The Third Hour

by Geoffrey Household

  “And if Spain goes communist, what about our property?” Vassilieff asked.

  “It never will. It will talk a lot of communism, like Mexico. And like Mexico it will be a federation of moderate socialist republics. I propose the most stable of those republics. A country that does not exist yet, but that will exist—the Basque Republic.”

  “Yes!” Toby exclaimed. “It will be a wholly delightful little country. Think of a valley at the foot of the Pyrenees where we have our own land, our vines, our stream. We could find peace there—yet be within three days of any capital in Europe.”

  “Too selfish peace, Toby,” said Irma.

  “Too selfish? No, I don’t think so. Spain will understand us, as Manuel says, but she will need us too. They haven’t made their republic yet. The politicians are sitting on the safety valve. When it blows, others will need peace besides ourselves, and time to forget and a table at which to talk. No, my dear, I believe we may have more to give in Spain than anywhere else.”

  “Oh, admirable valley! Oh, excellent and worthy Brother Mark! He will die of a surfeit of carp in an odour of sanctity!” said Ottery.

  “What is a surfeit?” asked Manuel.

  He found that Ottery’s English frequently beat him.

  “Gross gluttony, companion! Gross and horrible gluttony! I am for the Pyrenees.”

  “But are you joining us?” Toby asked. “Or is this after-lunch enthusiasm?”

  “I am tempted, Toby. Were it not for private affairs—but I am tempted. Nor am I drunken as you suppose, you contentious Crete, you arrogant Arabian, seeing it is but the third hour of the day.”

  “The third hour?” asked Toby, searching memory.

  “Fishermen. Hard workers like chartered accountants, you idle dog. A cheerful lot in the evening, but even Cretes and Arabians, if they stopped to think, knew that they wouldn’t be tight at three.”

  “Can you quote?” Toby asked.

  Mark Ottery quoted with unction the passage from the Acts. “They meant breakfast time. I mean three,” he added. “How mighty were the ancients!”

  “The Order of the Third Hour,” Toby murmured.

  “The Order of the Third Hour,” Bendrihem repeated. “Yes. It implies everything; that we have an ideal, but are plain men.”

  “I like it, too,” Manuel agreed.

  He explained the name and its origin to Paolo.

  “You say it’s a story from the bible?” asked Paolo.

  “Yes.”

  “That surprises me, Manuel, for it sounds as if it were true.”

  “You have no objection?”

  “I? No! Work and amusement. What could be better?”

  On their return to Bendrihem’s office, they took up the financial business of the order. Manuel’s respect for Mark Ottery rapidly increased. He agreed with Toby that the accountant would be an invaluable member of the community; he was able to handle money without being fascinated by it. The proceeds of the gold and Bendrihem’s capital added up to over £140,000. Irma’s money, being mostly in Germany, was untouchable, but her foreign investments were valued by Ottery at over £12,000. Vassilieff considered that he was worth three thousand more.

  At four in the afternoon Penelope Mason came up to the office and, while the rest broke up into groups, took down from Bendrihem’s dictation the day’s business. Simon, finding that his own attention was distracted even more than Penelope’s by the continual meeting of her eyes with Ottery’s, took her into the private office and closed the door. He returned to them ten minutes later, and they heard the rattle of the typewriter begin. To Manuel it was still another symbol of his rebirth. He had worked so long out of hearing of that insistent noise of industry. It formed a link between his fierce and misspent energy of the past, and that energy now turned to the administration of his heart’s desire.

  “Shall we elect the Council?” suggested Simon. “It won’t take long, and Penelope can type the names as soon as she has done the rest.”

  They resumed their places at the table. The Council and the committees were formed with very little discussion. The abilities and tastes of each individual were so clearly defined that he or she fell inevitably into their natural office.

  The whir of the typewriter stopped, and Miss Mason came in with a sheaf of papers. Bendrihem offered her a seat at his right.

  “Will you read it over to us, Penelope?” he asked.

  She began to read in a deep young voice, the monotony of her secretary’s tone quickly giving way to the ardour of her interest in the few formal rules* of their community.

  “Shall I read the rest?” asked Penelope Mason.

  “If you will,” Simon answered. “Here are the elections.”

  Penelope picked up the pencilled draft that he handed to her.

  “Companions: Simon Bendrihem, Toby Manning, Irma von Reichensund, Paolo Salvini, Manuel Vargas, Gregory Vassilieff, Tina Vassilieff, Albert Whitehead.

  “Consorts: Fiammetta Salvini, Edith Whitehead.

  “Can I—” began Penelope.

  She blushed uncontrollably, the faint rush of rose lending extraordinary beauty to her triangular face, with its deep shadows and large eyes.

  “She wants to be a novice,” said Bendrihem.

  “She is too young,” Manuel answered gently. “I do not think you understand, Miss Mason. We shall be ruthless, you see. If you changed your mind or we did not like you—well, you would go. Isn’t it wiser to take another job? I know that Mr Bendrihem will find a good one for you.”

  “But I really do want to be a novice,” said Penelope very nervously. “I didn’t dare ask you. I mean—I thought I’m only a business girl, and—”

  “Leave it to me, child,” Irma interrupted her. “I call the companions’ attention to her humility. Simon answers for her efficiency. And if Toby wants the appearance of the female companions to give him joy?”

  “You are pleased to be ribald, Irma,” Toby answered. “But I agree. What does the Council say?”

  “I think we should admit her,” said Bendrihem firmly.

  Manuel caught an appealing glance from Toby, but refused to be softened.

  “I understand,” he said. “But I cannot approve. Everything on its own merits, Simon. I am neutral. I give my vote to Bert Whitehead. He knows the circumstances.”

  Albert Whitehead considered his two colleagues. He guessed that Bendrihem had been prompting Miss Mason during their absence in the private office.

  “I think myself,” said Albert, “that Manuel is right. It’s pretty hard to know what you want at Miss Mason’s age—especially when a lot of exciting things happen at the same time. I’m sure we all appreciate it very much that she wants to join us. But I don’t think it’s fair to accept her just yet.”

  Simon and Toby looked disappointed. Albert Whitehead was evidently as unyielding as Manuel Vargas on a point of principle.

  “But we haven’t yet considered the question of paid employees,” Albert went on. “I suppose we are bound to need a few. How about appointing her private secretary to the Council? Would you accept that, Miss Mason?”

  “I should love it,” said Penelope simply.

  “Any objections, Manuel?” asked Bendrihem.

  “Not the least.”

  “That’s settled then!”

  He handed to his secretary the pencilled notes of the elections.

  “Would you read that over to us?”

  “Shall there be an abbey without novices?” asked Mark. “Companions and consorts but no novices? Who shall truss the abbot’s points? Who shall give Brother Toby his bath of gin? The Ottery is ashamed. The Ottery would be a monk. Write him upon the roll in a fair round hand, Simon! Write the Ottery upon the roll!”

  “You mean it?” asked Toby and Simon together and enthusiastically.

  “Novice or n
o novice,” Manuel declared, “I propose him for the finance committee.”

  “I propose he be appointed cellarer,” said Toby.

  “No representation without taxation,” answered Mark Ottery. “Am I to be a politician among kings? I will do this. I will throw my income into the pot while I eat from the fishponds. That’s three thousand a year. It won’t be more than a thousand if I leave Uncle Bart and join you for good as a companion, but I can’t help that.”

  Mark Ottery was accepted as a novice by acclamation and Bendrihem made the alterations on his list.

  “There. Will you read that, Penelope?”

  “Appointments to take effect as soon as the order is in possession of its funds,” Penelope read:—

  “The Council: Simon Bendrihem, Manuel Vargas, Albert Whitehead.

  Financial Committee: Simon Bendrihem, Mark Ottery (novice), Gregory Vassilieff.

  Steward: Manuel Vargas.

  Cellarer: Mark Ottery (Novice).

  Abbey Lands: Gregory Vassilieff.

  Foreman of Works: Paolo Salvini.

  Emissaries for the First Term: Toby Manning, Irma von Reichensund.”

  “All right?” asked Bendrihem.

  “All right,” they answered.

  He looked at his watch.

  “Type that to-morrow, Penelope. It’s getting late.”

  The sun hung low and red in the misty London sky as they came out upon Ludgate Hill. While Bendrihem went off to fetch his car, the rest waited by the steps of St Paul’s. Black streams of pedestrians and coloured waves of vehicles flowed westwards past the little group upon their island. The pigeons strutted hopefully around their feet; it was the hour of the day when no one fed them; the city was frantically emptying itself into the stations and the pubs, and the tourists were dragging weary feet into their hotels. Toby idly picked up a handful of the grain and crumbs scattered upon the stones, and threw it to the birds. Those upon the ground hopped closer, and there was a whir of wings as a score of pigeons, sudden as a flight of duck, came down from grey cornice to grey pavement through the evening mist. They ate eagerly the food which up to then they had ignored.

  “The politician,” said Manuel drily.

  “God! Listen to our Aesop!”

  Manuel laughed.

  “It is twenty years since I saw those pigeons,” he said. “I used to moralise about them even then.”

  Bendrihem returned with his car and a taxi, and they drove out to Victoria Park. The row of houses seemed more than ever to be standing upon a village green, as the sun went down behind mountainous elms, and the big panes of the sash windows reflected the dazzling crimson light.

  Mrs Bendrihem led them into the living room. The lights were not lit, though the room was dusky. Impe and Edith Whitehead were sitting by the fire. The two eldest Salvinis leapt upon their father, babbling both together in a great rush of Chilean Spanish what they had done and seen that day. The two youngest Salvinis and Thomas were engaged in some mysterious business of their own under the sofa. Occasionally a fat arm or leg shot out into the open, wriggled and disappeared again, as if one of the grotesque and rounded figures upon the border of Bendrihem’s Ispahan had suddenly come to life.

  They gathered round the fire uncertainly, wishing that Simon would switch on the lights.

  “If you don’t mind,” he said, “just for five minutes. Then my mother will light the candle.”

  “Just one?” Edith asked.

  She was unable to see any longer what her son was doing and afraid lest one candle should be all the light they would have.

  “One for each child,” Bendrihem explained. “And as I am the only child—”

  “Seven candles to-night, Simon,” said Mrs Bendrihem from the dusk.

  They turned and saw her taking tall brass candlesticks from a cupboard, filling them and setting them upon a table. She opened her hand in a shy gesture as if begging her children’s indulgence for the darkness and assuring them that they would come to no harm. A black scarf was tied over her head and beneath her chin; and under it, a severe smooth line across her brow, could be seen the edge of a white scarf in which her hair was tied. She moved about the dimness of her house with the grace and dignity of a peasant girl.

  Gregory Vassilieff was across the room in two swinging strides to help her. With his early recollections of a great house and its simple ceremonies, her air of quietude and purpose appealed to him a fraction of a second quicker than to the rest.

  “May I?”

  He offered to lift the candlesticks.

  “No—please!”

  She looked up into the Mongol face that towered over her reverently inclined, as if of a colossal jinni summoned by her rubbing of the candlestick.

  “Seven for all nations,” she said. “God hears me this night.”

  Manuel and Toby, with Simon between them, stood by the window, their backs against the fading light. Both were unaccountably moved by the dark room before them, the tranquil heads of the mothers outlined by the fire, the men stirring uneasily like horses in the night, the tense bodies of Irma and Penelope. It was as if the figure busy with its candles were an ageless spirit, living and purposeful among a world of human shadows. They felt Simon quivering with emotion.

  “I have heard it so many times,” he murmured. “But this night it is for us. Truly for us.”

  “What?”

  “The prayer. From mother to mother it goes down. They may have prayed it in Rome for all I know. Not in Jerusalem, I think. God was only of Israel then.”

  The far end of the room was illumined by a faint glow as Mrs Bendrihem lit the first candle. Her body hid from them the pencil of light at the heart of the halo that surrounded her. She moved across the table and stood back from the seven small points that blazed in space, in the brass of the candlesticks and again in the polished wood of the table. The three little children put out their heads, wondering at the silence of their elders and the strange new shadows that flickered across the rugs within their line of vision.

  She raised her hands and passed them down her covered hair, then over shoulders and breast, nearly but not quite touching herself as if she possessed a spiritual body whose surface, felt but unseen, extended beyond the physical. With the same fluttering motions of her hands she caressed the golden aura above the seven candles, dedicating the light of her home to her God. She prayed:

  “Blessed be thou, my Lord, God of the Universe, Lighter of the lights of the Sabbath. Blessed are the candles which find favour in thy sight. Grant that their light burn graciously for us this night, and fill our willing hearts with forgiveness, with love and with understanding of all those who take shelter within houses and those of the field and those lonely ones who are this night scattered to the far ends of the earth. Help us to live in peace. Amen.”

  * See Appendix.

  APPENDIX

  Provisional Rules of the Order of the Third Hour

  A companion of the Order is a person who has been formally accepted by his Abbey and has surrendered, by legal and irrevocable deed of gift, all his possessions to the Abbey.

  A novice is a person who has expressed an intention of joining the Order, and has begun the test required for acceptance as a Companion; which is:

  Residence for six consecutive months of the year within the walls of the Abbey.

  Should any novice lose his employment by virtue of this condition and yet be unacceptable to the Order, the Companions are obliged to return him to gainful employment in that state of life which he left, and meanwhile to support him and his dependants at the Abbey.

  A novice may be arbitrarily rejected by the Council at any time during his first three months of residence, and will have no claim of compensation.

  Of the Government of the Abbey

  1. The Abbey shall be governed by a Council of Three, to be elected onc
e a year by the Grand Committee of all the Companions. They shall be chosen from the most humble of the Companions that obedience to them may be the more easy.

  2. The Council may summon the Grand Committee as often as it pleases, but should it summon the Grand Committee more than three times in any one year, the members of the Council shall be ineligible for re-election. The Council is intended and expected to rule absolutely.

  3. It is the duty of the Council to admit novices to the Order and to request them to leave if unfitted.

  4. The admission of novices to Companionship and the expulsion of a Companion may only be effected by the unanimous vote of the Grand Committee.

  5. Any Companion intending to oppose the vote shall give private notice of his intention to the Council.

  6. When and if the Council are unable to agree, they shall submit the question to three children of Companions, under the age of puberty, and abide by their decision.

  Of Social Order

  There are no rules, since it is understood that every Companion will do what he believes to please the rest, and that the rest will do what they believe to please a Companion.

  Of Regular Consorts

  The legal or established Consort of a Companion has all the rights of a novice. Should he or she desire to be admitted as a Companion, special consideration is to be given to the request.

  Should the Consort of a Companion be found unfitted to the communal life of the Abbey, it is within the discretion of the Council to allow the Companion and Consort to leave without loss of possessions.

  The Consort of a Companion is sacred to the rest. Nevertheless it is recognised that neither Companions nor their Consorts can be held wholly responsible for their affections. That two men should desire one woman, or two women one man is an intolerable situation, but pardonable. The Council shall consider the three offenders equally guilty and expel them without loss of property from the Abbey, giving to any or all of them the right to return as novices as soon as they shall have settled their personal affairs.