‘Rather hard on JG and Ada, who are also coming. They’ve done their best for those girls. The only reward is that they throw paint over Kenneth Widmerpool, and then turn up with him at their parents’ parties.’
The disapproval with which Members spoke did not conceal a touch of excitement. If the Quiggin twins were to be present there was no knowing what might not happen. The room began to fill. L. O. Salvidge, an old supporter of Trapnel’s (he had taken some trouble to give Death’s-head Swordsman a send-off review), brought a new wife, his fourth. Wearing very long shiny black boots, much blue round the eyes, she was a good deal younger than her predecessors. They were followed by Bernard Shernmaker, who, in contrast with Salvidge, had always remained unmarried. Shernmaker, by not reviewing Gwinnett’s book had still avoided committing himself about Trapnel. He was in not at all a good temper, in fact seemed in the depths of rage and despair. If looks were anything to go by, he was never going to write a notice of Death’s-head Swordsman. Members, as an old acquaintance, did not allow Shernmaker’s joyless façade to modify his own consciously jocular greeting.
‘Hullo, Bernard. Have you heard the Quiggin twins are coming tonight? What do you think about that?’
Shernmaker’s face contorted horribly. Nightmares of boredom and melancholy oozed from him, infecting all the social atmosphere round about. Somebody put a drink in his hand. Tension relaxed a little. A moment later the Quiggin parents appeared. Ada, as customary with her, was making the best of things. If she knew about her daughters attending the party with Widmerpool, she was determined to carry the situation off at this stage as natural enough. The probability was that she did not yet know the twins were to be present. Fifty in sight, Ada had kept her looks remarkably well. She began to profess immense enthusiasm at the prospect of meeting Gwinnett again.
‘Is he here yet? I scarcely took him in at all, when we were all in Venice that time. I long to have another look. Fancy Pamela, of all people, going to such lengths for a man.’
‘Gwinnett hasn’t arrived yet.’
‘Now that he’s won the Magnus Donners, JG is furious we never signed him up for the Trapnel biography. I suggested that at the time. JG wasn’t in the least interested. He said books about recently dead writers were dead ducks. He’s specially angry because L. O. Salvidge gave it such a good notice. I told him that was only because there’s nothing about at this time of year. JG’s not only cross on account of none of our books ever winning the Magnus Donners, but he’s got a bad throat too. It makes him full of Angst, worries, regrets of all sorts. He mustn’t stay late.’
Quiggin was certainly looking sorry for himself. Giving off an exhalation of cold-cures, he was wrinkling his high forehead irritably. Contrary to Ada’s words, he showed little or no interest in who might, or might not, have won the Prize, brushing off Evadne Clapham, when she tried to get his opinion about the selection this time. Evadne Clapham herself had recently made something of a comeback with Cain’s Jawbone (her thirty-fifth novel), a story that returned to the style which had first made her name.
‘The title of Mr Gwinnett’s book is curiously like that of my own last novel, JG. Do you think he could have had time to be influenced by reading it? I’m so anxious to meet him. There’s something I must tell him in confidence about Trappy.’
Quiggin, offering no opinion on book-titles, restated his own position.
‘I oughtn’t to have come tonight. I’m feeling rotten.’
‘Do you think Kenneth Widmerpool knows Mr Gwinnett is in London?’ Ada remarked.
That gave Members his chance.
‘Hadn’t you heard Widmerpool’s coming tonight, Ada? He’s bringing Amanda and Belinda.’
Members could not conceal all surprise at his luck in being able to announce that to the twins’ parents. Ada controlled herself, but looked extremely put out. The information was altogether too much for her husband. Quiggin and Members might be on good terms these days, even so, there were limits to what Quiggin was prepared to take from his old friend. He received this disclosure as if it were a simple display of spite on the part of Members, whose genial tone did not entirely discount that proposition. Quiggin, pasty-faced from his indisposition, went red. He gave way to a violent fit of coughing. When this seizure was at an end, he burst out, in the middle of the sentence his voice rising to a near screech.
‘Amanda and Belinda are coming to this dinner?’
Members was not prepared for his words to have had so violent an effect. He now spoke soothingly.
‘Kenneth Widmerpool simply asked if he could bring them. There seemed no objection.’
‘But why the buggery is Widmerpool coming himself?’
‘He was just invited.’
Members said that disingenuously, as if inviting Widmerpool was the most natural thing in the world. In one sense it might be, but not within existing circumstances. Quiggin was too cross to think that out.
‘Why the bloody hell didn’t you tell us before, Mark? I didn’t realize all the thing with Widmerpool and the twins was still going on. Anyway why should they want to turn up at a party like this?’
Ada intervened. Even if the announcement were just as irritating for herself, she was better able to conceal annoyance.
‘Oh, do shut up about the girls, JG. They’re all right. We know about their seeing a lot of Widmerpool. No harm in that. They joke about it themselves. After all he’s chancellor of their bloody university. If anybody’s got a right to be friends with them, he has. They might easily have been sent down, even these days, if it hadn’t been for him. Why shouldn’t they come and hear who’s won the Prize. Do have some sense. Why, hullo, Evadne. Congratulations on Cain’s Jawbone. I haven’t read it yet, but it’s on my list. Hullo, Quentin. What news on the cultural front? I enjoyed your piece on Musil, Bernard. So did JG. Have you read the Gwinnett book?’
Isobel arrived. She and I were talking with Salvidge, and his new wife, when Delavacquerie came up. He brought with him a smallish bald thick-set man, wearing a dark suit of international cut, and somewhat unEnglish tie.
‘Here’s Professor Gwinnett, Nick.’
Delavacquerie, rather justly, said that a little reprovingly, as if I might have been expected, if not to mark down Gwinnett’s entry into the room, at least to show quicker reaction, when brought face to face with him in person. Whatever Delavacquerie’s right to take that line, I should have been quite unaware who the man in the dark suit might be, without this specific statement of identity. It was lucky I had not been close to the door when Gwinnett entered the room. So far as I was concerned, he was unrecognizable. Since Venice, a drastic transformation had taken place. Gwinnett held out his hand. He did not speak or smile.
‘Hullo, Russell.’
‘Good to see you, Nicholas.’
‘You got my letter?’
‘Thanks for your letter, and congratulations. I didn’t reply. I was pretty sure I’d be seeing you, after what Mr Delavacquerie told me.’
‘It was only meant as a line to say how much I’d enjoyed the book, Russell. Delighted it won the Prize. Also glad to see you over here again. You haven’t met Isobel. You’re sitting next to each other at dinner.’
Giving her a long searching look, Gwinnett took Isobel’s hand. He remained unsmiling. When I had last seen him, his appearance seemed young for his age, then middle thirties. Now, in middle forties, he might have been considered older than that. He had also added to his personality some not at once definable characteristics, a greater compactness than before. Perhaps that impression was due only to a changed exterior. All physical slightness was gone. Gwinnett was positively heavy now in build. He had shaved off the thin line of moustache, and was totally bald. Such hair as might have remained above his ears had been rigorously clipped away. Below were allowed two short strips of whisker. The shaven skull—which made one think at once of his book’s title—conferred a tougher look than formerly. He had always something of the professional gymnast. The additional
fleshiness might have been that of a retired lightweight boxer or karate instructor. Pale blue lenses, once worn in his spectacles, had been exchanged for large rimless circles of glass girdered with steel.
‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr Gwinnett.’
Gwinnett slightly inclined his head. He wholly accepted Isobel must have heard a lot about him, that others in the room might have heard a lot about him too. Such was what his manner suggested. It was surprising how little to be regarded as authentic was available even now. The Pamela Widmerpool episode apart, he was scarcely less enigmatic than when I had first sat next to him at one of the luncheons of the Venice conference, and we had talked of the Sleaford Veronese. Delavacquerie returned, bringing with him Emily Brightman and Members, the last of whom had not previously met Gwinnett. Old friend as she was, Emily Brightman had observed Gwinnett’s arrival no more than myself. She, too, may have found him unrecognizable. If so, she covered that by the warmth of greeting when she took his hand. I think, in her way, she was much attached to him. If she felt doubts about some of the complexities of Gwinnett’s nature, she put into practice her belief that certain matters, even if known to be true, are not necessarily the better for being said aloud.
‘How are you, Russell? Why have you never written and told me about yourself for all these years? Wasn’t it nice that we were able to give you the Prize? You have produced a work to deserve it. How long are you remaining in this country?’
‘Just a week, Emily. I’ll be back again next year. I’ve got research to do over here.’
‘Another great work?’
‘I guess so.’
‘What’s the subject. Or is that a secret?’
‘No secret at all—The Gothic Symbolism of Mortality in the Texture of Jacobean Stagecraft.’
Gwinnett, always capable of bringing off a surprise, did so this time. Neither Emily Brightman nor I were quite prepared for the title of his new book.
‘Some people—I think you among them, Emily—judged X. Trapnel a little lightweight as a theme. I do not think so myself, but that has been suggested. I decided to look around for a new focus. I see the Jacobean project as in some ways an extension, rather than change, of subject matter. Trapnel had much in common with those playwrights.’
This offered yet another reason for the epigraph introducing Death’s-head Swordsman. Gwinnett had been speaking with the enthusiasm that would suddenly, though rarely, come into his voice. Members, who had no reason to be greatly interested in Gwinnett’s academic enterprises, strayed off to examine the new Mrs Salvidge. There was a pause. Even Emily Brightman seemed to have no immediate comment to make on the Jacobean dramatists. Gwinnett had the characteristic of imposing silences. He did so now. I broke it with a piece of seventeenth-century pedantry that seemed at least an alternative to this speechlessness.
‘Beaumont, the dramatist, was a kind of first-cousin of my own old friend, Robert Burton of the Anatomy of Melancholy.’
‘Sure.’
Gwinnett spoke as if every schoolboy knew that. Emily Brightman, abandoning seventeenth-century scholarship, asked where he was staying in London. Gwinnett named an hotel.
‘Wait, I’ll write that down.’
She took an address-book from her bag. Either the name conveyed nothing, or Emily Brightman was showing more then ever her refusal to find human behaviour, notably Gwinnett’s, at all out of the ordinary, anyway when his was removed from the purely academic sphere. I was not sure I should myself have been equally capable of concealing the least flicker of recognition at the name. Gwinnett had chosen to visit again the down-at-heel hostelry in the St Pancras neighbourhood, where he had spent the night—her last—with Pamela Widmerpool. He drawled the address in his usual slow unemphasized scarcely audible tone. Emily Brightman’s impassivity in face of this taste for returning to old haunts, however gruesome their associations, could have been due as much to forgetfulness as to pride in accepting Gwinnett’s peculiarities. Nevertheless, she changed the subject again.
‘Now tell me of your other doings, Russell. I don’t know much about your college, beyond reading in the papers that it had been suffering from campus disturbances. Sum up the root of the trouble. What is the teaching like there?’
Gwinnett began speaking of his academic life. Emily Brightman, listening with professional interest, made an occasional comment. Delavacquerie, who was now standing by in silence, drew me aside. He had perhaps been waiting for a suitable opportunity to do that.
‘As soon as Professor Gwinnett arrived I informed him that Lord Widmerpool was attending the dinner.’
‘How did he take that?’
‘He just acknowledged the information.’
‘There’s no necessity for them to meet.’
‘Unless one of them feels the challenge.’
‘Widmerpool probably wants to do no more than reexamine Gwinnett. He barely met him when we were in Venice. Widmerpool is not at all observant where individuals are concerned. Also, he had plenty of other things to think about at the time. It would be reasonable to have developed a curiosity about Gwinnett, after what happened, even if this is not a particularly sensitive way of taking another look at him.’
‘Didn’t they see each other at the inquest?’
‘How are such enquiries arranged? Perhaps they did. All I know is that Gwinnett was exonerated from all blame. I find it more extraordinary that Widmerpool should choose to bring the Quiggin twins, rather than that he should wish to gaze at Gwinnett.’
‘Aren’t the girls just a way of showing off?’
Delavacquerie put on an interrogative expression that was entirely French. He was probably right. Commonplace vanity was the explanation. Widmerpool felt satisfaction, as a man of his age, in appearing with a pair of girls, who, if no great beauties, were lively and notorious. They could be a spur to his own exhibitionism, if not his masochism.
‘I see Evadne Clapham making towards us. She tells me she has something vital to convey to Professor Gwinnett about Trapnel. Can Trapnel have slept with her? One never knows. It might be best to get the introduction over before dinner.’
Delavacquerie went off. By now Matilda had arrived. As queen of the assembly, she had got herself up even more theatrically than usual, a sort of ruff, purple and transparent, making her look as if she were going to play Lady Macbeth; an appearance striking the right note in the light of Gwinnett’s new literary preoccupations. When Delavacquerie presented him to her this seemed to go well. Matilda must often have visited New York and Washington with Sir Magnus, and Gwinnett showed none of the moodiness of which he could be capable, refusal to indulge in any conversational trivialities. By the time dinner was announced the two of them gave the appearance of chatting together quite amicably. There was no sign yet of Widmerpool, nor the Quiggin twins. They would presumably all arrive together. As Delavacquerie had said, I found myself between Emily Brightman, and the wife of a Donners-Brebner director; the latter, a rather worried middle-aged lady, had put on all her best clothes, and most of her jewellery, as protection, when venturing into what she evidently regarded as a world threatening perils of every kind. We did not make much contact until the soup plates were being cleared away.
‘I’m afraid I haven’t read any of your books. I believe you write books, don’t you? I hope you won’t mind that.’
I was in process of picking out one of the several routine replies designed to bridge this not at all uncommon conversational opening—a phrase that at once generously accepts the speaker’s candour in confessing the omission, while emphasizing the infinite unimportance of any such solicitude on that particular point—when need to make any reply at all was averted by a matter of much greater interest to both of us. This was entry into the room of Widmerpool and the Quiggin twins. My neighbour’s attention was caught simultaneously with my own, though no doubt for different reasons. Widmerpool led the party of three, Amanda and Belinda following a short distance behind. As they came up the room most of the talk a
t the tables died down, while people stopped eating to stare.
‘Do tell me about that man and the two girls. I’m sure I ought to know who they are. Isn’t it a famous author, and his two daughters? He’s probably a close friend of yours, and you will laugh at my ignorance.’
In the circumstances the supposition of the director’s lady was not altogether unreasonable. If you thought of authors as a grubby lot, a tenable standpoint, Widmerpool certainly filled the bill; while the age of his companions in relation to his own might well have been that even of grandfather and granddaughters. Since I had known him as a schoolboy, Widmerpool had been not much less than famous for looking ineptly dressed, a trait that remained with him throughout life, including his army uniforms. At the same time—whether too big, too small, oddly cut, strangely patterned—his garments had hitherto always represented, even at his most revolutionary period, the essence of stolid conventionality as their aim. They had never been chosen, in the first instance, with the object of calling attention to himself. Now all was altered. There had been a complete change of policy. He wore the same old dark grey suit—one felt sure it was the same one—but underneath was a scarlet high-necked sweater.
‘As a matter of fact he’s not an author, though I believe he’s writing a book. He’s called Lord Widmerpool.’
‘Not the Lord Widmerpool?’
‘There’s only one, so far as I know.’
‘But I’ve seen him on television. He didn’t look like that.’
‘Perhaps he was well made-up. In any case he’s said to have changed a good deal lately. I haven’t seen him for a long time myself. He’s certainly changed since I last saw him.’
Her bewilderment was understandable.
‘Are the girls his daughters?’
‘No—he’s never had any children.’
‘Who are they then? They look rather sweet. Are they twins? I love their wearing dirty old jeans at this party.’
‘They’re the twin daughters of J. G. Quiggin, the publisher, and his novelist wife, Ada Leintwardine. Their parents are sitting over there at the table opposite. J. G. Quiggin’s the bald man, helping himself to vegetables, his wife the lady with her hair piled up rather high.’
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