At Lady Molly's - Anthony Powell [22]
‘You are not married yourself, are you, Nicholas?’
‘No.’
‘Not—like me—about to take the plunge?’
‘I haven’t properly congratulated you yet.’
Widmerpool bowed his head in acknowledgment. The movement could almost have been called gracious. He beamed across the table. At that moment the prospect of marriage seemed all he could desire.
‘I do not mind informing you that my lady mother thinks well of my choice,’ he said.
There was no answer to that beyond agreeing that Mrs. Widmerpool’s approval was gratifying. If Mrs. Haycock could face such a mother-in-law, one hurdle at least—and no minor one, so it seemed to me—had been cleared.
‘There are, of course, a few small matters my mother will expect to be satisfactorily arranged.’
‘I expect so.’
‘But Mildred will fall in with these, I am sure.’
I thought the two of them, Mrs. Widmerpool and Mrs. Haycock, were probably worthy of the other’s steel. Perhaps Widmerpool, in his heart, thought so too, for his face clouded over slightly, after the first look of deep satisfaction. He fell into silence. When pondering a matter of importance to himself, his jaws would move up and down as if consuming some immaterial substance. Although he had finished his slices of tongue, this movement now began. I guessed that he intended to pose some question, the precise form of which he could not yet decide. The men with yellow faces at the next table were talking international politics.
‘C’est incontestable, cher ami, Hitler a renonce a son intention d’engouffrer l’Autriche par une agression directe.’
‘A mon avis—et d’ailleurs je l’ai toujours dit—la France avait tort de s’opposer a I’union douaniere en ’31.’
The fat man had moved on to steak-and-kidney pudding, leeks and mashed potato, with a green salad. Widmerpool cleared his throat. Something was on his mind. He began in a sudden burst of words.
‘I had a special reason for inviting you to lunch today, Nicholas. I wanted to speak of my engagement. But it is not easy for me to explain in so many words what I desire to say.’
He spoke sententiously, breaking off abruptly. I had an uneasy feeling, unlikely as this would be, that he might be about to ask me to act as best man at his wedding. I began to think of excuses to avoid such a duty. However, it turned out he had no such intention. It seemed likely, on second thoughts, that he wanted to discuss seriously some matter regarding himself which he feared might, on ventilation, cause amusement. Certainly I found it difficult to take his engagement seriously. There is, for some reason, scarcely, any subject more difficult to treat with gravity if you are not yourself involved. Obviously two people were contemplating a step which would affect their future lives in the most powerful manner; and yet the outward appearance of the two of them, and Widmerpool’s own self-sufficiency, made it impossible to consider the matter without inner amusement.
‘Years ago I told you I was in love with Barbara Goring,’ said Widmerpool slowly.
‘I remember.’
‘Barbara is a thing of the past. I want her entirely forgotten.’
‘Why not? I shan’t stand up at your wedding and say: “This ceremony cannot continue—the bridegroom once loved another!”.’
‘Quite so, quite so,’ said Widmerpool, grunting out a laugh. ‘You are absolutely right to make a joke of it. At the same time, I thought I should mention my feelings on that subject. One cannot be too careful.’
‘And I presume you want Gipsy Jones forgotten too?’
Widmerpool flushed.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She too, of course.’
His complacency seemed to me at that time intolerable. Now, I can see he required only to discuss his own situation with someone he had known for a long period, who was at the same time not too closely associated with his current life. For that role I was peculiarly eligible. More than once before, he had told me of his emotional upheavals—it was only because of that I knew so much about Barbara Goring and Gipsy Jones—and, when a confessor has been chosen, the habit is hard to break. At the same time, his innate suspicion of everyone inhibited even his taste for talking about himself.