‘Lady Widmerpool? A
very bedworthy gentlewoman, I understand. But Ferrand-Sénéschal? I am frankly
surprised. I should never have guessed … assoiffé de plaisir… dévoré de désir …
terrible obsession … How unchanged remains the French view of English life – phlegmatic,
sadistic aristocrats, moving coldly and silently from one atrocity to another
through the fogs of le Hyde Park and les Jardins de Kensington.’
I tried to peer over
Dr Brightman’s shoulder at what was written. Clutching the paper obstinately,
she refused to surrender an inch of its surface.
‘The implication is
that Lady Widmerpool visited Ferrand-Sénéschal in his luxurious hotel suite – accommodation
Sardanapalus would have found over-indulgent – only a few hours before the
Reaper. Even that is chiefly my own assumption. Nothing definite is even
hinted.’
Gwinnett laughed abruptly,
rather uncomfortably. His laugh was high and nervous. He addressed me again.
‘Isn’t that the lady
we talked about – Trapnel’s girl?’
‘Certainly.’
‘The implication is
she was in bed with this Frenchman after he was dead.’
‘Is that how you read
it?’
Dr Brightman
disregarded our exchange, too engrossed to hear, or because Trapnel’s name
meant nothing to her. From time to time she read out a phrase that took her
fancy.
‘Fougueuse sensualité
… étranges caprices … amitiés equivoques… We never seem to get anything solid.
Odieux chantages… but of whom? Situation gênante.. . Then why not tell us about
it? Le scandale éclate… It never seems to have done so. I am still not at all
sure what happened, scarcely wiser than after reading the headline.’
She handed the paper
over at last. Reservations about its interest were more than justified. As
usual in such journalism, promise was far short of performance. There was a
hint that some scandal about Ferrand-Sénéschal had been hushed up in France
fairly recently, no details given, only pious horror expressed. That social
engagements since arrival in London sufficiently explained taking an afternoon’s
rest, even between sheets, in the light of medical advice, was altogether
ignored. References to Pamela – called ‘Lady Pamela Widmerpool’ – were even
less specific. Indeed, they were written without serious attempt to fit her
into the Ferrand-Sénéschal story, such as it was. Nothing whatever was alleged
against her, except that she – apparently other persons too – had visited the
hotel suite at one time or another. By implication, Ferrand-Sénéschal’s habits
so notorious, that visit in itself was damaging enough. Her own pranks were
touched on only vaguely, not very accurately, though more directly than the law
of libel would have allowed an English paper. Widmerpool was treated simply as
a great nobleman of the Old School.
‘One of my maiden
aunts – a social category no longer extant – used to live permanently in that
hotel,’ said Dr Brightman. ‘I’m sure she had no idea things like that were
going on there. The place did not at all suggest gaiety. She would have been
surprised. Rather thrilled too, I think.’
The respectable,
unpretentious style of Ferrand-Sénéschal’s hotel disavowed the
grand
luxe
attributed to his two-room suite. It was only a few streets
away from the former Jeavons residence in South Kensington, converted by Ted
Jeavons after the war into several small flats, one of which he inhabited
himself. The fact that Ferrand-Sénéschal was on his way to the Conference later
on found no place in the
Détective
story, probably regarded as a
banal detail likely to prejudice inferences that he had come to London with the
sole purpose of participating in an orgy. Dr Brightman reached out for the
paper again. She examined the picture of Pamela.
‘I can add my own
small contribution to the bulletin,’ she said. ‘The lady in question is in
Venice at this moment.’
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,
perhaps because of them. Had he been an English undergraduate, his rooms would
have been equipped with black candles, skulls, the odour of incense. He likes
Death. That atmosphere is not the American tradition. The taste has told
against him, notwithstanding the significance of his name. There was also some
kind of a tragedy in his early college days. He was friendly with a girl who
committed suicide – at least she seems to have committed suicide. Perhaps it
was an accident. He was not in the smallest degree to blame.’
‘Why is his name
significant?’
‘He is descended – collaterally,
I understand – from what is known as a “Signer”, one Button Gwinnett, who set
his name to the Declaration of Independence. Both halves of the name are of
interest to persons like oneself, “Gwinnett”, of course, “Gwynedd”, meaning
North Wales – the Buttons, a South Wales family, probably
advenae
.
A small piece of topographical history neatly established by nomenclature.’
‘I don’t know how these
things are looked on in America.’
‘Like so much else,
the attitude is ambivalent. In general, anyway in the right circles, to be
descended from a Signer can be highly regarded, even if many such have passed
into obscurity. Some Americans will, of course, deny any interest whatever in
such trivial matters.’
‘Kind hearts are more
than Cabots?’
‘And simple faith
than Mormon blood. This is something of a paradox in that the transgression – crime
perhaps – of America has been to reject Classicism for Romanticism. The
national distaste for moderation – to which Henry Adams referred – inevitably
leads to such a choice. Russell himself is far from immune, though you might
not guess that from outward bearing. Profound Romanticism is bound in due
course to dilate towards its gothic extremities. In his particular case, family
history may have helped.’
‘It is often pointed
out that one form of Romanticism is to be self-consciously Classical, but what
you say accords with Gwinnett’s choice of Trapnel as a subject. Let’s hope he
treats Trapnel’s own Romanticism in a Classical manner.’
‘Naturally the terms
are hopelessly imprecise. That does not make them valueless. Baudelaire and
Swinburne have Classical statements to make – more than many people are aware
who regard them as pure Romantics – but their gothic side is equally
undeniable. Underneath Russell Gwinnett’s staid exterior I suspect traces of an
American Byron or Berlioz. I spoke of Poe, the preoccupation with Death. When
there was trouble about this girl, it was because he had broken into the place
where her body was. Some found it deeply touching… others… well…’
‘Were there a lot of
girls?’
‘Apparently none
after that. No one seems to know why. Again, some look on that with admiration,
others deem it unsatisfactory.’
‘As to Byron – what
you said about Button Gwinnett – was this Gwinnett brought up in a similar
tradition of high descent, I mean in American terms?’
‘His grandfather was
a fairly successful lawyer, the father some sort of a bad lot, alcoholic,
spendthrift, deserted Russell’s mother at an early age. He is still alive, I
believe. There were money difficulties about going to college, and so on. But
we will talk more of Russell Gwinnett, and American gothicism, another time.
Now I must go to bed. Fatigue comes on one suddenly here, delayed action after
listening to all those speeches in demotic French about the Obligations of the
Intellectual. I shall bid you goodnight. Tomorrow we meet under the Tiepolo
ceiling.’
Not long after that I
turned in too. The night had become a trifle cooler. Through the window of my
bedroom the musicians’ refrain was to be heard in the distance. Perhaps the
songs were no longer theirs, cadences wafted now synthetically from the radio.
For a while I tried to read in bed,
The Castle of Fratta
, a
translation brought with me as appropriate. Nievo’s view of Bonaparte’s
invasion of Italy was an antidote to Stendhal’s. The novel might make a good
film in the epic manner. I rather regretted not staying on for the Film
Festival, more since I had never attended a Film Festival than because of
anything very exciting on offer. A German picture about a prostitute who
blackmailed her clients aroused a faint sense of curiosity. Then there was a
British one, much recommended, adaptation of a Thomas Hardy story, in which
Polly Duport was playing the lead.
I had seen Polly
Duport act quite often, never again met her, since the day when we had
travelled back to the War Office, with her mother and stepfather, Colonel
Flores, in his official car, after the Victory Day Service at St Paul’s. Then
she had seemed charming, well brought up, a beauty too, with that unfledged
look of a young, shy, slender animal. Now she was quite a famous actress. Her
gifts had turned out for the Theatre, rather than everyday life, public rather
than private. Anyone immersed in the English Theatre would undoubtedly put her
among the three or four of her age and sex at the top of the profession. It
was, so it seemed to me, not a very ‘interesting’ talent, though immensely ‘finished’.
She had been married for a time to a well-known actor. They had separated. Far
from given to love affairs, she lived almost as a nun, it was said, devoted to
the stage and its life. This was unlike her mother, whose voice and gestures
Polly Duport sometimes recalled on the stage, without any of the mystery Jean
had once seemed to exhale. Possibly something of her father’s business ability,
in one sense, taste for work, accounted for his daughter’s serious approach to
her profession, lack of interest in private life. The Hardy part was a new line
for her. She was said to excel in it anything she had done before. That
estimate might be consequence of an energetic publicity campaign.
Musings about the
past shifted to the time when I had stayed in this hotel as a boy, to that
eternal question of what constitutes experience. A close examination of what
happened at any given period in itself provokes an unnatural element, like
looking at a large oil painting under a magnifying glass, the over-all effect
lost. Nievo, for example, was an over-all effect writer, even when he dealt
with childhood. I tried to reconstruct the earlier visit. We had come to Venice
because my father liked spending his ‘leave’ in France or Italy. However much
they might be wanting in other respects, he approved of the Latin approach to
sex and food. That did not mean he was always at ease on the Continent, but
then, in any fundamental sense, he was rarely at ease in his own country. His
temperament, a craft of light tonnage, borne effortlessly into heavy seas no
matter how calm the weather on setting sail, was preordained to violent ups and
downs in foreign waters. Language, currency, timetables, passports, cabmen,
waiters, guides, touts, all the paraphernalia and hubbub incidental to travel,
were scarcely required for the barometer to register gale force. He was, at the
same time, always prepared to undertake any expedition, intricate or arduous,
in the interests of sightseeing – or ingenious economy, like sitting up on a
station platform for a special train in the small hours – though not
necessarily displaying a tolerant spirit while such excursions were in
progress. His aesthetic tastes were varied, sometimes comparatively daring,
sometimes stolidly conventional, but, once he had taken a fancy to a work of
art, monument, building, landscape, that another critic might set a lower value
on it than himself was altogether beyond his comprehension. He never stood in
front of the Mona Lisa without remarking that, in the eyes of trivial people,
the chief interest of Leonardo’s masterpiece was to have once been stolen from
the Louvre; thereby – as with much else in life – managing to have his cake and
eat it, taste the sweets of banality, while ostensibly decrying their flavour.