Pamela remained unsatisfied.
‘That wasn’t what I meant. I didn’t say having an affair. I said watching—looking on, or being looked at.’
She spoke the words emphatically, in a clearer tone than that she was accustomed to use. Her attention had undoubtedly been captured. Dr Brightman, not in the least denying that to ‘watch’ was quite another matter, nodded again to show she fully grasped the disparity.
‘You mean one facet of the legend links up with kingship in another guise? I agree. Sacrifice is almost implied. Public manifestation of himself as source of fertility might be required too, to forestall a successor from snatching that attribute of regality. You have made a good point, Lady Widmerpool. To speak less seriously, one cannot help recalling a local example here in Venice—or rather the island seclusion of Murano—of the practice to which you refer. I mean Casanova’s divertissement with the two nuns under the eye of Cardinal de Bernis.’
Pamela, perhaps from ignorance of the Memoirs, appeared out-manoeuvred for the moment, at least attempted no comeback. The subject could already have begun to pall on her, though for once she was looking thoughtful rather than impatient. Moreland, too, was fond of talking about Casanova’s threesome with the nuns.
‘I’ve never myself been more than one of a pair,’ Moreland said. ‘How inexperienced one is, even though the best things in life are free. For the more venturesome, the song is not How happy could I be with either, but How happy could I be with two girls.’
By now the rest of the Conference had begun to infiltrate the Longhi room, the vanguard of oncoming intellectuals substantiating Dr Brightman’s comparison with the sages, abbés, punchinellos, pictured on the white-and-gold walls. Gwinnett was among this advance party, which also included two other British representatives, Ada Leintwardine and Quentin Shuckerly. Both of these accommodated at an hotel on the Lido, I had done no more than exchange a few words with them. They were taking the Conference with great seriousness, from time to time addressing sessions, an obligation for which Gwinnett and myself had substituted contribution to the organ devoted to its ‘dialogues’. Ada, not least because she retained some of the girlish good-looks of her twenties, had been warmly received in her observations regarding the necessity of assimilating European culture to that of Asia and Africa, delivered in primitive but daring French. Shuckerly, too, won applause by the artlessness and modesty with which he emphasized the many previous occasions on which he had made his now quite famous speech about culture being the scene-shifter to ring up the Iron Curtain.
Shuckerly was a great crony of Ada’s. Tall, urbane, smiling, businesslike, with a complexion so richly tanned by the sun that his enemies (friends, too) hinted at artifice, he had by now begun almost to rival Mark Members himself as a notable figure at international congresses. In earlier days, both as intimate friend and committed poet, he had been closely associated with Malcolm Crowding. Bernard Shernmaker, always irked by even comparative success in others, had designated Shuckerly ‘the air-hostess of English Letters’ at some literary party. ‘Better than the ad-man of french ones,’ had been Shuckerly’s retort, a slanting gloss on Shernmaker’s recently published piece about Ferrand-Sénéschal. Ada and Shuckerly sat on the same committees, signed the same protests, seemed to share much the same temperament, except that Ada, so far as was known, required no analogous counterpoise to Shuckerly’s alleged taste (Shernmaker again the authority) for being intermittently beaten-up.
Shernmaker had been malicious about Ada, too, in days of her first appearance as a novelist, though latterly, having in general somewhat lost his critical nerve, allowing her from time to time temperate praise. Some explained this unfriendly tone by rejected advances, at the period when Ada was new to London, and certainly Shernmaker remained always insistent that, in spite of marriage, Ada’s emotional interests lay chiefly with her own sex. There may have been some truth in this assertion. If so, that had not prevented her from giving birth to twins soon after marriage to Quiggin, their identical, almost laughable, resemblance to their father scotching another of Shernmaker’s disobliging innuendos. Quiggin did not by now at all mind his wife being a better known figure than himself. The sales of her books may even have played some part in his own evolvement, after Clapham’s death, as chairman of the firm. In the delicate rôle—compared by Evadne Clapham to a troika—of publisher, husband, critic, Quiggin had judged his wife’s first book, I Stopped at a Chemist (a tolerable film as Sally Goes Shopping), too short commercially. In consequence of this advice, Ada had written two long novels about domestic life, which threatened literary doldrums. She had extracted herself with Bedsores and The Bitch Pack Meets on Wednesday, since these never looked back as a successful writer. Ada’s personality—what Members called her ‘petits soins’—played a considerable part, too, in the Quiggins’ notorious literary dinner parties.
As they advanced into the Tiepolo room, Shuckerly made for Dr Brightman, Ada for Pamela. She seemed very surprised to find her old friend in the Bragadin palace. As Ada passed him, Glober shot out an appraising glance, reminiscent of those Peter Templer used to give ladies he did not know, Glober’s all-inclusive survey suggesting recognition of Ada’s valuable qualities, additional to her good looks. Always a shade on the plump side (even when she had worked for Sillery), she was no thinner, but carried herself well, retaining that air of bright, blonde, efficient, self-possessed secretary, who knows the whereabouts of everything required in a properly run office, much too sensible to allow more than just the right minimum of flirtatious behaviour to pervade business hours. No doubt Ada had learnt a lot from contact with Sillery. At the ninetieth birthday celebrations mentioned by Dr Brightman, the names of both the Quiggins had appeared as present, Quiggin himself reported as having delivered one of the many speeches.
Ada hurried up to Pamela, and embraced her warmly. It looked as if they had not met for some time. Pamela’s reception of this greeting was less obviously approving of reunion, though her accustomed coldness of manner was not to be constructed as pointer in one direction more than another. Ten years ago they had been on good terms. Since then they might well have quarrelled, moved apart, made friends again, never ceased to be friends. It was impossible to judge from outward signs. Pamela allowed herself to be kissed. She made no attempt to return the ardent flow of words from Ada that followed. No such display of sentiment was to be expected, even if Ada could claim, in the past, to have been Pamela’s sole female friend and confidante. No doubt mere acceptance of Ada’s continued devotion confirmed no rift had taken place.
‘Pam, what are you doing here? You’re the last person I’d expected to see. You can’t be a member of the Conference?’
Pamela made a face of disgust at the thought.
‘What are you doing then?’
‘I’m staying here.’
‘In the Palazzo—with Mr Bragadin?’
‘Of course.’
‘Both of you?’
Ada allowed too much unconcealed curiosity to echo in that question for Pamela’s taste. Her face hardened. She began to frown. As it turned out, that seemed more from contempt for Ada’s crude inquisitiveness, than from displeasure at what she wanted to know. Whatever Pamela’s feelings about her husband, she was not prepared to plunge into the heart-to-heart talk about him which Ada’s question posed. Ada’s tone sounded as if she too had heard Pamela’s name connected with the Ferrand-Sénéschal affair. It was more than a conventional enquiry to a wife about her husband. The conventional assumption would in any case have been that Pamela was not accompanied by Widmerpool. Ada was no doubt dying to learn how he was taking this new scandal involving his wife’s name; Pamela, perfectly grasping what her friend was after, not at all inclined, there and then, to make a present of the latest news. Instead, she gave Ada a look, hard, understanding, half-threatening, which declared for the present a policy of adjournment in relation to more exciting items.
‘He’s arriving today.’
�
�In Venice?’
‘Yes.’
This manner of stating Widmerpool’s movements recalled the habit of referring always to ‘him’, rather than using a name. Ada’s question was at least answered.
‘That awful night-flight? I was a wreck when I arrived at four in the morning.’
Pamela laughed derisively.
‘He wasn’t man enough to take the night-flight this time. He’s on a plane as far as Milan, from there by train.’
Ada was persistent.
‘Is he feeling worried then?’
‘Why should he be?’
‘I don’t know. I just wondered. He always has such a lot on his plate, as he himself always says. I must congratulate him on becoming a lord—and you too, darling.’
‘Oh, that?’
‘Aren’t you pleased?’
Pamela did not bother to answer.
‘I’m longing for a talk.’
Pamela did not answer that either. She began to frown again. It did not look as if she herself were longing for a talk at all. Her bearing suggested quite the contrary. In spite of such discouragement, Ada rattled on. She was, after all, used to Pamela and her ways. An affection of simplicity was simply part of Ada’s tactic. She judged, probably rightly, that even if Pamela’s prevailing aspect did not at present show a good disposition towards old acquaintance, that could in due course be overcome.
‘How long are you both staying in Venice?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’ve a story I must tell you.’
Ada lowered her voice. Gwinnett, finished with the Longhis, had proceeded on to examination of the Tiepolo. He was moving steadily in our direction. At any moment now opportunity would be offered for putting him in touch with Pamela. Obligation to effect an introduction, so that he could relate her to his work on Trapnel, was not to be ignored. On the other hand, was this the right moment? From Gwinnett’s point of view the risk was considerable. Head-on presentation might—almost certainly would—result in one of Pamela’s sudden capricious antagonisms, possibly aversion so keen that all further enquiry in her direction woud be at an end. Nevertheless, in whatever manner Gwinnett were to approach her, that eventuality had to be faced. There was no way of guarding against their temperaments proving mutually antipathetic. This was as good a chance as likely to occur. In the case of flat refusal to cooperate, he would have to do the best he could. To bring them together in this neutral spot, even if Gwinnett did not, here and now, speak of Trapnel—an awkward subject to broach in the first few seconds after introduction—circumstances would at least allow him to absorb something of Pamela’s personality, useful material for his book he might never secure again, if opportunity were missed. Before I could make up my mind how best to act, Glober, left on his own by Ada’s monopoly of Pamela, Shuckerly’s of Dr Brightman, began to speak of the ceiling again.
‘The way the painter’s contrived to illuminate those locations of dark pigmentation is just great. Dwell on that multi-coloured luminosity of cloud effect. To think I spent twenty-four hours in Jacky’s Palazzo before stepping over to gaze.’
Continuous companionship, with the conversation that brought, was necessary to Glober all the time. His manner made one feel even momentary isolation of himself required ending instantly, if he were not to risk grave nervous strain. His words postponed need for decision about bringing together Gwinnett and Pamela. Gwinnett himself came up at that moment, and started off an enquiry of his own.
‘Do you know the legend depicted up there? It’s not familiar to me.’
Glober, recognizing another American, but taking charge probably more from instinct to speak authoritatively, than because a fellow-countryman had asked the question, stepped in with an answer.
‘We’ve just been told the story by Dr Brightman. It’s a great one.’
He proceded to recapitulate, briefly and proficiently. Gwinnett listened with attention. I did not know whether he recognized Glober, nor, if so, whether he wanted to meet him. His own vague manner almost suggested unawareness that Glober and I had been talking together; that nothing was further from his mind than that Glober should reply to his question. At the same time, one never quite knew with Gwinnett; what he was thinking, how he would behave. That his action in approaching us at that moment was deliberate, premeditated, could not be entirely ruled out.
‘Thanks a lot. That’s an interesting story.’
Gwinnett evidently meant what he said. Although I was aware of hazards incident on introducing to each other nationals of the same country (Americans not least), without carefully reconnoitring the ground, no alternative was offered. I spoke their names, coupled with that of the college where Gwinnett taught English. He smiled faintly when this was done, but with an impassivity that gave nothing away, least of all any hint that he was already conversant with Glober’s reputation. If interested in making this encounter, Gwinnett did not show it, holding his cards to his chest in a manner, to the popular European view, ‘un-American’. Anyway, it was in contrast with Glober’s exuberance, intact from younger days, tempered with that unnoisy manner which so well suited him. There was nothing in the least forced about Glober’s friendliness, none of that sense of inadequacy sometimes noticeable after a gushing approach has lacked basic vitality to sustain its first impact. Glober possessed that inner strength. When he caught Gwinnett’s two hands, the gesture managed to be warm, amusing, not at all reckless or overdone.
‘One of the rarest signatures too,’ he said.
Although he spoke in that quiet way, he might just as well have shouted, from the punch he put into this piece of banter, for, even if complimentary, banter was what it turned out to be. At the time, the bearing was obscure to me, unconnected with Dr Brightman’s reference to the surname’s link with a ‘Signer’ family; though I noted inwardly the odd coincidence of Gwinnett himself speaking ironically of Glober being ‘able to sign his name’. The conjunction of phrase, a mere chance, made Gwinnett’s reply seem the more enigmatic. Later, I wondered whether, in fact, he ever signed his own name without thinking of his ancestor. That was not impossible. At the moment he appeared a little put out, laughing in a deprecatory manner, as he tried to withdraw his fingers from Glober’s grip.
‘I take care my own signature’s a rare one too,’ he said. ‘Anyway on cheques.’
There was a touch of reproof in this rather knockabout rejoinder. Gwinnett was probably flattered too. How much flattered was hard to assess, the incident not immediately explicable, its implications only subsequently revealed. Gwinnett was in any case, so it seemed to me, too good an American to persist, after all that, in his earlier, more distant air; to make absolutely unambiguous a preference for different, less overpowèring, modes of address between strangers. There was no question of ‘putting Glober in his place’, an inclination that might easily have emerged in England from a personality of Gwinnett’s type. At the same time, to the extent of showing the smallest spark of exuberance himself, he did not at all retreat from his own chosen position, just keeping a dead level of civility, to which exception could not possibly be taken.
In due course, Dr Brightman explained that, among endorsements of the Declaration of Independence, Button Gwinnett’s signature happened to be much prized among collectors purposing to possess an example of each. In Gwinnett’s light dismissal, as an individual, of Glober’s commendatory teasing, in quite another form, something was reminiscent of Pamela’s neutralization of Ada’s affectionate embrace. Neutralization was the process Gwinnett’s manner often called to mind. Pamela’s exterior, to the uninformed observer, could have been interpreted as hostile. No hostility was present in Gwinnett’s reply, just unspoken announcement of another way of life. If that were hostility, it was to be detected by only the most delicate instrument. Glober himself showed not the smallest awareness of even that antithesis. Constitutionally habituated, simply as a man, to being liked by people, he could have become insensitive to antipathy, unless explicit; alternati
vely, so intensely conscious of any attitude towards himself short of total surrender, that he was conditioned utterly to conceal any such awareness.
The dissimilarities of these two Americans seemed to put them into almost every direct opposition in relation to one another: Gwinnett, much the younger, a disturbed background, chancy fortunes, a small but appreciable stake in American history: Glober, of mature age, easy manner, worldly success, recent—not necessarily easy—family origins. One thought of the gladiator with the sword and shield; the one with the net and trident. No doubt gladiators too had in common the typical characteristics of their trade, and something bound Gwinnett and Glober together, perhaps merely their ‘Americanness’. One struggled for a phrase to define this characteristic in common, if indeed it existed. An appropriate term warbled across the room from the lips of Quentin Shuckerly.
‘So I told Bernard he was just like the lame boy in the Pied Piper, getting left behind as a critic, whenever a fashionable tune was played. I clinched my argument by using a word he didn’t know—allotropic—a variation of properties that doesn’t change the substance. My dear, the poor man was completely crushed.’
That seemed the term for Glober and Gwinnett, at least how they looked to one across the abyss of uncertainty that precluded definition, with any subtlety, of American types and ways. Meanwhile, the question of whether or not to introduce Gwinnett to Pamela, without saying some preliminary word first, was becoming more urgent than ever. Thinking about allotropy was no help. Then all at once, in a flash, the problem was solved, the Gordian Knot cut, possibly in interplay of that allotropic element. Personal responsibility was all at once removed. Glober, taking Gwinnett by the arm, broke in between Pamela and Ada.
‘I want you to meet Professor Gwinnett, Pam. This is Lady Widmerpool, who’s stopping in the Palazzo.’
Why Glober did that I could not guess at the time, have never since quite decided. The step may have been due to a compulsive, all-embracing need to arrange, in a manner satisfactory to himself, everyone within orbit—creating an instant court, as Dr Brightman might have said—the spirit in Glober that brought together the Mopsy Pontner dinner party. He may, on the other hand, having favourably marked down Ada, grasped that the simplest way to talk with her for a minute or two would be to occupy Pamela with Gwinnett. Alternatively, the consigning of Gwinnett to Pamela might have appealed to him as a delicate revenge for Gwinnett’s latent superciliousness, at least refusal to fall in more amicably with Glober’s own more effusive mood. To introduce Gwinnett to Pamela was as likely as not to cause a clash. That clash might be what Glober wished, not necessarily in a mood of retaliation, but with the object of bringing the two of them together for the spectacle, the sheer fun, mildly sadistic, of watching what was likely to be a ‘scene’—any scene—in which Pamela was involved. What he certainly did not know was that Gwinnett’s highest ambition at that moment was just what had taken place through Glober’s own instrumentality.
Dance to the Music of Time, Volume 4 Page 33