The Benediction Popular as an established Church practice was a comparatively recent innovation, dating back little more than three centuries. It was not confined to the English Isles, but flourished also in the Netherlands, in Brunswick-Brandenburg and in other northern states of Almaigne. To the learned, it symbolized the union between the two degrees of divine favour, the Twice-Blessed, in the persons of those who had received the Benediction Devotional at the conclusion of the Mass, and the Once-Blessed as represented by those who filled the square; so also the union of the two conditions of society. But to the unschooled of the lower degree and the lower condition, it was one of the most important of the very few ways in which grace could be acquired by an act of will, since it was effective upon those in a state of sin.
The Archbishop proceeded to deliver his blessing. He spoke in high ecclesiastical Latin, a language unintelligible to the great body of his hearers despite the theoretical similarity of some of its forms to phrases they heard every day. But this did not matter to them, any more than it mattered to many of those present that His Eminence’s voice reached them as a faint murmur, or to very many more that they heard nothing of it whatever. To be present meant to be within sight of the source of benediction; all that was required besides was to think seriously upon Jesus Christ; on these points doctrine was firm.
The ceremony reached its end. The Archbishop vacated the tribunal, received the King’s obeisance, raised him to his feet and escorted him to the royal baruch. In continuing silence—there would be no trumpets today—His Majesty took his seat, but the wheels did not turn until His Eminence was settled in the carriage immediately to the rear. The declining sun drew glaring reflections of itself from the gold leaf of both vehicles, fast-shifting points of varicoloured light from the cut-crystal with which they were embellished. Preceded by two Papal outriders, a troop of the Palatine Guard, their black-pennoned lances dipped, moved at a slow walk before the line of baruches, each drawn by black-plumed horses and hung with black streamers. Hooves, iron tyres and harness made the only sound. In the year of Our Lord one thousand nine hundred and seventy-six, Christendom would see nothing more mournful or more stately.
‘Bring the lamp over, would you, Fritz?’ asked Lupigradus Viaventosa in his squeaky voice. ‘This confounded gas gives no real light.’
‘Very well, but please finish your prinking,’ Mirabilis’s voice ‘Bring the lamp over, would you, Fritz?’ was as high-pitched as his friend’s but turned the hearer’s mind to an upper woodwind instrument, say a flute, rather than to a slate-pencil. He took the oil-lamp from its hook in the smoke-stained ceiling and put it down on the toilet-table. ‘We must not be discourteous to the Abbot.’
‘It would be the very depth of discourtesy for us not to appear at our best.’
‘How could the state of your mustach constitute a discourtesy to the Abbot? He has never seen it before.’
‘I beg you, Fritz, allow a foolish old man his vanity.’
The two spoke in the language of Almaigne, where they had been born. To do so was a mild but continuing pleasure after so many years of constant Italian diversified with Latin. Each had lived in Rome since boyhood and now held a high position in the musical hierarchy there: Viaventosa, some fifteen years the senior, was director of the Sistine Choir, Mirabilis a leading singer in the secular opero. It was the former’s first visit to England; the latter had been many times before. As a renowned exponent of Purcell, he was likely to be in demand whenever the Royal Opera House at Wheatley staged a new production of Dido and Aeneas or Majorian.
Although it was not a cold evening, both men were glad of the log fire that glowed steadily and cheerfully in the grate between their beds. On the wall above these there hung in each case the statutory crucifix and devotional picture: an Annunciation and a St Jerome with a demented-looking lion. They showed some skill and taste, to be expected in a first rate bedchamber at the Inn of the Twelve Apostles, King Stephen II Street, Coverley. The room was furnished in conservative Great Empire style: the rugs and heavy silk curtains from India, the jade candlesticks from Upper Burma, the tiles of the hearth from Indo-China, the mahogany prie-dieu from the Soudhan, as, rather irreverently, was testified by the low-relief carvings of lion, crocodile, elephant and hippopotamus.
Viaventosa finished at the looking-glass. ‘Have you ordered a public?’ He used the English word, which, in the sense he meant, was current throughout civilization.
‘Naturally. No doubt it awaits below at this moment.’
‘Nonsense: we should have been informed of its arrival . . . Well?’
As invited, Mirabilis surveyed the controversial mustach, a sparse, fine growth now darkened with kohl so as to suggest what might sprout from an adolescent’s upper lip; then took in the frilled lilac shirt, the purple velvet jacket and black breeches, deftly tailored to hide something of their wearer’s plumpness, the high-heeled leather boots. ‘Most commendable. You do yourself credit.’
‘You also. The wig is a great success after all and those cuffs are most distinctive, though I might have preferred a little more colour at the throat. Yes, we’re no disgrace, either of us, considering what we are.’ Viaventosa’s ample jowls shook slightly.
‘My dear Wolfgang, both of us have had quite long enough to reconcile ourselves to what we are.’
‘Have we? Would a lifetime be enough for that? I’m sorry, Fritz: this is foolish of me. Seeing that boy today brought so much back to me that I’d thought was safely buried.’
‘I understand. I share your feeling.’ Mirabilis gripped the other by the arm. ‘But we must try to suppress it.’
‘Yes, of course. You’re wiser than I am, Fritz.’
The whistle of the speaking-tube sounded at that moment and Mirabilis, no less portly than his companion but light of foot, hurried to answer it; Viaventosa took the opportunity to dab his eyes with a white lace pocket-napkin.
‘Yes? . . . Thank you most kindly: we will come down at once,’ said Mirabilis in the excellent English his studies and visits had brought him. ‘Die Public ist hier, mein Lieber.’
A public (in full, a public-express) was actually the least public of the three modes of powered public transport available, the other two being the express-omnibus and the railtrack train. All these used the method of propulsion developed by the great inventor Rudolf Diesel. The fuel was petroleum from the wells of northern Mexico, Louisiana and, in the last few years, the New Spain province of Venezuela; ignition was achieved merely by compressing petroleum vapour to a certain density, without the introduction of a spark. That suffix was vital, for the only practicable known means of producing a spark was an electrical one, and matters electrical were held in general disesteem. They were commonly regarded among the people as strange, fearful, even profane; the gentry smiled at the terms of this view while not missing its essential truth: electricity was appallingly dangerous, both as it existed and as it might be developed. No wonder that its exploration had never received official encouragement, nor that persistent rumours told of such exploration by inventors in New England.
The vehicle that waited at the portico of the inn was a typical public, squarely and stoutly built, bright with brass at its edgings, handles and lamps. Viaventosa and Mirabilis, with the aid of the driver’s arm, climbed on the step and were soon settled against the soft leather upholstery. The clockwork motor whirred, the engine began its drumming and they were off. Even at forty miles an hour progress was smooth, thanks not only to the air-filled tyres of Malayan rubber, but also to the level stone with which all the main streets of the capital were faced. There was some traffic on this one: other publics, an express-omnibus bound for London, several expresses. (Mirabilis had never got over his first feeling of amused irritation at the English illogic whereby a public-express was called a public and a privately-owned express an express.) And of course, the people’s horse-drawn waggons and traps were everywhere.
Viaventosa had strapped down his window and was keenly atten
ding to the buildings they passed. How different from Rome and its ordered antiquity! That theatre—its gasoliers extinguished on this day, though bills that promised a presentation of Thomas Kyd’s Hamlet were to be seen—was an embarrassing survival of the Franco-Arabesque style that had been all the rage a century earlier, but at least it stood for something different from the lath-and-canvas structure beside it, a pattie-shop and all too evidently popular swill-shop in one. A little further along, a Court tailoring establishment in the latest ornate style, complete with single-window glazing, was separated by no more than a narrow passage from one of the exquisitely varicoloured brick-built churches for which middle England was famous. Two elderly clerics emerged from its portal into a passing group of young men whose dingily-hued attire proclaimed their social condition. To be sure, they moved apart to let their betters through, but with neither the alacrity nor the air of respect that would have been common form elsewhere. To Viaventosa, the tiny incident stood for much of what was to be seen and heard of England: careless, bumptious, over-liberal, negligent of order.
At some point between the outskirts of Coverley and of Headington, the public reduced speed and turned off to the left. The quality of the roadway soon deteriorated; several times the passengers braced themselves or were sent groping for the straps; but it was only a couple of minutes before progress steadied again and the two were set down outside the main gate of the Chapel of St Cecilia—not in fact a chapel at all (though needless to say it incorporated one), but the choral school that served the cathedral and provided some teaching facilities for students from other parts of England and from the Empire.
Mirabilis handed the driver eightpence, which was acknowledged with a low bow and more than perfunctory thanks. Inhaling deeply, he caught the scents of the countryside—there was no other building to be seen—but also the hint of petroleum fumes, together with something else acrid and unnatural, something else man-made: a distressful product, it must be, of the manufactories that had been springing up in the area between here and Coverley itself over the past twenty or thirty years, most of them engaged in the production of express vehicles, including, most likely, that same public which had brought him here. It seemed to him that he could recapture in full those odours, normal then to the neighbourhood of any habitation, that had reached his nostrils on his first visit to St Cecilia’s in 1949, those of tallow-fat, bone-stock, horses and humanity. He was forty-six years old and an age was passing.
With Viaventosa breathing heavily at his side, he set going the clapper of the gate-bell. There soon appeared a young man in the black habit of the Benedictines, presumably a lay brother.
‘Salvete, magistri,’ he said in his flat English accent.
‘Salve, frater. We are guests to supper with the Lord Abbot. Masters Viaventosa and Mirabilis.’
‘Welcome, sirs—please to follow me.’
As he stepped over the sill of the wicket, Mirabilis thought he saw a vehicle approaching, but paid it no attention. The Abbot’s invitation had specifically said that there were to be no other guests tonight.
The shadows were gathering in the central courtyard, and the pale yellow of candlelight showed behind some of the little square windows. The three crossed a circle of turf, thick and beautifully taken care of, with at its centre John Bacon’s piastraccia statue of the saint, one of the most famous English products of the late eighteenth-century classical revival. Apart from their footfalls, and those of a servant crossing from the buttery with two pots of ale, there was almost total silence, with compline over and all practices and lessons cancelled for the day.
Abbot Peter Thynne sat in his parlour above the arch that led from the courtyard to the stables, the brewery, the bakery, the wood-house and ultimately the small farm that supplied the Chapel. A tall, upright, handsome man of fifty, with high cheekbones and with cropped grey hair under his skullcap, he wore as always the strictest Benedictine black, a relatively unusual choice of costume at a time when clerics in his elevated position were given to luxuriating in coloured silks and velvets. If asked, he would say that it was God Who had led him to music, which he saw in its entirety, even in its avowedly secular forms, as praise of the divine. But his style of looks and dress indicated no asceticism, were belied by the splendid Flanders tapestry that covered most of one wall, such pieces as the French writing-table of sycamore with Sevres inlay, and the presence and quality of the glass of sherry on its marble top.
He rose slowly to his feet when the lay brother showed in Mirabilis and Viaventosa.
‘My dear Fritz,’ he said with measured cordiality, extending his hand from the shoulder. ‘Welcome back to Coverley.’ (He pronounced it ‘Cowley’ after the old fashion.)
Mirabilis bowed and took the hand. ‘I am pleased that we meet again, my lord. May I present Master Lupigradus Viaventosa?’
‘This is a great honour for all of us, master.’
‘Your lordship is too gracious,’ said Viaventosa, producing one of his smallish stock of English phrases.
‘Now—let me bring forward my Prefect of Music, Master Sebastian Morley, whom I think you’ll remember, Fritz, and my Chapelmaster, Father David Dilke, who joined us last year.’
There were further salutations and compliments. Apart from his powerful square hands, Morley, with his peasant’s face and broadcloth attire in sober brown, could not be said much to resemble a musician, but in fact he was one of the most eminent in the land, a brilliant performer on the pianoforte who had given up that career in order to devote himself to the teaching of musical theory and composition. His merits in these fields were such as to have overcome the natural antagonism to the preceptorial appointment of one of the laity. He was respected and liked by Mirabilis, who was not at first greatly taken with Dilke, a comparative youngster, slight, fair-haired and given to nervous twitchings of the eyelids, though he seemed amiable enough.
‘Some sherry for our guests, Lawrence,’ said the Abbot, but before the grey-clad servant could move the lay brother had returned.
‘A thousand excuses, my lord, but there are two gentlemen who wish to speak to you.’
‘Oh, merciful heaven.’ The Abbot closed his eyes and lifted both hands in front of him. ‘Tell them I’m engaged.’
‘They are the New Englander Ambassador and the Archpresbyter of Arnoldstown, my lord.’
‘Are they so, indeed? In that case I suppose I had better not be engaged. Fetch them.’
‘This is surely rather discourteous at such a time,’ said the Abbot after the brother had gone, ‘if my expectations are not too high. But I hear very little good of Schismatic manners.’
What he had heard proved a poor guide to the behaviour of the two New Englanders when they were admitted. The Ambassador’s unaffected, manly address and direct blue eyes made an immediate good impression, while the Archpresbyter showed a quiet dignity that could not have come easily to one of his faith in his present circumstances.
‘I’ll take up as little of your time as is consistent with politeness, my lord,’ said the Ambassador when introductions were complete. ‘First, my excuses. I sent no advance notice of my wish to talk with you because I was afraid it would be rejected. I reckoned it would be difficult for you to order an ambassador off your doorstep, even one from New England.’
The Abbot gave a slight brief smile. ‘Some sherry, Your Excellency.’
‘Thank you, my lord. Now my request. It wasn’t only my official duties that took me this afternoon to St George’s, nor even my personal desire to pay my last respects to your late lamented sovereign. I went for the music too. May I say, Father Dilke, that the singing was of a quality I expect never to hear surpassed?’
Dilke blinked a great deal and glanced quickly at the Abbot. ‘That’s very kind of you, sir.’
‘No more than just, Father. I was particularly struck, as I’m sure others were,’—the Ambassador, who seemed to know who everyone was, turned his blue eyes on the two men from Almaigne—‘by the performance
of the solo soprano in the Agnus Dei and elsewhere. That young man has a voice from Heaven. And he’s a musician besides. Splendidly trained, to be sure, but there were things in his performance that nobody but himself could have put there—isn’t that so, Father?’
‘Oh yes, Your Excellency, yes.’
‘Forgive me, sir,’ said Morley in his harsh voice, ‘but are you yourself a musician?’
‘I was about to be one, sir, until I discovered my lack of capacity. All that I have now is the most cordial interest. Which brings me back to my point at last, my lord Abbot. I beg the favour of a few minutes’ conversation with the genius of St Cecilia’s. Then I’ll have something to tell my grandchildren, something worth telling, too—I say that with surety. I insisted that the Archpresbyter should come too, as a favour to him. Also to lend me moral support for my hardihood.’
‘Your request is unusual, Your Excellency,’ said the Abbot after consideration, ‘but I can find no sufficient reason to deny it. We still have a little time before the supper-bell.’ He beckoned his servant. ‘Lawrence, fetch Clerk Anvil here at once. Let him know he’s to meet some, uh, eminent visitors.’
‘I’m most profoundly grateful, my lord,’ said Cornelius van den Haag, ‘but I had in mind something rather more private than this concourse, which may prove intimidating.’
The Abbot gave another small smile. ‘Your sensitivity does you credit, sir, but Anvil isn’t soon intimidated, as Father Dilke will tell you, and if he were he must learn to overcome such weakness. But I’ll see to it that you have your private word with him.’
As the Abbot had foreseen, Hubert Anvil was not intimidated by his summons, but he was startled and, on arrival, overawed: not so much of either, however, as to restrain him from taking in what he saw and heard.
There were four strangers in the parlour. Two were New Englanders, speaking English naturally enough, but far back in the throat; the grey-haired, broad-shouldered, elderly one was some sort of bishop, but the taller, younger one with the tanned face was more important, perhaps as important as the Abbot himself. Both wore black, with white linen; in this their clothes resembled his, but in style were strict and quite foreign. Although they tried hard, neither could altogether hide a sense of constraint. The ecclesiastic, indeed, did not want to be here at all.