Temporary Kings - Anthony Powell [21]
Gwinnett, who had been sitting silent, chewing at his thumbnail, shifted forward.
‘She is, Emily? You’ve seen her?’
This time he sounded quite excited. Dr Brightman made a gesture to indicate she had enjoyed no such luck.
‘I was so informed by a French colleague, who is also attending the Conference. We normally correspond about Gallo-Roman personal names, with special reference to Brittany. On this occasion I fear we descended to gossip. My friend must be unaware of the reference here to Lady Widmerpool, or I’m sure he would have mentioned it. He had witnessed what he described as an extraordinary incident at the French Embassy in London, where Lady Widmerpool, quite deliberately, broke the back of a small gilt chair during supper. That made such an impression, he immediately recognized her profile seen at Quadri’s.’
‘I’d give something to meet that lady.’
Gwinnett did not sound hopeful. Dr Brightman and I assured him there should be no difficulty in arranging that.
‘You’ve just got to sit in the Piazza long enough. You see everyone in the world, if you do that.’
‘But I don’t know Lady Widmerpool.’
‘I’ll introduce you.’
That was said in the heat of the moment. Afterwards, immediately afterwards, it was to be seen as a rash offer. I hoped she would not walk into the hotel at that moment. The very idea of her being in Venice made Gwinnett restless, a state alternating in him with a kind of torpor. He rose from the table, then paused for a moment, again unsure what he wanted to do. He came to a decision.
‘I’ll take a stroll in the Piazza right now. Do you mind if I retain this journal?’
That could not be refused, since it belonged to him, though I had not yet studied the piece thoroughly. He folded it again, stood in thought for a moment, said goodnight. We said goodnight to him in return. It was not impossible that he might see Pamela Widmerpool in St Mark’s Square. Perhaps he hoped to pick up someone there in any case. A girl? A man? One felt rather ashamed of these speculations, as earlier of wondering whether he was an ex-alcoholic. He had shown no sign whatever of seeking in Venice any sort of dissipation. The notion that he was bent on some such goal, no doubt quite unfounded, attached to his withdrawn mysterious air, a little uncommon in an American, anyway in Gwinnett’s form. As soon as he was gone, Dr Brightman, without any prompting, began to speak of him.
‘Let me tell you about Russell Gwinnett.’
‘Please do.’
‘He is a small fragment detached from the comparatively extensive and cavernous grottoes of gothic America. He is part of an Old America – the oldest – yet has become in some respects the New America. I hardly know how to put it.’
‘Halfway between Henry Adams and Charles Addams?’
‘Not bad. In fact alpha plus, insomuch as Henry Adams says that true eccentricity is in a tone, and only the conventional approach loves to assume unconventionality. Russell is unconventional by nature, not by choice. Even then, only in certain respects. He is good at such sports as racquets, skating, skiing. If there is a superfluity of Edgar Allan Poe brought up to date, there is also a touch of Edwin Arlington Robinson.’
‘You outrun my literary bounds.’
‘But you can at least understand that Russell is at once intensely American, yet allergic to American life. That, in itself, can be paralleled, though not quite in Russell’s terms. To quote Adams again, he is not one of those Americans who can only assert or deny. I did not use the comparison of the two poets recklessly. Russell, too, hoped to be a poet. He was sufficiently self-critical to see that was not to be. He also draws quite well. Almost always portraits of himself. We saw a lot of each other when I was over there. He is a nice young man, cagey in certain moods.’
‘You know he is writing a book about X. Trapnel. That’s why he wants to meet Pamela Widmerpool.’
‘Trapnel is only a name to me. One of my pupils used to rave about his books. If Russell does that, he will do it well. He is industrious, in spite of his singularities,