Anthony Powell - Hearing Secret Harmonies

‘The Essence of the All is the Godhead of the True.’

Only Widmerpool answered, even then very feebly.

‘The Visions of Visions heals the Blindness of Sight — and, Scorp, there is —’

Murtlock, disregarding the others, held up a hand towards Widmerpool to command silence. There was a moment’s pause. When Murtlock answered, it was sharply, and in an altogether unliturgical maimer.

‘Why are you here?’

Widmerpool faltered. There was another long pause. Murtlock spoke again.

‘You do not know?’

This time Murtlock’s question was delivered in an almost amused tone. Widmerpool made great effort to utter. He had gone an awful colour, almost mauve.

‘There is an explanation, Scorp. All can be accounted for. We met Fiona. She asked us in. I saw an opportunity to take part in an active rite of penitence, a piece of ritual discipline, painful to myself, of the sort you most recommend. You will approve, Scorp. I’m sure you will approve, when I tell you about it.’

After saying that, Widmerpool began to mumble distractedly. Murtlock turned away from him. Without troubling to give further attention to whatever Widmerpool was attempting to explain, he fixed his eyes on Henderson, who began to tremble violently. Fiona let go of Gwinnett’s hand. She stepped forward.

‘Barnabas is leaving you. He’s staying here with Chuck.’

‘He is?’

‘Aren’t you, Barnabas?’

Henderson, still shaking perceptibly, managed to confirm that.

‘I’m going back with Chuck.’

‘You are, Barnabas?’

‘Yes.’

‘I hope you will be happier together than you were before you came to us.’

Murtlock smiled benevolently. He seemed in the best of humours. Only Widmerpool gave the impression of angering him. The defection of Henderson appeared not to worry him in the least. His reply to Fiona, too, had been in the jocular tone he had sometimes used on the crayfishing afternoon; though it was clear that Murtlock had moved a long way, in terms of power, since that period. Perhaps he had learnt something from Widmerpool, while at the same time subduing him.

‘A mystical sister has been lost, and gained. You are not alone in abandoning us, Fiona. Rusty, too, has returned to Soho.’

Fiona did not answer. She looked rather angry. Her general air was a shade more grown-up than formerly. Murtlock turned to Gwinnett.

‘Was not the Unicorn tamed by a Virgin?’

Gwinnett did not answer either. Had he wished to do so, in itself unlikely, there was no time. At that moment Widmerpool seemed to lose all control. He came tottering forward towards Murtlock.

‘Scorp, I’m leaving too. I can’t stand it any longer. You and the others need not be disturbed. I’ll find somewhere else to live. I won’t need much of the money.’

Apparently lacking breath to continue, he stopped, standing there panting. Murtlock’s demeanour underwent a complete change. He dropped altogether the sneering bantering manner he had been using intermittently. Now he was angry again; not merely angry, furious, consumed with cold rage. For a second he did not speak, while Widmerpool ran on about Harmony.

‘No.’

Murtlock cut Widmerpool short. Chuck, not at all interested in the strangeness of this duel of wills, put a protective arm round Henderson. He may have thought his friend in danger of capitulating, now that Murtlock was so enraged. That passion in Murtlock was not without its own horror.

‘Come on, Barnabas. No point in hanging about. Let’s be getting back.’

After Henderson had spoken some sort of farewell to Fiona, he went off with Chuck towards the cars. Murtlock took no notice of this withdrawal. His attention was entirely concentrated on Widmerpool, who, avoiding the eyes Murtlock fixed on him, continued to beg for release.

‘Where could you go?’

Widmerpool made a gesture to signify that was no problem, but seemed unable to think of a spoken reply.

‘No.’

‘Scorp…’

‘No.’

Murtlock repeated the negative in a dead toneless voice. Widmerpool was unable to speak. He stood there stupefied. Murtlock came closer. This conflict — in which Widmerpool, too, was evidently showing a certain amount of passive will power — was brought to an end by the re-entry of an actor forgotten in the course of rapid movement of events. The sound of singing came from the gates of the Castle.

‘When I tread the verge of Jordan,

Bid my anxious fears subside,

Death of Death and hell’s destruction,

Land me safe on Canaan’s side.’

Bithel was staggering across the causeway. His voice, high, quavering, much enhanced in volume by champagne, swelled on the spring air. Some sort of echo of the hymn was briefly taken up by another chant, possibly Umfraville’s — he had served with the Welsh Guards — on the far side of the drive. Murtlock, as remarked earlier, was not in the least lacking in practical grasp. At a glance he took in the implications of this new situation.

‘You allowed Bith to drink?’

‘I —’

‘What have I always said?’

‘It was —’

‘Lead the others back. I will manage Bith myself.’

This time Widmerpool made no demur. He accepted defeat. An unforeseen factor had put him in the wrong. He was beaten for the moment. The rest of the cult still stood in a glum group, no doubt contemplating trouble on return to base. Widmerpool beckoned to them. There was some giving of orders. A minute or two later Widmerpool, once more at the head of the pack, was leading the run home; a trot even slower than that employed when we first sighted them. Bithel had stopped half-way across the causeway. He was leaning over the parapet, staring down at the water-lilies of the moat. The possibility that he might be sick was not to be excluded. That idea may have crossed Murtlock’s practical mind too, because a slight smile flickered across his face, altering its sternness only for a moment, as he strode towards the Castle. Some words were exchanged. Then they moved off together towards the playing-fields. Bithel could walk; if not very straight. Once he fell down. Murtlock waited until Bithel managed to pick himself up again, but made no effort to help. They disappeared from sight. Fiona came over to where I was standing.

‘Will you be seeing Gibson?’

‘I expect so.’

‘I want you to give him a message from me.’

‘Of course.’

‘When Russell and I first knew each other, Rus lent me his copy of Middleton’s Plays . It’s got some of his own notes pencilled in. I can’t find it, and must have left it at Gibson’s flat. Could you get him to send the book on — airmail it — to Russell’s college? Just address it to the English Department. We’re not going to have any time at all when we get back to London.’

‘You’re going straight to America?’

‘The following day.’

‘No other messages for Gibson?’

‘No, just the book.’

By the time I next saw Delavacquerie he was aware that Fiona was married to Gwinnett. I don’t know whether he heard directly from her, or the news just got round. She appeared to have left the flat without warning, taking her belongings with her. He smiled rather grimly when I passed on the request to send the Middleton book to Gwinnett’s college.

‘As a matter of fact I read some of the plays myself in consequence — The Roaring Girle , which Dekker also had a hand in. I enjoyed the thieves’ cant. Listen to this:

A gage of ben rom-bouse

In a bousing ken of Rom-vile,

Is benar than a caster,

Peck, pennam, lay, or popler,

Which we mill in deuse a vile.

O I wud lib all the lightmans,

O I wud lib all the darkmans

By the salomon, under the ruffmans,