Read Online Books Do Furnish a Room by Anthony Powell - Free Book Online Page B

of the opening Sentences of the burial service. Everyone
rose. Coughing briefly
ceased. The parson, a very old man presented to the living by Erridge’s
grandfather, moved slowly, rather painfully forward, intoning the words in a
high quavering chant. The heavy boots of the coffin-bearers shuffled over the
stones. The faces of the bearers were set, almost agonizingly concentrated, on
what they were doing, that of Skerrett, the old gamekeeper, of gnarled ivory,
like a skull. He was not much younger than the parson. A boy of sixteen
supporting one of the back corners of the coffin was probably his grandson. The
trembling prayers raised a faint echo throughout the dank air of the church, on
which the congregation’s breath floated out like steam. Such moments never lose
their intensity. A cross-reference had uncovered Herbert’s lines a few days
before.
    The brags of life are but a
nine-days wonder:
And after death the fumes that
spring
From private bodies, make as
big a thunder
As those which rise from a huge
king.
    One thought of Father Zossima
in
The Brothers Karamazov
. Reference to bodily corruption
was a natural reaction from ‘Whom none should advise, thou hast persuaded’.
Ralegh might be grandiloquent, he was also authoritative, even hypnotic, no
less resigned than Herbert, as well. I thought about death. It seemed most
unlikely Burton had really hanged himself, as rumoured, to corroborate the
accuracy of the final hour he had drawn in his own horoscope. The fact was he
was only mildly interested in astrology.
    By this time the bearers were
showing decided strain from the weight of the coffin. They had reached a stage
about halfway up the aisle, and were going fairly slowly. Suddenly a commotion
began to take place in one of the pews opposite this point. Pamela was
attempting to make her way out. Her naturally pale face was the colour of chalk. She
had already thrust past Alfred Tolland and Quiggin, but Widmerpool, an
absolutely outraged expression on
his face, stepped quickly from the pew behind to delay her.
    ‘I’m feeling faint, you fool. I’ve
got to get out of here.’
    She spoke in quite a loud
voice. Widmerpool seemed to make a momentary inner effort to decide for himself
the degree of his wife’s indisposition, whether she were to be humoured or
not, but she pushed him aside so violently that he nearly fell. As she hurried
into the aisle he recovered himself, for a second made as if to follow her,
then decided against any such action. Had he seriously contemplated pursuit,
there had been in any case too great delay. Although Pamela herself managed to
skirt the procession advancing with the coffin, it was doubtful whether anyone
of more considerable bulk could have freely negotiated the available space in
the same manner, especially after the disruption caused. She had brushed past
the vicar so abruptly that he gasped and lost the thread of his words. A second
later the bearers, recovering themselves, were level with Widmerpool, blocking
his own egress from the pew. Pamela’s heels clattered away down the flags. When she reached the door, there was difficulty in managing the latch. It gave out
discordant rattles; then a creak and loud slam.
    ‘My God,’ said Norah.
    She spoke the words softly.
They recalled her own troubles with Pamela. The service continued. I tried to
recompose the mind by returning to Ralegh and Herbert. ‘Whom none should
advise, thou hast persuaded.’ Was that true of everyone who died? Of Erridge,
eminently true: true too, in its way, of Stringham and Templer: to some extent
of Barnby: not at all true of George Tolland: yet, after all, was it true of
him too? I thought of the Portraits of Ralegh, stylized in ruff, short cloak,
pointed beard, fierce look. ‘All the pride, cruelty and ambition of men.’
Ralegh knew the form. Still, Herbert was good too. I wondered what Herbert had
looked like. In the end one
got back to