Hearing Secret Harmonies - Anthony Powell [42]
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.