Temporary Kings - Anthony Powell [64]
‘I sure would.’
Glober laughed in his usual quiet friendly way, which did not at all conceal dislike. He also took the opportunity of stating his own situation.
‘Mrs Quiggin and I were discussing the Biennale the time her Conference was looking over Jacky’s place. We thought we’d take a look at the Biennale pictures together too. Who should we meet but Mr Jenkins and Mr Tokenhouse. Now we’re admiring Mr Tokenhouse’s pictures instead of those at the Biennale.’
That was brief, exact description of just what had happened. If Glober had designs on Pamela – it was hard to think otherwise – he might welcome opportunity of emphasizing to Widmerpool that he had ‘picked up’ Ada, accordingly was not to be taken as too serious a competitor for Pamela. Such was just a notion that occurred. If it displayed Glober’s intention, Widmerpool showed no sign of appreciating the point.
‘I see.’
He spoke flatly, staring round again at the rows of small canvases that cluttered the studio. Obviously they conveyed nothing to him. He appeared more than ever worried, but made an effort.
‘Have you collected these over the years, Mr Tokenhouse?’
Tokenhouse looked furious.
‘I painted them.’
He snapped out the answer.
‘Yourself. I see. How clever.’
Widmerpool said that without the smallest irony.
‘Merely a hobby. Not at all clever. The last thing they are – or I should wish them to be – is clever.’
Tokenhouse did not conceal his annoyance. Widmerpool had ruined the afternoon. Here were all his pictures spread out, a relatively sympathetic audience to whom he could preach his own theories of art, a unique occasion, in short, wrecked by the arrival of a self-important stranger – a ‘lord’ at that – with an introduction, presumably about some business matter. Again, it was hard to see what business interests Widmerpool and Tokenhouse could share, yet the connexion was clearly not a friendly one, some common acquaintance’s suggestion that the two of them would get on well together. Although nettled, Tokenhouse did not seem exactly taken aback. Widmerpool, after whatever had been said at the door, must represent some burden liable to be shouldered sooner or later. The botheration was for such responsibility to have descended at this moment. Tokenhouse, accepting the party was over, like a child putting away its toys, began gloomily replacing the canvases in the nearer cupboard. Then one of Glober’s gestures went some way towards saving the situation.
‘Just a moment, Mr Tokenhouse. Don’t be in such a hurry with those pictures of yours. Would you consider a sale? If you would – and don’t tell me to hell with it – I’d like to know your price for the shipwreck scene.’
He pointed to one of the illustrations of social injustice, such it must be, seemingly enacted on the crowded deck of a boat, where several persons were in trouble. Tokenhouse paused in his tidying up. He visibly responded to the enquiry.
‘Sell a picture?’
‘That’s what I hoped.’
Tokenhouse considered.
‘I’ve only been asked that once before, apart from an occasion years ago – in my Formalist days – when requested to present a picture of mine to be raffled for a charity. It was one of those typical feckless efforts to bolster up the capitalist system – some parson at the bottom of it, of course – attempting to launch that sort of ameliorating endeavour, which I now recognize as worse, more deliberately harmful, than brutal indifference, and should now naturally refuse to have anything to do with.’
Tokenhouse turned to Widmerpool. He spoke rather spitefully.
‘The only other occasion when I sold one of my pictures was to our mutual friend. The friend who sent you here. He very kindly bought one of my efforts.’
Widmerpool seemed further embarrassed. He started slightly. Then he made a movement of the hand to express appreciation.’
‘Oh, yes. Did he, indeed? I didn’t know he liked painting.’
‘Of course he does. He bought one of the