Absolute Truths (58 page)

‘But why? Surely —’

‘
I don’t rate that God of yours very highly. Speaking
as a
creator
I’d say he makes too damn many mistakes.’

‘
But if, as you’ve just said, all things work together for good by
a creative process of redemption —’

‘
I deal in inert materials. God deals in living creatures. If I were
one of God’s creative mistakes — a child dying of congenital disease,
perhaps — I’d want to kick God in the teeth.’

‘
So would I, but if God never wills the suffering and works
always to redeem it — if he’s driven on by hope, faith and love to
make everything come right — if he’s inside the work as well as
outside, sharing the pain and suffering alongside his creation —’

‘
I’d still want to kick him in the teeth and scream at him for
making such a mess.’

Now you’re talking
as
one of the created. But when you were
talking as a creator a moment ago you said very firmly that mess
was inevitable, an unavoidable part of the creative process. You
said —’

‘
Oh shut up, Charles, for God’s sake, before I kick you in the
teeth for turning this into a bloody theological debate! To be
frank, I’m not interested in any creation but my own, and anyway
I don’t believe our world was created — and is still being created
— by a god. I believe it’s always been created solely by chance and
necessity.’

‘
That’s the equivalent of saying you believe that sculpture over
there was created solely by your tools and not by you.’

‘
Christ!’

‘
Sorry. I’ll stop.’ Carrying my cup of coffee to the iron table I
sat down on one of the canvas chairs and said mildly: ‘What does
Stephen think of the work? I hope he’s pleased.’

She was clearly relieved by my attempt to change the conversation. ‘Yes, he is,’ she said. ‘He’s got a good eye for art – in fact
he’s one of the few laymen I know who can discuss it intelligently.’

It seemed odd to hear the word ‘laymen’ used in a context which
had no clerical connection, but I saw now that her art was her
religion and she felt no need of another. I then found myself
wondering how far she could ultimately journey in her art if she
remained self-centred and not God-centred. To be centred entirely
on the self is inevitably to be limited in one’s range; to be centred
on God, aligning one’s own puny self with the power of the
creator, is to be open to the spiritual range of all humanity, to be in touch with the eternal, not merely the ephemeral. Harriet was
a fine artist, but with her narrowed vision she risked failing to
reach her full potential – or was she, in her preoccupation with
beauty and truth, not so far from being God-centred as I in my
arrogance supposed? Certainly one could argue that God was using
her talent to express beauty and truth – with the result that in her
godlessness God was still revealed.

I was still meditating on this paradox when I heard Harriet say
the words ‘west front’. My theological speculations were abruptly
terminated
as
the thought of the Cathedral leapt back into my
mind.

‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I wasn’t listening. Could you –’

‘
I said that once the hands are cast in bronze they’ll be sold to
raise money for the West Front Appeal.’

‘But that’s wonderful!’ I exclaimed at once. I was indeed impressed by the generosity of the gift.

‘Oh, I’m not the only artist who’ll be contributing to the
Cathedral! There’s a gang of us – Stephen’s going to have an
auction of our work later this year, and of course that was why he
was hobnobbing with Christie’s. It was to be the first stage of
a
publicity campaign to generate interest in our auction.’ She paused,
idly examining her thumbnail. Then she flicked back her curtain
of hair, gave me another of her long limpid looks and asked
innocently: ‘Charles, can I have a quick word with you about
Stephen?’

And that was the moment when I realised I had not been invited
to the studio merely to view the sculpture of Aysgarth’s hands.

At that point I should have left. I had received my unexpected
enlightenment, the theological insight from an atheist; the murky
sexual resonances which had been echoing between us earlier had
faded, and all our past dislike had been overcome. If I had left
then we would have parted on agreeable terms and I would have stored up no trouble for myself in the future. But I did not leave.
The mention of the West Front Appeal had the effect of riveting
me
to my chair, and with the introduction of Aysgarth’s name all
the negative emotions he aroused in my mind streamed forth to
pollute the conversation.

‘
I was wondering,’ said Harriet, ‘if you realise just how lucky you
a
re to have such a gifted fund-raiser working for that cathedral.’

I took care to exude friendliness. ‘I assure you,’ I said very
pleasantly, ‘I take the greatest possible interest in Stephen’s fund
raising activities.’

She gave a short laugh. ‘My God, you’re smooth!’

‘Is that a compliment?’

‘
No. You don’t like him, do you? There’s this wonderful man,
slogging his guts out for you, and yet all you can do is give him
a hard time!’

‘What nonsense!’

‘
Is it? It doesn’t look like nonsense to me! Obviously you see
yourself as the virtuous bishop, pure as driven snow, and Stephen
as the hard-drinking, shady dean who’s a terrible cross for you to bear, but let me ask you this: has it ever occurred to you that you
might have got everything wrong?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘
Well, supposing it’s you, not Stephen, who’s actually the villain
of this story. And supposing it’s Stephen, not you, who’s the true
Christian hero.’

‘
I admire your creative attempt to convert fact to fiction, but
I’m at a loss to know how to respond. Am I supposed to laugh? Or am I supposed to stamp my foot and throw a tantrum?’

‘Neither. Just pin back your ears and listen to this: Stephen’s
the only clergyman I’ve ever
met
who reminds me of Jesus Christ.
He’s tough and magnetic but patient and long-suffering. He’s not
afraid to mingle with the modern equivalent of "publicans and
sinners". He’s got the guts to lash out against ecclesiastical claptrap.
He doesn’t live intellectually in a religious ghetto and look down
his nose at the outsiders. He likes food and wine and women, and
he preaches the primacy of love. He’s the kind of Christian whom outsiders like me can really relate to – and how many other senior
churchmen could you say that about, I’d like to know? Damn few!
So give him a break Leave him alone for once. Don’t beat him
up as you did back in 1963.’

‘
My dear,’ I said,
’you should beware of the eloquence which
stems from a surfeit of alcohol. You’ll regret this conversation
when you wake up tomorrow morning.’

‘
Why, you absolute monster! How dare you put me down in
such a revoltingly superior fashion? You’re just jealous because I
think Stephen’s more heroic than you are!’

‘Did Stephen tell you to approach me like this?’

‘
No, of course not! ,He just told me you were giving him hell over the Christie’s business and I thought it was time someone
crusaded on his behalf’

Dido’s constantly crusading on his behalf. Incidentally, what
does Dido think of your passionate admiration of her husband?’

‘
Loves it. Gives us something in common.’

‘She doesn’t mind when he flirts with you?’

‘
I thought you said at dinner that the only thing Stephen did
with his ladyfriends was talk to them!’

‘
It sounds as if you’re the exception that proves the rule!’

‘
I denied that earlier and I’ll deny it again now. Stephen’s entirely
devoted to Dido – in fact he still sleeps with her.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He told me. Stephen tells me everything.’

‘
Whenever a woman makes a remark like that I’m always sure
the man’s told her nothing.’

‘
You
are
jealous, aren’t you? You’re jealous as hell and don’t
think I can’t work out why!’

With horror I woke up to the fact that the conversation had
spiralled into an abyss where any monstrous accusation was utter
able. ‘You yourself may choose to indulge in fantasy,’ I said, ‘but
I don’t have to connive at it.’

‘
Don’t make me laugh, you’ve been conniving from the start!
And it’s not fantasy – it’s reality, but you’re so wrapped up in your
convoluted prurience that you can’t call a spade a spade!’

To rebut the charge I immediately moved away from her, ges
tured to the sculpture and said:
‘That’s reality.
And so was your
talk of creation, but ever since you switched the subject to Stephen
you’ve talked romantic drivel. Obviously you’re obsessed with
him.’

‘
I’m obsessed with his hands. They fascinate me because they
illustrate the dichotomy within his personality. Just look at them!
Th
ey’re brutal – and so is his mouth in repose – yet to me he’s
always been the kindest, gentlest person, and when those hands are clasped in prayer there’s such strength there, such idealism, such nobility –’ She broke off before concluding abruptly: ‘I must
s
top or you’ll accuse me again of talking romantic drivel. How
inadequate words are sometimes!’

‘
But I think I now understand why I found the sculpture dis
turbing,’ I said, diverted in spite of myself. ‘The brutality of the
hands contrasts so sharply with the grace of the spiritual pose.’ And
on an impulse I added: ‘Don’t you think the sculpture’s making a
profoundly religious
statement?
You’re saying human beings can
transcend their baser natures by turning to God.’

‘
No, that’s what you’re saying – and that’s fine, you can read
into it what you like. But all
I’m
trying to do is say something
truthful about Stephen ... More coffee?’

‘
No thanks. I’ve got to go,’ I said, staying exactly where I was.

‘
You can say "yes" if you like,’ she said agreeably.
‘I’m
not cross
with you any more. You’ve redeemed your detestably smarmy
rudeness by making intelligent remarks about my work.’

‘
You were pretty rude to me,’ I retorted, ‘and you didn’t even
take the trouble to be smarmy about it.’

She was amused. ‘I rather enjoyed stirring you up,’ she said,

‘
and unless I’m much mistaken you rather enjoyed it too.’

At once 1 embarked on my journey to the door but I was only
halfway across the room when she murmured behind me: The
dinner tonight was fun, but it would have been even more fun,
wouldn’t it, if Martin hadn’t been there.’

‘
You think so?’ Greatly against my better judgement I stopped. We were now six paces apart. She was examining her thumbnail
again. Her long, wavy hair, framing her thin, white, pointed,
predatory face, was sliding around her shoulders and bosom in a
cascade which reflected the studio’s harsh artificial light. I was
aware of her long fingers and her thin wrists and the heavy black
make-up on her downcast eyes. ‘Personally,’ I heard myself say, ‘I
enjoyed Martin’s company.’

‘
I thought he was a bore. I’ve no time for elderly queers.’
The spell was abruptly broken.

I can remember the exact emotions which set me free: disgust
for the two-faced behaviour which had led Martin to assume he
was her friend; repulsion for the casual cruelty for which she evi
dently felt no shame; dismay that someone who could produce
such a sensitive work of art should exhibit such a complete lack
of feeling. But even as I reacted so adversely I found time to
wonder if artists needed the flaws in their personalities to stoke
up the tension which fed the creative impulse, and I thought again
how mysterious creation was, with its veiled enigmatic dynamics,
its obsessive commitment, its costly toiling to express slivers of
truth in symbols.

‘
What’s the matter?’ Harriet was demanding sharply. ‘Why
should you look so shocked? Your Church has no time for queers,
does it, and no time either for women like me who don’t fulfil
your masculine ideas about how women should behave!’

‘As far as I can see you’re hellbent on fulfilling one very conven
tional masculine idea about how certain women behave! No doubt
at my age I should be flattered, but to be quite honest –’

‘
The last thing you evidently intend to be is quite honest! Of
course you’re flattered! I’m young enough to be your daughter,
I’m rich, talented and famous and I still look pretty damned good.
Most men of your age would give their back teeth – if they had
any left – for me to bat their eyelashes at them, and why shouldn’t
they? And why shouldn’t I do a bit of batting if I fancy it? I
rather like older men actually, provided they’re in good shape,
have sex-appeal and don’t smell –’

‘
So the rumour that you’re wedded to Captain March’s memory
is no more than a charming fable!’

‘
Of course I’m wedded to Donald’s memory, just as I’m sure you’re wedded to your wife’s, but what’s that got to do with the
present situation?’

‘
Just about everything, I’d say, but of course I’m incurably old-
fashioned.’ I finally managed to reach the door.

‘
My God, I think I’ve finally dented that glass-smooth surface!’
exclaimed Harriet. ‘Was it the mention of your wife? I’m sorry,
that sudden death must have been terrible, don’t think I can’t
understand –’

‘
You couldn’t begin to understand.’ I tried to open the door but
it had stuck. I began to shake the handle impotently.

‘
Here, I’ll do that –’ She was suddenly much too close to me. ‘You have to lift the latch as well as turn the handle –’ The door swung open. I blundered outside. ‘No, wait, Charles, let me get
a torch!’

‘
Don’t need one.’ But the night seemed so dark, after the
brightly-lit studio, that I felt as if I had plunged down a mine-shaft.

‘
Don’t be a bloody fool!’ shouted Harriet as I floundered down
the flagstone path. ‘Supposing you fell and broke a hip?’

‘
I don’t do that sort of thing!’ I shouted back, but I did stop. I
was imagining my lay-chaplain trying to explain to the press why I
should have been visiting Mrs March’s studio at such a very
inappropriate hour of the night.

When Harriet reached me with the torch she said: ‘I’m sorry I
mentioned your wife.’

‘
Never mind.’

‘And I’m sorry I went on and on about Stephen.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘
I’m sort of worried about him at the moment, that’s all. He’s
under a lot of pressure.’

‘
He’ll survive.’ I said nothing more until I reached the car. Then
as I slumped into the driving-seat I remarked: ‘You really care
about that man, don’t you?’

‘Is that a sin?’

‘Not if Stephen’s in his right mind.’

‘
Actually I wouldn’t sleep with Stephen even if he asked me.’

‘
Stingy of you.’

‘
Well, he’s not my type physically. Unlike you. Let me know,
won’t you, if ever you get just the teeniest bit bored with being
in your right mind.’

‘
What a relief to know you think I’m in good shape, have sex-
appeal and don’t smell! But my dear Harriet,’ I said, finally making
a very big mistake as I dared to believe I was going to avoid
making the biggest mistake of all, ‘nymphomaniacs who seek a
cure for their frigidity should look to a psychiatrist, not a bishop.’
And slamming the door, I drove away much too fast into the
night.