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One of the pleasures of any roman-fleuve lies in keeping track of the pasts and permutations of vast numbers of characters. One way and another, the war introduces and eradicates many of Powell's figurants. The ditching of the Yugoslav Chetnik Leader Mihailovich in favor of Tito costs the life of Peter Templer, one of Jenkins' oldest friends (and a veteran of novel No. 1, A Question of Upbringing), who fought with the wrong partisans. The Malayan debacle takes another of Powell's veteran characters, Charles Stringham, P.O.W. and presumed dead. The officer indirectly responsible for the orders that killed both men turns out to be the egregious Kenneth Widmerpool, whose fatuous careerism and brassbound egotism have provided veins of comedy running through all nine books. Widmerpool, an ambition addict who flourishes amidst the adversities of the rest of the world, turns up as a colonel, squeezing the epaulettes of power until the pips squeak. These exits and re-entrances emphasize that it is high time for Powell's publishers to provide a score to The Music of Time—not a musical score but a box score, giving the family trees and vital statistics of the more than 100 characters involved.
Family Jokes. The question arises: Why has Powell's splendid fictional achievement not won wider popularity in the U.S.? Some British critics feel that the difficulty lies in unfamiliarity with the moods and mores of the British upper classes. Others suggest that some acquaintance with the flesh-and-blood originals of Powell's fictional characters is necessary to savor his prose. But would it really help to know that Moreland, the intelligent musician who provides such a sparkling commentary on this world, was perhaps drawn from Composer Constant Lambert, or that the vastly comic Widmerpool was lovingly conjured from the fatuous figure of a minor Tory Cabinet Minister? It seems most unlikely.
Powell's world is special, as special as Proust's. In Evelyn Waugh's much-quoted observation, Powell has even been rated Proust's equal—with the qualification that he is much funnier. All the best jokes are family jokes, and the British Establishment is one of the closest of all cultural families. One no more needs to be a member of it to relish Anthony Powell than one needs to be a French homosexual with aristocratic friends to enjoy Proust. Like the peculiar British fondness for cold toast, though, a taste for Powell's prose is best acquired through prolonged exposure.