by Barbara Pym
***
It was not until she had seen the announcement in The Times that Sophia felt able to call on Ianthe and offer her good wishes and felicitations on the news without the fear of revealing that she had already known about the engagement for some weeks. As she walked the short distance to Ianthe's house she wondered what she should say. 'Of course I have seen The Times — as one does — and have come to wish you all happiness', or, 'Mark will be delighted to marry you and I'll arrange the reception in the Parish Hall just to show that there's no ill-feeling.' Yet what 'ill-feeling' could there possibly be? Sophia felt that she must not give the slightest hint of having in any way 'taken umbrage' at not being among the first to be told of the engagement. Perhaps, though, in a curious way which she had not recognized at the time, she had been told it in the conversation in the gardens at Ravello.
Believing that a clergyman's wife should never call at a house empty-handed, even if she brought only the parish magazine, Sophia had hastily picked a bunch of mixed garden flowers and was still trying to arrange them on the doorstep when Ianthe came to the door.
'I've come to offer my congratulations,' said Sophia, 'and to bring you these.'
'Oh, how lovely!' exclaimed Ianthe, a little too effusive in her thanks for ordinary garden flowers, Sophia thought, but she may have felt a slight awkwardness at the encounter.
'John is here, so do come in and meet him properly,' Ianthe went on.
Sophia stepped into the hall, realizing that she had not been inside the house since the occasion when Rupert Stonebird had so surprisingly answered the door-bell with a hot water bottle in his hand. Inside everything looked as charming as Sophia had remembered it — the water colours of Italian scenes in the hall and the china and books in the white bookshelves. There were summery-looking pink and white chintz curtains in the sitting room and a copy of the Church Times was rustling gently in the breeze from the open window.
'John is putting up some shelves in the kitchen,' Ianthe explained.
There is a certain type of man who is always putting up shelves, Sophia reflected, thinking how full of shelves some houses must be. 'I'm so glad he can do things like that,' she said aloud. 'Mark is hopeless, but luckily our predecessor at the vicarage was rather good at it and left his shelves behind, so we have all we need. Oh, but of course I remember you,' she said, as John climbed down from the stepladder and shook hands. 'You came to the bazaar and bought . . .' What was it he had bought and did it really matter? It was odd how one found oneself making trivial conversation on important occasions. Perhaps it was because one could not say what was really in one's mind.
'Little did I think then that I should be coming to live here,' said John, isn't it strange the turns life takes.'
Ianthe looked up at him fondly.
'I hope I shall fit into the parish as Ianthe's husband,' said John smoothly.
'Are you a churchgoer?' asked Sophia rather too casually.
'Oh well, not exactly — I mean I haven't been up to now, but I expect I shall come with Ianthe.'
Really, he was very good-looking, Sophia thought, but was he quite the husband for Ianthe? Would it not be wiser to break off the engagement now before it was too late? Yet how was it to be broken? Leaving them together so happy in each other's company, Sophia was shocked to find that she almost wanted something to happen that might expose John as an 'impostor'. She could certainly not have admitted this to Mark — it would not be in his nature to understand such baseness. She wondered if Rupert Stonebird might be a little less noble and if he were at home now so that she could have a talk with him and perhaps explain something of her feelings.
Looking up from reading an offprint of an article entitled 'Steatopygia of the Human Female in the Kalahari', Rupert was surprised to see Sophia coming up to the door. It was a far cry from the protruding posteriors of the Hottentot women to the spare elegance of an English vicar's wife. Of marginal interest to the social anthropologist, he thought, laying the offprint aside, the kind of thing that might give rise to one or two harmless little jokes with his female students, but certainly not relevant to the matter in hand, which was Sophia coming up to his front door.
She seemed almost distressed as she came into the hall and his mind leaped to the various types of restoratives or refreshments he could offer. Leading her into his study he decided on strong tea — it was only ten past four — and murmured something about going to put the kettle on.
Oh, what a haven, Sophia thought, relaxing in an old comfortable chair, after the un-sympathy and alien air of Ianthe's setting.
'You look as if you'd had a shock or bad news,' he said, coming back into the room with cups and saucers.
'Yes — an accident or a bereavement.'
'I hope tea will be all right,' said Rupert. 'I've got other things.'
'Oh perfectly, thank you — just what I need. We do not drink alcohol in the middle of the afternoon,' said Sophia, in the tone she used to reprove Faustina.
'No, but we could.'
'Not unless there's really been an accident or a bereavement.'
'And there hasn't?'
'No. I've just been to offer my congratulations to Ianthe and her fiancé.'
'Oh, I see. Will you have a piece of cake? Sister Dew brought me this and it's rather good.'
'Not one of her sponges, I see.'
'No — she evidently thought a man would like something more substantial like this excellent plum cake. Tell me about Ianthe and her fiancé,' said Rupert, taking his cup of tea to his desk and sitting down there.
'Well, there isn't much to tell, really. You know her, and he is that good-looking dark young man who was at the Christmas bazaar.'
'Yes, I do remember vaguely. We all had a glass of sherry at her house afterwards — what a long time ago it seems! And now she's going to marry him, or he is going to marry her,' said Rupert rather self-consciously, for he was remembering the little scene in the garden and Ianthe's distress when he had tried to kiss her.
'I never thought of her as getting married — it seems all wrong,' Sophia burst out. 'I wanted her to stay as she was, almost as if I'd created her.'
'No, one had one's own idea of her,' said Rupert rather stiffly, 'and if one did think of her as getting married it wasn't to somebody like this.' He wondered if Sophia would have felt differently if Ianthe had been going to marry him.
'I suppose it's wrong to have preconceived ideas about people — you as an anthropologist must appreciate the value of an open mind.'
'Yes, in field work, certainly. But meeting people in everyday life in north-west London isn't quite the same as studying a primitive community in Africa. Had you a preconceived idea of me? he asked a little nervously.
'A single man probably inspires wider and wilder speculation than a single woman,' Sophia admitted, accepting another cup of tea. 'His unmarried state is in itself more interesting than a woman's unmarriedness, if you see what I mean. We thought of you as somebody who went around measuring skulls, and that was our first wrong assumption,' she said lightly.
Whereas really I go around making nice women cry, thought Rupert, hardly liking to ask what the second wrong assumption could have been. 'This John that Ianthe is going to marry,' he said, seeing a way to turn the conversation away from himself. 'What did you think of him when you saw him just now?'
'Oh, he seems charming and is obviously devoted to her,' said Sophia. 'One wonders whether he can really be as good as he seems to be.'
How understanding Rupert was, she thought, so sympathetic and reliable. It was such a pity that things had not gone as she had hoped between him and Penelope. Perhaps it needed Ianthe's wedding to bring them together. Passing Ianthe's house on her way home she now saw that this marriage was inevitable — it had to be. The lemon leaves had been unwrapped and there were the fragrant raisins at the heart. She imagined John and Ianthe talking happily together and tried to feel glad for them.
23
Rupert had often atten
ded weddings, or 'marriage ceremonies' as the anthropologists called them, during his field work in Africa, and although Ianthe's wedding was not at all like these he was able to observe the proceedings with the same keen detachment as on those other occasions. Perhaps he was not the person best fitted to give an account of Ianthe's dress, for as he watched her moving slowly up the aisle on the arm of her uncle he had no more than a confused impression of something blue and silky and a large hat — rather like the one she had worn at the anthropological garden party, but trimmed with roses. She did not wear roses for me, he reflected rather sadly. In her hand she carried an ivory prayer book which he was sure had belonged to her mother.
As for the bridegroom, Rupert looked on him with a certain amount of prejudice, in the way an only moderately good-looking man will regard one much more handsome. At least he appeared to be 'devoted to her' and he had even heard two ladies in the same pew whispering as much to each other, but it seemed to Rupert only fitting that he should seem to be devoted on this one day if on no other. He had thought for a time that he ought to offer to put John up for the wedding and had seriously considered that it might be his duty. Then he reflected that there was a certain delicacy about the situation, and while he was reflecting Sister Dew had offered, 'come to the rescue', as she put it.
The best man was tall and fair, surely the librarian from the library where Ianthe worked, Rupert thought, though he understood that there had been some slight unpleasantness, even a quarrel, over the engagement. There were no bridesmaids or other attendants.
Mark Ainger and Basil Branche were to perform the ceremony and the church was filled with a varied collection of well-wishers and sightseers, among whom Rupert recognized all the usual congregation of St Basil's and some rather unexpected people such as Mrs Grandison, the mother of Sophia and Penelope, and Lady Selvedge, who had opened the Christmas bazaar.
Later, when they were all crowding out of the church into the hall for the reception, Rupert found himself standing by Sophia and Penelope, the tears still glistening in their eyes.
'Weddings always make me cry, no matter whose they happen to be,' said Penny fiercely.
She looked up at him and he noticed that her eyes had a curious blundering, half-blind look, as if she could scarcely open them. After a moment he realized that she was wearing false eyelashes, longer, darker and more abundant than her normal ones, and surely there were far too many of them? He wondered if he was supposed to know that they were false and felt embarrassed and somehow mean at having guessed the secret. Quickly he looked away from her face and concentrated on her yellow tulle hat shaped like a soufflé.
'Yes, weddings are very moving,' he said, a little more stiffly than he had intended, 'the whole atmosphere generates emotion.'
'The wedding march, really,' said Sophia, 'don't you think that's what it is, partly? There is something almost sad about Mendelssohn.'
'Not perhaps as music,' said Rupert, 'but the idea of the Victorian age altogether.'
'Did you think Ianthe looked nice?' asked Sophia.
Rupert hesitated, feeling that Sophia was setting a sort of trap for him and that Penny too was waiting for his answer. 'Oh, brides always look nice,' he said in a cowardly way, 'but of course I'm no judge of the details.'
'That ivory prayer book belonged to her mother,' said Penny.
'Yes, it's strange, that use of ivory,' said Rupert. 'When I was in East Africa I didn't somehow associate the tusks of elephants with covers for Anglican devotional books.'
'Well, if you put it like that. . .' said Penny in a disgusted tone, and turning on her heel she left him and made off towards the tables where the food was spread out.
Rupert looked appealingly towards Sophia for help but she gave him none.
'I must be talking to people,' she said, 'so I'll leave you to observe the scene. After all, you're used to doing that.'
Rupert, feeling that his role had been assigned to him, strolled up to one of the tables and with what he hoped was the right amount of nonchalance took a glass of white wine. A sweet Spanish 'Sauterne', he decided, quite a suitable choice. Noticing that Basil Branche was also sipping it he went up to him and recalled their meeting in Rome in the spring.
'That evening in Trastevere,' said Basil, 'and now this. Do you remember the toast on that occasion?'
'It was to Sister Dew and her sprained ankle, as far as I remember,' said Rupert. 'I suppose this occasion is a happier one.'
'You suppose — well that's one way of putting it.'
Rupert felt slightly embarrassed, for he had not meant his remark literally and he found the young clergyman's cynicism a little shocking.
'I'm sure they will be very happy,' he said reproachfully.
'Imparadised in one another's arms, as Milton put it,'
Basil went on. 'Or encasseroled, perhaps — the bay leaf resting on the boeuf bourguignon.' He drained his glass with a flourish and took another. 'Entre Deux Mers, would you say?'
'I was thinking Spanish perhaps,' said Rupert.
'Ah, yes, a dulce from the land of Ignatius Loyola,' said Basil. 'And the best possible for a mixed gathering like this, though I believe there's champagne for the toasts.'
'I sincerely hope so,' said Mervyn Cantrell, coming up to them. 'This is a little sweet for my liking, but I'm sure it's what Ianthe prefers.'
'Well, women are said to like sweet wines,' said Rupert, 'though I think that's a fallacy.'
'Of course I suppose I know Ianthe better than anyone here,' said Mervyn complacently. 'In fact if it hadn't been for me we shouldn't be here at her wedding today.'
'You "brought them together", as it were,' said Rupert awkwardly.
'Oh, yes. I watched them fall in love in the library — I was very touched when they asked me to be best man, I can tell you. What do you think of these eats?' he asked, lowering his voice.
'Very nice.'
'A bit unimaginative — ham sandwiches and that, but you know what people are. Did you get one of those lobster patties?'
'No, I think I've eaten enough for the moment,' said Rupert, edging away into a corner where he could see Edwin and Daisy Pettigrew. It was restful being with them, for they were quiet animals. Edwin was watching the time because of his afternoon surgery and Daisy was anxious not to be late for the cats' feeding time.
'You wouldn't believe how long it takes to prepare their meat,' she confided, 'and each animal has its own individual dish. We're very full up at the moment because of the summer holidays. I've even got a cat from Ealing here, a dear old black and white fellow. You know, Mr Stonebird,' she drew him into a corner, 'I hope you don't mind me saying this, but I always used to think that you would marry Ianthe Broome. Do you remember that evening at the vicarage in the winter? I felt it then. It only goes to show that feelings aren't always right. Yet the instincts of animals are unfailing . . '
Rupert now edged quietly away from Daisy, without seeming to do so, he hoped. He had not so far approached Ianthe, for she had been so surrounded by well-wishers that there had been no opportunity to speak to her. Now, when there seemed to be a chance, he did not know what to say, and his being perhaps the last of her friends to wish her well gave the occasion a 'significance' he had not intended. He wished that John would go away, so that he could have a moment alone with her, but John, naturally enough, stood his ground and Rupert remembered that they were married now and must be treated as one.
'You will be near neighbours now,' Rupert brought out, speaking to John rather than to her, 'and I hope you'll come and dine with me when you're settled down.'
A formal and meaningless speech, he reflected, but had his relationship with Ianthe ever been more than that? He had been slow to seize his opportunities, but had he ever really wanted to get anywhere with her? A line of poetry came into his mind, something about a garland of red roses on the habit of a nun — loving her might have been like that. 'Farewell, Ianthe . . .' he thought and wondered if Landor had ever written such a line
.
'John has put up some more shelves in the kitchen,' he heard her saying to another guest, and it seemed suitable for him to move on.
'Rupert. . .' he realized that the hall was emptying and Sophia was at his side.
'It's all over,' she said. 'Wasn't it dreadful, I almost hoped somebody might stand up at the back of the church and forbid the marriage — like in Jane Eyre — and expose John as an impostor. I wanted it to happen, and not only for Ianthe's good.' Sophia bowed her head, a little ashamed of having confessed so much to Rupert. John was not an impostor, or no more of one than are most of the men who promise to be something they cannot possibly be.
'Yes, I know how you felt,' said Rupert. 'I think I almost wanted it myself. How dreadful we are basically in our so-called civilized society,' he added complacently.
They walked slowly out of the hall while behind them Faustina stalked towards the table where some eatables still remained. After sniffing critically at several plates she finally picked up the last lobster patty in her mouth and jumped down under the table to devour it at her leisure.
'Oh, you naughty pussy,' said Sister Dew ineffectually, and began collecting together the food that remained and covering it with a cloth.
'There's a cup of tea in the vicarage,' said Sophia, is there ever not?'
'Thank you, that would be nice. It will bring us down to earth again. And afterwards, I was wondering if perhaps Penny would have dinner with me?' He looked around, not seeing her anywhere.
'Penny? Oh, but she's gone,' said Sophia. 'She has a date for this evening.'
