Books Do Furnish a Room - Anthony Powell [57]
‘Why not, Odo? Why should you be the only man in England who’s not going to review for Fission?’
‘Who’s the small dark lady talking to Sir Howard Craggs?’
‘Rosie Manasch. She too has an interest in the mag.’
‘Rather attractive. I think I’ll meet her.’
The war had washed ashore all sorts of wrack of sea, on all sorts of coasts. In due course, as the waves receded, much of this flotsam was to be refloated, a process to continue for several years, while the winds abated. Among the many individual bodies sprawled at intervals on the shingle, quite a lot resisted the receding tide. Some just carried on life where they were on the shore; others – the more determined – crawled inland. Stevens belonged to the latter category. He knew where his future lay.
‘Any books you can spare. Army matters, travel, jewellery – as you know, I’m interested in verse too. HQ, my cultural boys, always finds me.’
He strolled away. Widmerpool appeared.
‘I’ve been having a lot to do with your relations lately. It turned out your late brother-in-law was on bad terms with the family solicitor. I’ve managed to arrange that some of the work should be transferred to Turnbull, Welford & Puckering – my old firm, you remember I started the struggle for existence in Lincoln’s Inn – has the advantage of my being able to keep a weather eye on things from time to time. The Quiggin & Craggs interests will need a certain amount of attention. Hugo Tolland tells me he did not at all mind Mrs George Tolland giving birth to a son – one Jeremy, I understand – told me he was far from anxious to inherit responsibilities, myriad these days, of becoming head of the family. Titles are a survival one must deplore, but they can be a worry, as Howard Craggs was remarking last week. I see Hugo Tolland’s point. He is a sensible young man, in spite of what at first appears a foolish manner. I understand that, as mother of the little earl, Mrs George Tolland – who has two children of her own by an earlier marriage – is going to live in the wing of Thrubworth Park formerly occupied by the late Lord Warminster. Modest premises in themselves, and a good idea. Lady Blanche Tolland is to remain there as before. An excellent arrangement for one of her retiring nature. I talked to her, and greatly approved what she had to say for herself.’
Abandoning for a moment the intense pleasure people find in explaining in detail to someone the characteristics and doings of their own relations, he paused and glanced round the room. This could have been a routine survey to be taken wisely at regular intervals with the object of keeping check on his wife’s doings. She was at that particular moment revealed as listening to some sort of a harangue being given by a dark bespectacled personage in his thirties, whom I recognized as Werner Guggenbühl, now Vernon Gainsborough. There could be no doubt there was a look of Siegfried. Widmerpool marked them down.
‘I see Pam’s got caught up with Gainsborough. I don’t know whether you’ve come across him? He’s a German – a “good” German – a close friend of Lady Craggs, as a matter of fact. They go about a lot together. I’m giving away no secret. Craggs, very sensibly, takes an understanding view. He is a man of the world, though you might never guess that to look at him. Gainsborough is not a bad fellow. A little pedantic.’
‘He used to be a Trotskyist.’
‘No longer, I think. In any case I disapprove of witch-hunting. He stands, of course, considerably to the left of centre. I am not sure he is quite the sort of person Pam likes – she is easily bored – so perhaps it would be wise to come to her rescue.’
He gave the impression that Gainsborough’s relationship with Gypsy, however little Craggs might resent it, and however ‘good’ a German he might be, was not one to recommend sustained conversation with a wife like his own. Widmerpool was about to move off and break up the tête-à-tête. However, Trapnel