A Question of Upbringing - Anthony Powell [95]
“How are you getting on, Jenkins?” he asked, at last agreeing, though with apparent reluctance, to occupy an arm-chair. “You have a nice view from here, I see.”
He rose again, and stared out of the window for a minute or two, at the place where clouds had begun to darken the sky. The sound of undergraduate voices came up from below. Le Bas turned his gaze down on the passers-by.
“I expect you know the story of Calverley throwing pebbles at the Master of Balliol’s window,” he said. “Just to make him look out for the benefit of some visitors. Parkinson was some sort of a connection of Calverley’s, I believe. I saw Parkinson the other day. In fact I rowed in a Duffers’ Eight with him. Parkinson was in your time, wasn’t he? Or am I confusing dates?”
“Yes, he was. He only went down from here last year.”
“He missed his ‘blue,’ didn’t he?”
“I think he was only tried out a couple of times.”
“Who else is there from my house?”
“Stringham went down last term.”
“Went down, did he? Was he sent down?”
“No, he —”
“Of course I remember Stringham,” said Le Bas. “Wrote a shocking hand. Never saw such a fist. What was he sent down for?”
“He wasn’t sent down. He got a job with Donners-Brebner. I am going to see him tomorrow.”
“Who else?” insisted Le Bas, who had evidently never heard of Donners-Brebner.
“I saw Templer not long ago. He is in the City now.”
“Templer?” said Le Bas. “Oh, yes, Templer. In the City, is he? Did he go up to the university?”
“No.”
“Probably just as well,” said Le Bas. “Still it might have toned him down a bit. I suppose as it is he will spend the rest of his life wearing those startling socks. It was Templer, wasn’t it, who always wore those dreadful socks?”
“Yes – it was.”
“Still, he may grow out of it,” said Le Bas.
“Or them,” I said; and, since Le Bas did not smile, added: “I stayed in the same French family as Widmerpool, the summer after I left.”
“Ah yes, Widmerpool.”
Le Bas thought for a long time. He climbed up on to the fender, and began to lift himself by the edge of the mantelpiece. I thought for a moment that he might be going to hoist himself right on to the shelf; perhaps lie there.
“I was never quite happy about Widmerpool,” he admitted at last.
This statement did not seem to require an answer.
“As you probably know,” said Le Bas, “there were jokes about an overcoat in the early days.”
“I remember being told something about it.”
“Plenty of keenness, but somehow —”
“He used to train hard.”
“And a strong – well —” Le Bas seemed rather at a loss, ending somewhat abruptly with the words: “Certain moral qualities, admirable so far as they went, but —”
I supposed he was thinking of the Akworth affair, which must have caused him a good deal of trouble.
“He seemed to be getting on all right when I saw him in France.”
This statement seemed in the main true. “I am glad to hear it,” said Le Bas. “Very glad. I hope he will find his level in life. Which college did you say?”
“He didn’t go to the university.”
“What is he going to be?”
“A solicitor.”
“Do none of my pupils consider a degree an advantage in life? I hope you will work hard for yours.”.
Facetiously, I held up a copy of Stubbs’s Charters that happened to be lying at hand on the table. “Do you know Sillery?” I asked.
“Sillery? Sillery? Oh, yes, of course I know Sillery,” Le Bas said; but he did not rise to this bait. There was a pause.
“Well, I have enjoyed our talk,” Le Bas said. “I expect I shall see you on Old Boy Day.”
He got up from the chair, and stood for a few seconds, as if undecided whether or not to bring his visit to an end.
“Friendships have to