Anthony Powell - Hearing Secret Harmonies

‘Scorpio once sang in my choir. That was when I was in south London. His parents kept a newspaper shop. As ever in these cases, there was an interesting heredity. Both mother and father belonged to a small fanatical religious sect, but I won’t go into that now. It was with great difficulty that I secured their son for the choir. I should never have done so, had Leslie himself not insisted on joining. His will was stronger than theirs.’

‘Did you yourself introduce him to what might, in general terms, be called alchemy?’

‘On the contrary, Scorpio — Leslie as he was then — already possessed remarkable gifts of a kinetic kind. As you certainly know, there has been of late years a great revival of interest in what can only be called, in many cases, the Black Arts, I fear. It was quite by chance that Scorpio’s natural leanings fell within a province with which I had long concerned myself. Mystical studies — my Bishop agrees — can be unexpectedly valuable in combating the undesirable in that field.’

Fenneau’s mouth went a little tight again at mention of his Bishop, the eyes taking on a harder, less misty surface. It was permissible to feel that the Bishop himself — elements of exorcism perhaps out of easy reach at that moment — could have agreed, not least from trepidation at prospect of being transformed into a toad, or confined for a thousand years within a hollow oak.

‘What happened to Murtlock after he left your choir?’

‘A success story, even if a strange one. After singing so delightfully — I wish you could have heard his solo:

Now we are come to the sun’s hour of rest,

The lights of evening round us shine.

— Leslie won a scholarship at a choir-school. He was doing splendidly there. Then a most unfortunate thing happened. It was quite out of the ordinary. He developed a most unhappy influence over the choirmaster. Influence is a weak word in the circumstances.’

‘You mean — ’

Fenneau smiled primly this time.

‘That is certainly what one might expect. There had been trouble of that sort earlier. Leslie was quite a little boy then, hardly old enough to understand. The man was not convicted — I think rightly — as there was a possibility that Leslie had — well — invented the whole thing, but, as people said at the time, no smoke without fire. That unhappy possibility did not arise with the choirmaster. I knew him personally, a man of blameless life. There are, of course, men of blameless life, who yield to sudden temptation — lead us not into Thames Station, as the choirboys are said to have prayed — and there is no question but Leslie was an unusually handsome boy. No one could fail to notice that. Not that he wasn’t a boy with remarkable qualities other than physical ones. At the same time I am satisfied that not a hint of improper conduct took place on the part of the choirmaster.’

The thought extended the smile of Fenneau’s long mouth into ogreish proportions. He moved quickly from the prim to the blunt.

‘Not even pawing. Leslie assured me himself.’

‘Murtlock gave the impression of being tough when I met him. I should have thought he would be as tough about sex, as about anything else.’

‘You are right. Let me speak plainly. Leslie — Scorpio by now — is tough. That does not mean he is necessarily badly behaved in matters of sex. I have always thought him not primarily interested in sex. What he seeks is moral authority.’

‘Mightn’t he use sex to gain moral authority?’

Fenneau gave me an odd look.

‘That is another matter. Possibly he might. I can only say that all who had anything to do with the choirmaster affair agreed that sex — in any commonplace use of the word — did not come into it. At the same time, having known Leslie from his earliest years, I was not altogether surprised at what happened. I felt sure something of the sort would take place sooner or later. I knew it would grieve me.’

‘Had he ever tried to impose his moral authority in your own case?’

I thought Fenneau deserved the question. He showed no disposition to resent or sidestep it. When he spoke he gazed into the distance beyond me.

‘Fortunately I knew how to handle the gifts Leslie had been granted.’

‘How did the choir-school story end?’

‘Most tragically. The choirmaster was going to be a difficult man to replace. Good men are always at a premium, let alone good schoolmasters. Leslie — or should I already call him Scorpio? — was leaving at the end of the following term to take up another scholarship. He had done nothing against the rules. Every effort was made to persuade the choirmaster to exert his own will sufficiently to contend with the few months that remained. It was no good. His will had altogether gone. He was in too demoralized a state to stay on. He wished to be relieved of his appointment without delay.’

‘The choirmaster left, Murtlock remained?’

‘That was so. The unfortunate man took a job at another school, in quite a different part of the country. He was thought to be doing well there. Alas, just before the opening of the summer term, the poor fellow was found drowned in the swimming-pool.’

Fenneau sighed.

‘What’s Murtlock’s present position, over and above people objecting to what he does at prehistoric monuments? How far does he model himself on Trelawney? When he stayed with us he appeared to have indulged in nothing worse than burning laurel leaves, and scenting a bucket with camphor.’

‘Camphor? I am glad to hear of that. Camphor traditionally preserves chastity. With regard to Trelawney, I hope Scorpio has purged away the more unpleasant side. Harmony is the watchword. Harmony, as such, is not to be disapproved. I fear things are not always allowed to rest there. An element of Gnosticism emphasizes the duality of austerity and licence, abasement as a source of power, also elements akin to the worship of Mithras, where the initiate climbed through seven gates, or up seven ascending steps, imagery of the soul’s ascent through the spheres of the Planets — as Eugenius Philalethes says — hearing secret harmonies.’

‘I remember Trelawney’s friend, Mrs Erdleigh, quoting that. Did you know her?’

‘Myra Erdleigh was ubiquitous.’

Toasts and speeches began to take place. When these were over, lighting a cigar, Fenneau began to speak of Gnosticism, and the Mithraic mysteries. I was relating how Kipling’s Song to Mithras had so much puzzled my former Company Commander, Rowland Gwatkin (whose obituary, recently printed in the Regimental Magazine, said he had taken an active interest in Territorial and ex-Service organizations to the end), when, several seats opposite having been vacated by guests rising to relieve themselves, or stroll round the pictures, Widmerpool moved down to one of these empty chairs. I had forgotten all about him, even the possibility put forward by Members that another unscheduled speech of Widmerpool’s might take place. Close up, he looked even more like a down-at-heel artist than at a distance. The scarlet sweater was torn and dirty. Nodding to me, he addressed himself to Fenneau.

‘Canon Fenneau, I think?’

‘Your servant.’

Fenneau said that like a djinn rising vaporously from an unsealed bottle.

‘May I introduce myself? My name is Widmerpool — Ken Widmerpool. I am called by some Lord Widmerpool. Don’t bother about the Lord. It is irrelevant. We have never met, Canon. I am no churchgoer nowadays, though once I served my turn as a churchman.’

Hoping to disengage myself from whatever business Widmerpool had with Fenneau — impossible to imagine what that could be — I was about to make off, having myself planned to do a lightning tour of the pictures, in search of interesting specimens from the past. Widmerpool delayed this.