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Authors: Anthony Powell
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under the marble fascicles of standards, lances and sabres that
encrusted the Henry Lucius tomb. Whether or not this seating arrangement
accorded with Widmerpool’s intention could only be guessed; probably not, from
the expression his face at once assumed. Nevertheless, now it had happened, he
curtly directed Alfred Tolland to follow, without attempting to reclassify this
order of precedence. There was a moment of gesturing between them, Alfred
Tolland putting forward some contrary suggestion – he may just have grasped the
meaning of Jeavons’s signals – so that very briefly it looked as if a wrestling
match were about to take place in the aisle. Then Widmerpool shoved Alfred
Tolland almost bodily into the pew, where, leaving a wide gap between himself
and Pamela, Tolland immediately knelt, burying his face in his hands like a man
in agonies of remorse. At Widmerpool’s orders, Quiggin went in next; Craggs and
Gypsy into the pew behind. They were followed by Widmerpool himself.
The last time I had seen Pamela
in church had been at Stringham’s wedding, child bridesmaid of six or seven, an
occasion when, abandoning responsibilities in holding up the bride’s train, she
had walked away composedly, later, so it was alleged, causing herself to be
lifted in order to be sick into the font. ‘That little girl’s a fiend,’ someone
had remarked afterwards at the reception. Now she sat, so to speak, between
Henry Lucius and his descendant Alfred Tolland. Would Henry Lucius, ‘not
indifferent to the charms of the fair sex’, rise from the dead? She had closed
her eyes, either in prayer, or to express the low temperature of the nave, but
did not kneel. Neither did Quiggin, Craggs or Gypsy kneel, but Widmerpool leant
forward for a few seconds in a noncommittally devotional attitude that did not
entirely abandon a sitting posture, and might have been attributable merely to
some interior discomfort.
The dead silence that had
momentarily fallen was broken by Widmerpool levering himself back on the seat.
He removed his spectacles and began to wipe them. He was rather thinner, or
civilian clothes gave less impression of bulk than the ‘utility’ uniform that
enclosed him when last seen. The House of Commons had already left its
indefinable, irresoluble mark. His thick features, the rotundities of his body,
always amenable to caricature, now seemed more than ever simplified in outline,
positively demanding treatment in political cartoon. The notion that a few
months at Westminster had brought this about was far fetched. Alteration, if
alteration there were, was more likely to be accountable to marriage.
Craggs too shared some of this
air of a figure from newspaper caricature, a touch of the Mad Hatter mingling
with that of King Lear. His shabbiness, almost griminess, was certainly
designed to convey to the world that he was a person of sufficient importance
to rise above bourgeois convention, whatever its form. Smiling to himself,
snuffling, fidgeting, he gazed round the church in a manner to register
melodramatic wonder that such places could still exist, even for the purpose
that had brought him there. Such views were certainly held by Gypsy too – who
had refused to attend her old friend Mr Deacon’s funeral on strictly
anti-religious grounds – but unmitigated anger now appeared to prevent her from
knowing, or caring, where she found herself. Quiggin looked as if his mind were
occupied with business problems. On the other hand, he might have been thinking
of the time when Erridge had taken Mona, Quiggin’s girl, to the Far East. That
difference had been long made up, but circumstances could have recalled it,
giving Quiggin a strained uneasy expression.
One of the least resolvable
problems posed by Widmerpool’s presence was his toleration of Gypsy as member
of the party. Once – haunted by that dire incident in the past when he had paid
for her ‘operation’ –
encrusted the Henry Lucius tomb. Whether or not this seating arrangement
accorded with Widmerpool’s intention could only be guessed; probably not, from
the expression his face at once assumed. Nevertheless, now it had happened, he
curtly directed Alfred Tolland to follow, without attempting to reclassify this
order of precedence. There was a moment of gesturing between them, Alfred
Tolland putting forward some contrary suggestion – he may just have grasped the
meaning of Jeavons’s signals – so that very briefly it looked as if a wrestling
match were about to take place in the aisle. Then Widmerpool shoved Alfred
Tolland almost bodily into the pew, where, leaving a wide gap between himself
and Pamela, Tolland immediately knelt, burying his face in his hands like a man
in agonies of remorse. At Widmerpool’s orders, Quiggin went in next; Craggs and
Gypsy into the pew behind. They were followed by Widmerpool himself.
The last time I had seen Pamela
in church had been at Stringham’s wedding, child bridesmaid of six or seven, an
occasion when, abandoning responsibilities in holding up the bride’s train, she
had walked away composedly, later, so it was alleged, causing herself to be
lifted in order to be sick into the font. ‘That little girl’s a fiend,’ someone
had remarked afterwards at the reception. Now she sat, so to speak, between
Henry Lucius and his descendant Alfred Tolland. Would Henry Lucius, ‘not
indifferent to the charms of the fair sex’, rise from the dead? She had closed
her eyes, either in prayer, or to express the low temperature of the nave, but
did not kneel. Neither did Quiggin, Craggs or Gypsy kneel, but Widmerpool leant
forward for a few seconds in a noncommittally devotional attitude that did not
entirely abandon a sitting posture, and might have been attributable merely to
some interior discomfort.
The dead silence that had
momentarily fallen was broken by Widmerpool levering himself back on the seat.
He removed his spectacles and began to wipe them. He was rather thinner, or
civilian clothes gave less impression of bulk than the ‘utility’ uniform that
enclosed him when last seen. The House of Commons had already left its
indefinable, irresoluble mark. His thick features, the rotundities of his body,
always amenable to caricature, now seemed more than ever simplified in outline,
positively demanding treatment in political cartoon. The notion that a few
months at Westminster had brought this about was far fetched. Alteration, if
alteration there were, was more likely to be accountable to marriage.
Craggs too shared some of this
air of a figure from newspaper caricature, a touch of the Mad Hatter mingling
with that of King Lear. His shabbiness, almost griminess, was certainly
designed to convey to the world that he was a person of sufficient importance
to rise above bourgeois convention, whatever its form. Smiling to himself,
snuffling, fidgeting, he gazed round the church in a manner to register
melodramatic wonder that such places could still exist, even for the purpose
that had brought him there. Such views were certainly held by Gypsy too – who
had refused to attend her old friend Mr Deacon’s funeral on strictly
anti-religious grounds – but unmitigated anger now appeared to prevent her from
knowing, or caring, where she found herself. Quiggin looked as if his mind were
occupied with business problems. On the other hand, he might have been thinking
of the time when Erridge had taken Mona, Quiggin’s girl, to the Far East. That
difference had been long made up, but circumstances could have recalled it,
giving Quiggin a strained uneasy expression.
One of the least resolvable
problems posed by Widmerpool’s presence was his toleration of Gypsy as member
of the party. Once – haunted by that dire incident in the past when he had paid
for her ‘operation’ –
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