A Question of Upbringing - Anthony Powell [87]
I agreed that Iron Aspidistra showed considerable promise. Quiggin gloomily turned the pages of the collection. He said: “I’d be glad to meet Members again.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to answer that he was almost certain to do this, sooner or later, if their homes were so close; but, as Quiggin evidently meant there and then, rather than in the vacation, I thought it wiser to leave the remark unmade. I promised to let him know if a suitable occasion should arise, such as Members visiting my rooms, though that seemed improbable after his behaviour at Short’s luncheon party.
“Can I take The Green Hat too?” asked Quiggin.
“Don’t lose it.”
“It is all about fashionable life, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes.”
I had myself not yet fully digested the subject matter of The Green Hat, a novel that I felt painted, on the whole, a sympathetic picture of what London had to offer: though much of the life it described was still obscure to me. I was surprised at Quiggin asking for it. He went on: “In that case I do not expect that I shall like it. I hate anything superficial. But I will take the book and look at it, and tell you what I think of the writing.”
“Do.”
“I suppose that it depicts the kind of world that your friend Stringham will enter when he joins Donners-Brebner,” said Quiggin, as he continued to inspect the book shelf.
“How do you mean?”
“Well you must have heard that he has taken the job that Truscott was talking about at Sillery’s. Surely he has told you that?”
“What, with Sir Magnus Donners?” It was no use pretending that I knew something of this already. I was, indeed, so surprised that only after Quiggin had gone did I begin to feel annoyance.
“I should have thought he would have told you,” said Quiggin.
“Where did you hear this?”
“At Sillery’s, of course. Sillery says Stringham is just the man.”
“He probably is.”
“Of course,” said Quiggin, “I knew at once there would be no chance of Truscott thinking of me. Not good enough, by any manner of means, I suppose.”
“Would you have liked the job?”
I did not know what else to say: the idea of Quiggin being the sort of man Truscott was looking for seeming to me so grotesque.
Quiggin did not bother to reply to this question. He merely repeated, with a sniff: “Not good enough by a long chalk,” adding: “You might come and see me some time in my college, if you can find the way to it. You won’t get any priceless port, or anything like that.”
I said that I was not particularly fond of port; and began to give an account of my likes and dislikes in the matter of wine, which Quiggin, with what I now see as excusable impatience, cut short by saying: “I live very quietly. I can’t afford to do otherwise.”
“Neither can I.”
Quiggin did not answer. He gave me a look of great contempt; as I supposed, for venturing, even by implication, to draw a parallel between a lack of affluence that might, literally, affect my purchase of rare vintages, and a figure of speech intended delicately to convey his own dire want for the bare necessities of life. He remained silent for several seconds, as if trying to make up his mind whether he could ever bring himself to speak to me again; and then said gruffly: “I’ve got to go now.”
As he went off, all hunched up on one side with Public School Verse and The Green Hat under his arm, I felt rather ashamed of myself for having made such a thoughtless remark. However, I soon forgot about this, at the time, in recalling the news I had learnt about Stringham, which I wanted to verify as soon as possible. In general, however, I continued to feel an interest in Quiggin, and the way he lived. He had something of the angry solitude of spirit that held my attention in Widmerpool.
Stringham, when