked as guests, but both the Quiggins were there, Quiggin’s status as a publisher no doubt judged of sufficient eminence to be considered out of context, permitting accompaniment of his novelist consort. Alaric Kydd – to use a favourite phrase of Uncle Giles’s – was behaving as if he owned the place. Other writers included L. O. Salvidge, Bernard Shernmaker, Quentin Shuckerly, a lot more, men greatly predominating in numbers over women. Mark Members was absent, known to be ill; Len Pugsley, not important enough, or considered too closely ‘committed’ to be asked to a purely social party. Evadne Clapham had also been overlooked, more probably barred from acceptance by a too relentless social programme of her own. Dr Brightman, sprucely dressed in a fur cap and high fur collar, revealing a rather chilly manner to Ada Leintwardine, passed her with a smile, moving on to where L. O. Salvidge and I were chatting to one of the secretaries of embassy.

  ‘I hope you don’t think my clothes too voulu?’

  The secretary nodded, and laughed. He was a tall fair young man, of surface indistinguishable from any other member of London’s diplomatic corps of similar age and seniority. We discussed signs of spring in the London parks. The young secretary moved away for a moment to receive incoming guests. Salvidge caught my eye. His silent lips formed the words ‘KGB’. The secretary returned before any sort of secretly uttered return comment was possible. Dr Brightman shared none of Salvidge’s trepidation about our surroundings.

  ‘Have you seen anything of Russell Gwinnett? I’ve quite lost touch with him. He was staying at one moment with some people called Bagshaw. He wrote to me from their house. Rather a depressed letter. I hear he left after some sort of trouble. The most extraordinary story I was told.’

  Salvidge must have thought this subject dangerously controversial, perhaps because Gwinnett was American. He showed disquiet. At the same time he did not want to appear excluded from the circles of which Dr Brightman spoke.

  ‘Gwinnett came to see me. We had a talk. A nice young man. Not very exciting. I was not sure he was up to tackling so picturesque a figure as Trapnel.’

  Salvidge turned to the secretary to explain what he was talking about.

  ‘This is a young writer called Gwinnett – G-W-I-N-N-E-T-T – who is writing a book about a novelist, now dead, called Trapnel – T-R-A-P-N-E-L – a good writer. One of our best.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Salvidge must have thought this the moment to change the subject, probably what he had been leading up to.

  ‘Dr Brightman here, you know, is writing a book about Boethius – B-O-E-no diphthong – ’

  The secretary nodded politely, but cut Salvidge off.

  ‘See, we must go into luncheon.’

  We were firmly shepherded into the dining-room. So far as Salvidge was concerned, not a moment too soon. Here again was a faint sense of austerity, an impression of off-white walls sparsely decorated with pictures, landscapes light in tone – the steppe – birch trees – sunset on snow – nothing in the least reminiscent of Tokenhouse and his school. My place at table was between another secretary, possibly counsellor, somewhat older than the first, equally trimmed to outward diplomatic convention; on the other side, a personage not encountered for years, Bill Truscott.

  Tipped, as a young man, for at least a place in the Cabinet, even if by some mischance he failed to become Prime Minister, Truscott, after a promising start at Donners-Brebner, had come to rest in some governmental corporation, possibly the Coal Board. The Russian engaged with his other neighbour when I sat down, Truscott and I went through the process of recalling where we had last met. He still carried some of his old, rather distinguished style, a touch, too, of the old underlying toughness that had made people think he would forge ahead. Fresh from observing Farebrother as a professional charmer, one could not help feeling Truscott, at least ten years younger, had worn worse. His manner dated. If he had become the ‘great man’ predicted, no doubt it would have been perfectly serviceable. As he was, the demeanour was a trifle laboured, ponderous.

  I thought of my undergraduate days, when Truscott had been not merely an imposing, but positively frightening figure, setting up, by his flow of talk, standards of sophistication never to be contemplated as attainable. This brilliance of exterior, again, had been of quite a different sort from Glober’s. Even in those days, Truscott had been far less lively. There could be no great difference in age, even if the advantage was slightly on Truscott’s side. Unlike Glober, he had remained a bachelor. I spoke of Sillery’s ninetieth birthday party. It appeared Truscott had not been invited. He showed a little bitterness about that. It was true he had been one of the staunchest vassals of Sillery’s court. He should not have been forgotten. He asked if I often found myself in this embassy.

  ‘My first visit – and you?’

  ‘I’m asked from time to time. I’m afraid I’m not at all conversant with the current work of the guest of honour. I never read novels nowadays …’

  Possibly thinking that admission, for more than one reason, suggested a too headlong falling-off from what had once been an all embracing intellectual coverage, Truscott corrected himself. He gave one of his winning smiles.

  ‘That is, you understand, I don’t find much time, with so many things going on – as we all have – of course I fully intend … and naturally...’

  I told him what I had heard about Stringham, once his fellow secretary. Truscott showed interest.

  ‘Very sad. Poor Charles. He was a pleasant companion. One of the nicer people round Donners.’r />
  Thought of his days working for Sir Magnus must have brought Widmerpool to mind; more specifically, as agent of his own sacking from Donners-Brebner. He lowered his voice.

  ‘Hardly a subject for discussion here, but one cannot help being a little intrigued by the embarrassments, at the moment, of another protégé of Sir Magnus of that period.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to him?’

  By that time, having read the morning paper, I saw what Farebrother meant by speaking of Widmerpool’s position as insecure. Truscott certainly thought the same. He coughed, in a semi-official manner.

  ‘I should expect various enquiries of a – well, not exactly public nature – not immediately public, I mean – likely to be set on foot.’

  ‘You think it pretty serious?’

  ‘That would certainly be …’

  ‘Might come to a trial?’

  ‘One cannot tell. I — ’

  Massive middle-aged waitresses had been bustling about the room, snapping out a sharp commentary to each other in their own language, as they clattered with the plates. Now, one of them interposed a large dish of fish between Truscott and myself, severing our connexion. At the same moment, my Russian neighbour began a conversation. Soon, by natural processes, we were discussing Russian writers. After Lermontov and Pushkin, Gogol and Gontcharov, Tchekov and Tolstoy, Dostoevsky’s name cropped up. Pennistone – who would never allow intellectual standards to be lowered, just because he was in the army, a war on – had complained that, when he spoke of Dostoevsky’s Grand Inquisitor to General Lebedev, the Soviet military attaché (unconvincing as a regular soldier) had recommended Nekrasov’s truer picture of Russian life. In short, Dostoevsky, impossible to ignore, equally impossible to assimilate into Communist life, a monolithic embarrassment to his countrymen, was a tendentious subject for the present luncheon party, however unequivocally political the tradition of the Russian novel. Remembering Trapnel once speculated on the meaning of the surname ‘Karamazov’, I put the question.