A Question of Upbringing - Anthony Powell [74]
Peter Templer, as I have said, rarely wrote letters, so that we had, to some extent, lost touch with him. Left to himself there could be little doubt that he would, in Stringham’s phrase, “relapse into primeval barbarism.” Stringham often spoke of him, and used to talk, almost with regret, of the adventures they had shared at school: already, as it were, beginning to live in the past. Some inward metamorphosis was no doubt the cause of Stringham’s melancholia, because his attacks of gloom, although qualified by fairly frequent outbursts of high spirits, could almost be given that name. There was never a moment when he became reconciled to the life going on round him. “The buildings are nice,” he used to say. “But not the undergraduates.”
“What do you expect undergraduates to be like?”
“Keep bull-pups and drink brandies-and-soda. They won’t do as they are.”
“Your sort sound even worse.”
“Anyway, what can one do here? I am seriously thinking of running away and joining the Foreign Legion or the North-West Mounted Police – whichever work the shorter hours.”.
“It is the climate.”
“One feels awful if one drinks, and worse if one’s sober. I knew Buster’s picture of the jolly old varsity was not to be trusted. After all he never tried it himself.”
“How is he?”
“Doing his best to persuade my mother to let Glimber to an Armenian,” said Stringham, and speaking with perhaps slightly more seriousness: “You know, Tuffy was very much against my coming up.”
“What on earth did it have to do with her?”
“She takes a friendly interest in me,” said Stringham, laughing. “She behaved rather well when I was in Kenya as a matter of fact. Used to send me books, and odds and ends of gossip, and all that sort of thing. One appreciates that in the wide open spaces. She is not a bad old girl. Many worse.”
He was always a trifle on the defensive about Miss Weedon. I had begun to understand that his life at home was subject to exterior forces like Buster’s disapproval, or Miss Weedon’s regard, which brought elements of uncertainty and discord into his family life, not only accepted by him, but almost enjoyed. He went on: “There has been talk of my staying here only a couple of years and going into the Foot Guards. You know there is some sort of arrangement now for entering the army through the university. That was really my mother’s idea.”
“What does Miss Weedon think?”
“She favours coming to London and having a good time. I am rather with her there. The Household Cavalry has been suggested, too. One is said – for some reason – to ‘have a good time in The Tins’.”
“And Buster’s view?”
“He would like me to remain here as long as possible – four years, post-graduate course, research fellowship, anything so long as I stay away – since I shattered his dream that I might settle in Kenya.” It was after one of these conversations in which he had complained of the uneventfulness of his day that I suggested that we should drop in on Sillery.
“What is Sillery?”
I repeated some of Short’s description of Sillery, adding a few comments of my own.
“Oh, yes,” said Stringham. “I remember about him now. Well, I suppose one can try everything once.”
We were, as it happened, first to arrive at that particular party. Sillery, who had just finished writing a pile of letters, the top one of which, I could not avoid seeing, was addressed to a Cabinet Minister, was evidently delighted to have an opportunity to work over Stringham, whom he recognised immediately on hearing the name.
“How is your