Part 5 (1/2)

'She used to be a friend of Etienne's.'

'Lately?'

'A year or two ago. For a short time she and Etienne saw quite a lot of each other I mean enough for me to have met her too. A nice girl. I think in the end she found Etienne too humdrum, though they got on well for a while.'

'Did they meet with the odd crowd Fiona is now going round with?'

'No, not at all. At some musical get-together, I think. The thing broke up when this other business started.'

Fiona's friends.h.i.+p with Etienne Delavacquerie had never percolated down through the family grapevine. There was no particular reason why it should. Even Fiona's parents were unlikely to keep track of all their daughter's current boyfriends. It was a pity Susan and Roddy Cutts had never known about this apparently reliable young man. They would have felt relieved, anyway for a short period of time. Delavacquerie, also regretting the termination of the relations.h.i.+p, was probably in ignorance of the extent to which Fiona could show herself a handful. I asked if he knew about Scorpio Murtlock.

'I knew she was now mixed up with some mystic cult. I didn't know Murtlock had anything to do with her. I thought he was a queer.'

'Hard to say.'

'All I know about Murtlock is that Quentin Shuckerly picked him up somewhere ages ago. Shuckerly, expecting an easy lay, put Murtlock up in his flat. Shuckerly can be quite tough in such matters that former intellectual black boyfriend of his used to call him the Narcissus of the n.i.g.g.e.r but his toughness, or his narcissism, didn't stand up to Murtlock's. Shuckerly had to leave the country to get Murtlock out of his flat. A new book of Shuckerly poems was held up in publication in consequence. I wouldn't have thought Murtlock a wise young man to get mixed up with. Etienne never told me that.'

Delavacquerie looked quite disturbed. Here our ways had to part.

'I should like to bug your conversation with Widmerpool, anyway your opening gambit.'

Delavacquerie made a dramatic gesture.

'I shall take the bull by the horns adopt the directness of the CIA man and the Cuban defector.'

'What was that?'

'He asked him a question.'

'Which was?'

'You know how it is in Havana in the Early Warning?'

Delavacquerie waved goodbye. I went on towards the paper, to get a book for review. In the anxiety he had shown about his son's abandoned love affair and Fiona's own involvement with Murtlock Delavacquerie had displayed more feeling than he usually revealed. It suggested that Etienne Delavacquerie had been fairly hard hit when Fiona went off. I was interested that Delavacquerie himself had met her, and would have liked to hear more of his views on that subject. There had been no opportunity. In any case the friends.h.i.+ps of later life, in contrast with those negotiated before thirty, are apt to be burdened with reservations, constraints, inhibitions. Probably thirty was placing the watershed too late for the age when both parties begin more or less to know (at least think they know) what the other is talking about; as opposed to those earlier friends.h.i.+ps not unlike love affairs, with all s.e.xual element removed which can exist with scarcely an interest in common, mutual misunderstanding of character and motive all but absolute.

In earlier days, given our comparative intellectual intimacy, there would have been no embarra.s.sment in enquiring about Delavacquerie's own s.e.xual arrangements. The question would have been an aspect of being friends. In fact, Delavacquerie himself would almost certainly have issued some sort of statement of his own on the matter, a handout likely to have been given early priority, when we were first getting to know one another. That was why the rumoured brush with Matilda remained altogether blurred in outline. There was no doubt that Delavacquerie liked women, got on well with them. His poetry showed that. If he possessed any steady company hard to believe he did not the lady herself never seemed to appear with him in public.

Thinking of the information now acc.u.mulating about Scorpio Murtlock, an incident that had taken place a few years before came to mind. It might or might not be Murtlock this time, the principle was the same. The occasion also marked the last time I had set eyes on an old acquaintance, Sunny Farebrother. I was in London only for the day. Entering a comparatively empty compartment on a tube train, I saw Farebrother sitting at the far end. Wearing a black overcoat and bowler hat, both ancient as his wartime uniforms, he was as usual holding himself very upright. He did not look like a man verging on eighty. White moustache neatly trimmed, he could have pa.s.sed for middle sixties. In one sense a figure conspicuously of the past in turnout, there was also something about him that was extremely up-to-date, not to say brisk. He was smiling to himself. I took the vacant seat next to him.

'Hullo, Sunny.'

Farebrother's face at once lost its smile. Instead, it a.s.sumed an expression of rueful compa.s.sion. It was the face he had put on when Widmerpool, then a major on the staff, seemed likely to be sacked from Divisional Headquarters. Farebrother, an old enemy, had dropped in to announce that fact.

'Nicholas, how splendid to meet again after all these years. You find me on my way back from a sad occasion. I am returning from Kensal Green Cemetery. The last tribute to an old friend. One of these fellows I'd known for a mighty long time. Life will never be quite the same again without him. We didn't always. .h.i.t it off together but, my goodness, Nicholas, he was someone known to you too. I've just been to Jimmy Stripling's funeral. Poor old Jimmy. You must remember him. You and I stayed at the Templers', a hundred years ago, when Jimmy was there. He was the old man's son-in-law in those days. Tall chap, hair parted in the middle, keen on motor-racing. I always remember how Jimmy, and some of the rest of the house-party, tried to play a trick on me, after we'd come back from a ball, and I had gone up to bed. Poor old Jimmy hoped to put a po in my hatbox. I was too sharp for him.'

Farebrother shook his head in sadness at the folly of human nature, folly so abjectly displayed by Jimmy Stripling in hoping to outwit Farebrother in a matter of that sort. I saw now that a black tie added to the sombre note struck by the rest of his clothes.

'Jimmy and I used to do a lot of business together in our early City days. He always pretended we didn't get on well. Then, poor old boy, he gave up the City he was in Lloyd's, hadn't done too badly there, and elsewhere gave up his motor-racing, got a divorce from Peter Templer's sister, and began mixing himself up with all sorts of strange goings-on that couldn't have been at all good for the nerves. Old Jimmy was a highly strung beggar in his way. Took up with a strange lady, who told fortunes. Occultism, all that. Not a good thing. Bad thing, in fact. The last time I saw him, only a few years ago, he was driving along Piccadilly in a car that could have been fifty years old, if it was a day. Jimmy must have lost all his money. His cars were once his pride and joy. Always had the latest model before anyone else. Now he was grinding along in this old crock. I could have wept at seeing Jimmy reduced to an old tin can like that.'

Farebrother, a habit of his when he told almost any story, suddenly lowered his voice, at the same time looking round to see if we were likely to be overheard, though no one else was sitting at our end of the compartment.

'It was even worse than that, I fear. There weren't many at the funeral but those who were looked a rum lot, to say the least. I got into conversation with one of the few mourners who was respectably dressed. Turned out he was a member of Lloyd's, like Jimmy, though he hadn't seen him for a long time. Do you know what had happened? When that fortune-telling lady of Jimmy's was gathered in, he took up with a boy boy. Would you have believed it? Jimmy may have behaved like a crackpot at times, but no one ever guessed he had those those tastes. This bloke I talked to told me he'd heard that a lot of undesirables used to live off Jimmy towards the end. I don't think he'd have invented the tale on account of the funny types at the funeral. Jimmy's boy was there. In fact he was more or less running the show. He wore a sort of coloured robe, hair not much short of his shoulders. Good-looking lad in his way, if you'd cleaned him up a bit. Funnily enough, I didn't at all take against him, little as I'm drawn to that type as a rule. Even something I rather liked, if you can believe that. He had an air of efficiency. That always gets me. It was a cremation, and this young fellow showed himself perfectly capable of taking charge. All these strange types in their robes sang a sort of dirge for Jimmy at the close of the proceedings.' tastes. This bloke I talked to told me he'd heard that a lot of undesirables used to live off Jimmy towards the end. I don't think he'd have invented the tale on account of the funny types at the funeral. Jimmy's boy was there. In fact he was more or less running the show. He wore a sort of coloured robe, hair not much short of his shoulders. Good-looking lad in his way, if you'd cleaned him up a bit. Funnily enough, I didn't at all take against him, little as I'm drawn to that type as a rule. Even something I rather liked, if you can believe that. He had an air of efficiency. That always gets me. It was a cremation, and this young fellow showed himself perfectly capable of taking charge. All these strange types in their robes sang a sort of dirge for Jimmy at the close of the proceedings.'

'Perhaps it was the efficiency Jimmy Stripling liked?'

'I hope you're right, Nicholas. I hadn't thought of that. Jimmy just needed somebody to look after him in his old age. I expect that was it. We all need that. I see I've been uncharitable. I'm glad I went to the funeral, all the same. I make a point of going to funerals and memorial services, sad as they are, because you always meet a lot of people at them you haven't seen for years, and that often comes in useful later. Jimmy's was the exception. I never expect to set eyes on mourners like his again, Kensal Green, or anywhere else.'

The train was approaching my station.

'How are you yourself, Sunny?'

'Top-hole form, top-hole. Saw my vet last week. Said he'd never inspected a fitter man of my age. As you probably know, Nicholas, I'm a widower now.'

'I didn't. I'm sorry to hear -'

'Three years ago. A wonderful woman, Geraldine. Marvellous manager. Knew just where to save. Never had any money of her own, left a sum small but by no means to be disregarded. A wonderful woman. Happy years together. Fragrant memories. Yes, I'm in the same little place in the country. I get along somehow. Everyone round about is very kind and helpful. You and your wife must come and see my roses. I can always manage a cup of tea. Bless you, Nicholas, bless you ...'

As I walked along the platform towards the Exit staircase the train moved on past me. I saw Farebrother once more through the window as the pace increased. He was still sitting bolt upright, and had begun to smile again. On the visit to which he had himself referred, the time when Stripling's practical joke had fallen so flat, Peter Templer had p.r.o.nounced a judgment on Farebrother. It remained a valid one.

'He's a downy old bird.'

3.

IRRITATED BY WHAT HE JUDGED the 'impacted cliches' of some review, Trapnel had once spoken his own opinions on the art of biography.

'People think because a novel's invented, it isn't true. Exactly the reverse is the case. Because a novel's invented, it is true. Biography and memoirs can never be wholly true, since they can't include every conceivable circ.u.mstance of what happened. The novel can do that. The novelist himself lays it down. His decision is binding. The biographer, even at his highest and best, can be only tentative, empirical. The autobiographer, for his part, is imprisoned in his own egotism. He must always be suspect. In contrast with the other two, the novelist is a G.o.d, creating his man, making him breathe and walk. The man, created in his own image, provides information about the G.o.d. In a sense you know more about Balzac and d.i.c.kens from their novels, than Rousseau and Casanova from their Confessions.'

'But novelists can be as egotistical as any other sort of writer. Their sheer narcissism often makes them altogether unreadable. A novelist may inescapably create all his characters in his own image, but the reader can believe in them, without necessarily accepting their creator's judgment on them. You might see a sinister strain in Bob Cratchit, conventionality in Stavrogin, delicacy in Molly Bloom. Besides, the very concept of a character in a novel in real life too is under attack.'

'What you say, Nick, strengthens my contention that only a novel can imply certain truths impossible to state by exact definition. Biography and autobiography are forced to attempt exact definition. In doing so truth goes astray. The novelist is more serious if that is the word.'

'Surely biographers and memoir-writers often do no more than imply things they chronicle, or put them forward as uncertain. A novelist is subjective, and selective, all the time. The others have certain facts forced on them, whether they like it or not. Besides, some of the very worst novelists are the most consciously serious ones.'

'Of course a novelist is serious serious only if he is a good novelist. You mention Molly Bloom. She offers an example of what I am saying. Obviously her s.e.xual musings and her husband's derive from the author, to the extent that he invented them. Such descriptions would have been a thousand times less convincing, if attributed to Stephen Dedalus let alone to Joyce himself. Their strength lies in existence within the imaginary personalities of the Blooms. That such traits are much diminished, when given to a hero, is even to some extent exemplified in only if he is a good novelist. You mention Molly Bloom. She offers an example of what I am saying. Obviously her s.e.xual musings and her husband's derive from the author, to the extent that he invented them. Such descriptions would have been a thousand times less convincing, if attributed to Stephen Dedalus let alone to Joyce himself. Their strength lies in existence within the imaginary personalities of the Blooms. That such traits are much diminished, when given to a hero, is even to some extent exemplified in Ulysses Ulysses. It may be acceptable to read of Bloom tossing off. A blow by blow account of the author doing so is hardly conceivable as interesting. Perhaps, at the base of it all, is the popular confusion of self-pity with compa.s.sion. What is effective is art, not what is ”true” using the term in inverted commas.'

'Like Pilate.'

'Unfortunately Pilate wasn't a novelist.'

'Or even a memoir-writer.'

'Didn't Petronius serve as a magistrate in some distant part of the Roman Empire? Think if the case had come up before him. Perhaps Petronius was a different period.'

The Satyricon Satyricon was the only cla.s.sical work ever freely quoted by Trapnel. He would often refer to it. I recalled his views on biography, reading Gwinnett's found on return home and wondered how far Trapnel would have regarded this example as proving his point. That a biography of Trapnel should have been written at all was surprising enough, an eventuality beyond all guessing for those to whom he had been no more than another necessitous phantom at the bar, to stand or be stood a half pint of bitter. Now, by a process every bit as magical as any mutations on the astral plane claimed by Dr Trelawney, there would be casual readers to find entertainment in the chronicle of Trapnel's days, professional critics adding to their reputation by a.n.a.lysis of his style, academics rummaging for nuggets among the Trapnel remains. It seemed unlikely that much was left over. Gwinnett had done a thorough job. was the only cla.s.sical work ever freely quoted by Trapnel. He would often refer to it. I recalled his views on biography, reading Gwinnett's found on return home and wondered how far Trapnel would have regarded this example as proving his point. That a biography of Trapnel should have been written at all was surprising enough, an eventuality beyond all guessing for those to whom he had been no more than another necessitous phantom at the bar, to stand or be stood a half pint of bitter. Now, by a process every bit as magical as any mutations on the astral plane claimed by Dr Trelawney, there would be casual readers to find entertainment in the chronicle of Trapnel's days, professional critics adding to their reputation by a.n.a.lysis of his style, academics rummaging for nuggets among the Trapnel remains. It seemed unlikely that much was left over. Gwinnett had done a thorough job.

I had been friends with Trapnel only a few years, but in those years witnessed some of his most characteristic att.i.tudes and performances. Here was a good instance of later tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs that throw light on an already known story. Gwinnett had not only recorded the routine material well, he had dealt judiciously with much else of general interest at that immediately post-war period; one not specially easy to handle, especially for an American by no means steeped in English life. Prudently, Gwinnett had not always accepted Trapnel (given to self-fantasy) at his own estimation. The final disastrous spill (worse than any on the racecourse by his jockey father) that is to say Trapnel's infatuation with Pamela Widmerpool had been treated with an altogether unexpected subtlety. Gwinnett had once implied that his own involvement with Pamela might impair objectivity, but only those who knew of that already were likely to recognize the extent to which author identified himself with subject. I wrote to Delavacquerie recommending that Death's-head Swordsman Death's-head Swordsman should receive the year's Magnus Donners Memorial Prize. He replied that, Emily Brightman and Mark Members being in agreement, he himself would, as arranged, approach Widmerpool. If Widmerpool objected to our choice, we should have to think again. In due course, Delavacquerie reported back on this matter. His letters, like his speech, always possessed a touch of formality. should receive the year's Magnus Donners Memorial Prize. He replied that, Emily Brightman and Mark Members being in agreement, he himself would, as arranged, approach Widmerpool. If Widmerpool objected to our choice, we should have to think again. In due course, Delavacquerie reported back on this matter. His letters, like his speech, always possessed a touch of formality.