Author: Barbara Pym
Category: Humorous
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Through sleep and darkness safely brought,
Restored to life, and power and thought.
Not that she ever thought of herself as having much power, but she was certainly alive and might be considered capable of a small amount of thought. She could at least thank God for that. The curate was joining heartily in the singing and Belinda hoped he was saving enough voice to read the lessons.
Obviously the Archdeacon was out to impress his visitors, for the Te Deum and the Benedictus were sung to elaborate, unfamiliar settings, which the congregation could not attempt and which seemed rather beyond the choir at some points. The Archdeacon himself read the first lesson and the curate the second. The Archdeacon also intoned many of the prayers and his voice went up and down in the oddest way. Of course the voice should go up or down, Belinda couldn’t quite remember which, at the end of a line, but there seemed to be something wrong somewhere and so much disturbance was caused among the choir boys that Mr Gibson, the organist, had to hurry out of his place to control them.
Belinda thought that as the Archdeacon was going to preach, he was perhaps doing too much of the service himself, and what with the curious intoning and the curate’s church voice, which was like nothing so much as a bleating sheep’s, it was difficult for Belinda to keep from smiling. And even she was forced to admit to herself that they were getting a little too much for their money, when she realized that they were going to have the Litany.
Just before he went to the Litany desk, the Archdeacon glanced round the congregation with what appeared to be a look of malicious amusement on his face. At least, that was how it must have seemed to most people, but perhaps it could hardly have been amusement. Indulgence for his sinful flock was more likely and certainly more fitting. Everyone knelt down rather angrily. They had had the Litany last Sunday and the Archdeacon never made any attempt to shorten it. As he could not sing, he made up for it by making his voice heard as much as possible in other ways.
Belinda was trying hard to concentrate on her sins, but somehow the atmosphere was not very suitable this morning and she was at last forced to give it up. Staring at the Archdeacon’s back, she reflected that he was still very handsome. Perhaps he would read aloud to them when he came to supper tonight, though, as she would be the only person who wanted to listen, it might be rather difficult to arrange. Harriet could play the piano and the curate might be asked to sing, but the main entertainment of the evening would be the conversation. Dear Nicholas was so delightfully witty and Mr Mold would no doubt be able to tell them many interesting things about the Library. By the time the Archdeacon had ascended the pulpit steps, Belinda had forgotten all about the special sermon, and settled herself comfortably in her pew, as did the rest of the congregation, having just sung with great vigour that the world was very evil.
The text was given out, quite a usual one from the Revelation. And I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away.
Harriet looked at her watch. She supposed they would have to endure the Archdeacon for at least twenty minutes, possibly twenty-five minutes or even half an hour. She sighed and tried to listen to what he was saying. It was some consolation that he was preaching a sermon of his own composition instead of one of those tedious literary things that Belinda said he read so magnificently.
‘We are apt to accept this vision of the new heaven and the new earth with too much complacency,’ he declared.
Oh, well, thought Harriet, clergymen are always saying things like that.
‘But do we realize all that must happen before we can hope to share in this bliss? If indeed, we are found worthy. I say again, do we realize? Have we any idea at all?’ The Archdeacon paused impressively and peered at his congregation; a harmless enough collection of people – old Mrs Prior and her daughter, Miss Jenner, Miss Beard and Miss Smiley in front with the children, ever watchful to frown on giggles or fidgets – the Bank Manager, who sometimes read the lessons – the Misses Bede and the guests from the vicarage – Count Bianco – Miss Liversidge and Miss Aspinall – of course they did not realize but he was going to tell them. ‘The Judgment Day,’ he almost shouted, so loudly that Harriet had to take out her handkerchief to stifle her inappropriate amusement, and old Mrs Prior let out a kind of moan. ‘That day may be soon,’ he went on, ‘it may even be tomorrow.’
The congregation shifted awkwardly in their seats. It was uncomfortable to be reminded that the Judgment Day might be tomorrow.
‘Dies Irae,’ he continued, lingering on the words with enjoyment. Belinda saw Edith Liversidge purse her lips disapprovingly at this Romish expression. ‘Day of Wrath,’ he translated. ‘And what a terrible day that will be!’
The congregation, still rather uneasy and disturbed, reminded themselves that of course such a thing couldn’t really happen. Why, scientists told us that it would take millions of years for the sun to move sufficiently far away from the earth for life to become extinct. At least it was perhaps not exactly that, but something very like it. They knew enough to realize that the Archdeacon was being ridiculous and that the Judgment Day could not possibly be tomorrow. When the first uncomfortable shock had passed they were able to laugh at themselves. How could they have been so silly as to be alarmed!
But even as they were thinking thus, the relentless voice from the pulpit was pouring scorn on those scientists who thought they knew how the world had begun and how it would end. How could they know? These matters were incomprehensible mysteries known to God alone. The Judgment Day was as likely to be tomorrow as at any time in the far distant future. The world was indeed very evil, as they had just been singing in that fine hymn translated from the Latin, the times were waxing late. All through our literature poets had been haunted by the idea of the Last Day and what it would be like…
The congregation suddenly relaxed. It was just going to be one of the Archdeacon’s usual sermons after all. There had been no need for those uncomfortable fears. They settled down again, now completely reassured, and prepared themselves for a long string of quotations, joined together by a few explanations from the Archdeacon.
He began at the seventeenth century. Belinda reflected that if he had gone back any further, the sermon would have assumed Elizabethan proportions. As it was, it promised to be longer than usual. She listened admiringly. The Archdeacon was quoting Thomas Flatman’s lines written in 1659, to show how poets of the latter half of that century had imagined that the Judgment Day was near.
’Tis not far off; methinks I see
Among the stars some dimmer be;
Some tremble as their lamps did fear
A neighbouring extinguisher …
And curiously enough one of the oldest inhabitants of the parish had remarked to him only the other day that the stars did not seem to be as bright as they were when he was a boy. It was very significant. The Archdeacon liked the sound of his own voice and so did Belinda, and she was delighted to hear him read about thirty more lines of Flatman’s poem.
Those of the congregation who were still listening – Harriet’s attention had long since wandered – smiled complacently. That had been in 1659, they thought, and nothing had come of this man’s noticing that some of the stars were dimmer. Why even the Archdeacon himself was forced to admit it! 1659. 1660. What had happened in 1660? His hearers resented this history lesson. The Restoration. Everyone knew that. But here was the Archdeacon trying to tell them that the Restoration was itself a kind of Judgment Day.
Belinda tried hard to follow, but she found this point rather obscure. She was frowning slightly with the effort of concentration. Harriet was looking at the curate, but he had sunk so deeply into his stall that very little of him was visible. By looking out of the corner of her left eye and turning her head slightly, she could see Dr Parnell and Mr Mold. Mr Mold was looking at his watch and Dr Parnell appeared to be smiling at some private joke. Count Bianco, sitting in front of Dr Parnell, had long ago given up any attempt to follow the serm
on. A Roman Catholic by upbringing, he still found the service confusing and only attended the Archdeacon’s church because he felt it might bring him nearer to Harriet. This morning she had looked in his direction; she had distinctly turned her head. Could it be that she was looking at him?
When the Archdeacon reached the eighteenth century, the going was a little easier. Several people smiled at the lines he quoted from Blair’s poem The Grave:
When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumb’ring dust,
Not unattentive to the call shall wake,
And ev’ry joint possess its proper place,
With a new elegance of form unknown
To its first state. Nor shall the conscious soul
Mistake his partner …
Belinda liked this very much, but she was uneasily conscious that the Archdeacon had already been preaching for nearly half an hour, and she began to worry about the beef. It would be roasted to a cinder by now, unless Emily had had the sense to turn down the oven. Harriet did so like it underdone, and they were usually well out of church and sitting down to their meal by half past twelve. And Henry had only got as far as the eighteenth century without yet having mentioned Edward Young, who was sure to be brought into the sermon somehow. She had rather lost the thread of what he was saying now, but suddenly felt herself on safer ground when she heard him mention the Night Thoughts. He seemed to be implying that each person listening to him this morning was little better than the unknown Lorenzo, for whose edification the poem had been written. Even Belinda thought the Archdeacon was going a little too far when he likened his congregation to such as ‘call aloud for ev’ry bauble drivel’d o’er by sense’. Whatever it might mean it certainly sounded abusive. He concluded his reading from Young by flinging a challenge at them.
… Say dreamers of gay dreams,
How will you weather an eternal night,
Where such expedients fail?
He paused dramatically and the sermon was at an end. There was quite a stir in the congregation, for some of them had been dreaming gay dreams most of the morning, although many of them had given the sermon a chance, and had only allowed their thoughts to wander when it had passed beyond their comprehension. They now fidgeted angrily in bags and pockets for their collect-money. One or two even let the plate pass them, waving it on with an angry gesture.
Belinda soon recovered from her first feeling of shocked surprise. Of course dear Henry had not really meant to insult them. He had obviously been carried away by the fine poetry, and naturally he must have meant to include himself among those he condemned. It had really been one of the finest sermons she had ever heard him preach, she told herself loyally, even if the ending had been rather sudden and unusual. It didn’t do people any harm to hear the truth occasionally. We were all inclined to get too complacent sometimes. She thought rather vaguely of great preachers like Savonarola, Donne and John Wesley. No doubt they had not spared the feelings of their hearers either, but as she was unable to think of anything that any one of them had said, she could not be absolutely sure. As they were singing the last hymn Ye servants of the Lord, Belinda tried to think of some intelligent criticisms, for she did not want her praise of dear Henry to be lacking in discernment. He might welcome intelligent criticism, she thought, knowing perfectly well that he would not. Perhaps there had been rather too many literary quotations, and she had the feeling that it was not quite the thing to read bits of Restoration drama in church … but it had certainly been a fine and unusual sermon. She could not help wondering whether he would continue it this evening, going through the Victorians and the modern poets and so bringing it up to date. But that would hardly be suitable for the evening congregation, who, as he had admitted himself, liked simpler stuff.
As they came out of church they passed the time of day with Dr Parnell and Mr Mold, but Belinda hurried Harriet away before they could get involved in conversation. Mr Mold’s manner seemed very free and he had looked almost as if he were going to wink at Harriet. Ricardo, who was hovering hopefully by a tombstone, saw her whisked away before he could do more than bow and say good morning. But he comforted himself with the prospect of seeing her that evening.
‘I was sorry not to stop and talk to Ricardo,’ said Belinda, ‘but we are so late as it is.’
‘Yes,’ said Harriet, ‘I expect many people’s Sunday dinner will be ruined. I wonder what they are having at the vicarage?’
‘I think they are having duck,’ said Belinda. ‘At least, I saw one in Hartnell’s on Saturday which was labelled for the vicarage. And of course,’ she said thoughtfully, as she watched her sister carve the over-cooked beef, ‘duck needs to be very well done, doesn’t it? It can’t really be cooked too much.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The guests were due to arrive at about eight o’clock, by which time Evensong would be over. Both Belinda and Harriet had of course been much too busy with their preparations to attend it. Belinda had felt very much tempted, indeed, the thought of missing one of the Archdeacon’s sermons was almost unbearable, but she consoled herself with the reflection that looking after his material welfare was just as important as her own spiritual welfare, if such it could be called, and that she was making the sacrifice in a good cause.
A very nice supper had been prepared. It had to be so, for not only must the Archdeacon be pleased, but Harriet had thought the curate needed feeding up as he had been looking especially thin and pale lately. She could only hope it was nothing to do with that Miss Berridge. There were to be cold chickens with ham and tongue and various salads, followed by trifles, jellies, fruit and Stilton cheese. An extra leaf had been put in the dining-room table as, much against Harriet’s will, Belinda had decided to invite Miss Liversidge and Miss Aspinall. She really thought that five men and two women was a little disproportionate and such a party might give rise to talk. Emily would think it so funny. It was rather an undertaking to have seven people to supper, but as most of the food was cold and could be prepared well in advance there was no reason why everything should not go very well.
Harriet was a little inclined to worry about what they should drink. Mr Mold would be used to living in style, she thought, and would surely expect whisky or gin.
‘But we have a very good sherry,’ said Belinda. ‘I am sure that is quite correct, and there will be the hock and afterwards port.’ Whisky was to Belinda more a medicine than a drink, something one took for a cold with hot milk or lemon. It was not at all suitable for a Sunday evening supper party at which there were to be clergymen and ladies present.
‘We must be sure that the hock is chilled enough,’ said Harriet. ‘Not iced, of course that would be a serious error; I shouldn’t like Mr Mold to think that we didn’t know about wine.’
‘Nicholas is a great connoisseur,’ said Belinda. ‘It seems right that a librarian should be, I think. Good wine and old books seem to go together.’
‘And of course the Archdeacon likes a drop,’ said Harriet rather vulgarly. ‘We shall have to watch him. I don’t suppose Agatha lets him have much. Good heavens, it’s nearly seven o’clock. We must go and change.’
Harriet was determined that this evening should see the climax of her elegance and only lamented the fact that she could not wear full evening dress. Still, her new brown velvet would be magnificent with her gold necklace and long ear-rings. Belinda had decided to wear her blue chiffon. Henry had once said that he liked her in pale colours, and although that had been over thirty years ago it was possible that he still might. Her crystal beads and ear-rings went quite well with it, and when she had put on a little rouge the whole effect was rather pleasing. She went into the bathroom where Harriet was splashing about in the bath like a plump porpoise. Her curls were protected by a round cap of green oilskin and the room was filled with the exotic scent of bath salts.
Harriet looked at Belinda critically. ‘Yes, you look very nice,’ she said, ‘but I think I should use some more lipstick if I were you. Artificial light is apt to
make one look paler.’
‘Oh, no, Harriet, I don’t think I can use any more,’ said Belinda. ‘I shouldn’t really feel natural if I did. Thou art not fair for all thy red and white,’ she quoted vaguely, leaving Harriet to wallow in her bath.
At five minutes to eight Belinda was downstairs in the drawing-room, waiting for somebody to arrive. She was sitting in a chair by the fire with a book on her knee, which she was not reading. It was something by an old friend of Harriet’s – a former curate – Theodore Grote, now Bishop of Mbawawa in Africa. Dear Theo, he had certainly done splendid work among the natives, at least, that was what everyone said, although nobody seemed to know exactly what it was that he had done. Certainly they still looked very heathen, grinning away in their leafy dress. But perhaps that was before he converted them. She opened the book with a view to finding out, but she could not settle to reading and walked restlessly round the room, moving the flowers, rearranging the cushions and altering the position of chairs. She brought out a photograph of Nicholas Parnell in his academic robes and put it on the mantelpiece; she also displayed on a small table a little pamphlet he had written about central heating in libraries. It was prettily bound and had a picture of a phoenix on the cover with a Greek inscription underneath it. Something about Prometheus, Harriet had said, for Belinda was like Shakespeare in having little Latin and no Greek.
At eight o’clock the bell rang. Men’s voices were heard in the hall and a minute or two later Emily showed the Archdeacon, Dr Parnell, Mr Mold and the curate into the room. Belinda shook hands with them rather formally. The Archdeacon advanced towards an armchair by the fire and sank down into it rather dramatically, as if exhausted. Dr Parnell took up his own pamphlet and said that he was glad to find somebody who had cut its beautiful pages.
‘I’m afraid you’re hardly a best seller,’ said Mr Mold jovially. ‘Nor even as much ordered in the Library as Rochester’s poems,’ he added.