A Question of Upbringing - Anthony Powell [54]
It seemed almost impossible to make any remark without in one manner or another disturbing Widmerpool’s equanimity. He was almost as shocked at hearing that I had no ready-made plans for a career as he had been scandalised a few minutes earlier at the information regarding the precocious dissipation of Templer’s life.
“But surely you have some bent?” he said. “An ambition to do well at something?”
This ideal conception – that one should have an aim in life – had, indeed, only too often occurred to me as an unsolved problem; but I was still far from deciding what form my endeavours should ultimately take. Being at that moment unprepared for an a priori discussion as to what the future should hold, I made several rather lame remarks to the effect that I wanted one day “to write:” an assertion that had not even the merit of being true, as it was an idea that had scarcely crossed my mind until that moment.
“To write?” said Widmerpool. “But that is hardly a profession. Unless you mean you want to be a journalist – like Lundquist.”
“I suppose I might do that.”
“It is precarious,” said Widmerpool. “And – although we laugh, of course, at Örn for saying so, right out – there is certainly not much social position attached: unless, for example, you become editor of The Times, or something of that sort. I should think it over very carefully before you commit yourself.”
“I am not absolutely determined to become a journalist.”
“You are wise. What are your other interests?”
Feeling that the conversation had taken a turn that delivered me over to a kind of cross-examination, I admitted that I liked reading.
“You can’t earn your living by reading,” said Widmerpool, severely.
“I never said you could.”
“It doesn’t do to read too much,” Widmerpool said. “You get to look at life with a false perspective. By all means have some familiarity with the standard authors. I should never raise any objection to that. But it is no good clogging your mind with a lot of trash from modern novels.”
“That was what Le Bas used to say.”
“And he was quite right. I disagreed in many ways with Le Bas. In that one, I see eye to eye with him.”
There was not much for me to say in reply. I had a novel – If Winter Comes, which I had now nearly finished – under my arm, and it was impossible to deny that I had been reading this book. Widmerpool must have noticed this, because he continued in a more kindly tone: “You must meet my mother. She is one of those rare middle-aged women who have retained their youthful interest in matters of the mind. If you like books – and you tell me you do – you would thoroughly enjoy a chat with her about them.”
“That would be nice.”
“I shall arrange it,” said Widmerpool. “Et maintenant, il faut se coucher, parce-que je compte de me reveiller de bonne heure le matin.”
In the course of subsequent conversations between us he talked a good deal about his mother. On the subject of his father he was more reticent. Sometimes I had even the impression that Widmerpool père had earned a living in some manner of which his son – an only child – preferred not to speak: though, one evening, in a burst of confidence, he mentioned that his paternal grandfather had been a Scotch business man called Geddes, who had taken the name of Widmerpool after marrying a wife of that name, who was – so Widmerpool indicated in his characteristic manner – of rather higher standing than himself. There seemed to have been some kind of financial crisis when Widmerpool’s father had died, either on account of debts, or because the family’s income had been thereby much reduced. Life with his mother appeared to be very quiet and to consist of working all day and studying law after dinner most nights; though Widmerpool took care to explain to me that he deliberately took part in a certain amount of what he called “social life.” He said, with one of his rare smiles: “Brains and hard work are of very little avail, Jenkins, unless you know the right people.”
I told him that I had an uncle who was fond of saying the same thing; and I asked what form his relaxations generally took.