end of
the war, or not long after. The picture could have dated from the year of her
marriage to Widmerpool, possibly even taken at the moment of emergence from the
ceremony. In spite of heavy touching-up on the part of the blockmaker, the
expression was resentful enough for that. This touching-up had added a
decidedly French air to her appearance. That could have been acquired not only
from the cupid’s bow mouth, brutally superimposed on her own, but, more
universally, from the manner in which photographic portraiture in the press
automatically assumes the national characteristics of whatever country has
processed the blocks, fabricated their ‘screen’; an extension of the law that
makes the photographer impose his personal view of them on individuals
photographed. Dr Brightman scrutinized carefully both pictures.
‘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
the war, or not long after. The picture could have dated from the year of her
marriage to Widmerpool, possibly even taken at the moment of emergence from the
ceremony. In spite of heavy touching-up on the part of the blockmaker, the
expression was resentful enough for that. This touching-up had added a
decidedly French air to her appearance. That could have been acquired not only
from the cupid’s bow mouth, brutally superimposed on her own, but, more
universally, from the manner in which photographic portraiture in the press
automatically assumes the national characteristics of whatever country has
processed the blocks, fabricated their ‘screen’; an extension of the law that
makes the photographer impose his personal view of them on individuals
photographed. Dr Brightman scrutinized carefully both pictures.
‘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
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