IV
‘... and the truth is,’ said the Bishop, pausing in his prowls around the morning-room to adjust one of the buttons on his gaiters, ‘that if one denies God’s transcendence by reducing Him to some all-pervasive presence within the world, one sails in very dangerous waters indeed. God is Love, says Dr Robinson — correctly. But he writes as if what he really believes is that Love is God, a pagan concept resulting — at its best — in the notion that God is scattered throughout the world in a sentimental
esprit de corps,
and — at its worst — in the notion that God can be evoked by orgiastic sexual rites. The reduction, dilution and downright perversion of the doctrine of the immanence of God in this manner should not be countenanced by any responsible Christian theologian. To indulge in such slipshod thinking,’ said the Bishop, the gleam returning to his eye, ‘is to succumb to the age-old heresy of pantheism.’
He prowled on, glossy, distinguished and formidable, around the austere morning-room of the South Canonry. ‘Dr Robinson declares,’ resumed Dr Ashworth dreamily, pausing by the window to gaze into the far distance, ‘that he is not a pantheist, but this declaration, I fear, cannot alter the fact that much of what he says is pure pantheism. God is much greater, more infinitely Other, more mysteriously transcendent than Dr Robinson’s puny vision of a disseminated love ethic can ever suggest, and no matter how often the Bishop claims to be preaching panentheism –’
‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘You’ve finally floored me. Pan–’
‘Panentheism. That’s what pantheists claim to believe when they’re trying to pass their belief off as orthodox. Perhaps I’d better dictate a note explaining –’
The Bishop demolished the heresy of pantheism.
V
‘Charles has wilfully misunderstood Robinson,’ said Aysgarth as his car roared around a rural corner at fifty miles an hour on Wednesday afternoon. ‘Robinson clearly rejects pantheism and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t support panentheism, the theory that the world is only part of God. Charles is getting all steamed up because he thinks Robinson’s abolished God’s transcendence, but in fact he hasn’t abolished it at all; he’s simply redefined it. He says the transcendent is the Beyond in our midst.’
‘But what on earth does that mean?’
‘It relates to the numinous, those moments when one becomes aware that there’s something greater than ourselves all around us. It’s a well-documented anthropological phenomenon.’
‘Oh, I see. But –’
‘If you ask me, Charles just isn’t in touch with the ordinary worshipper in the pew. Modern man wants to be told in plain language what God’s like and where he can find Him.’
‘Does he?’ I said, as we took another corner too fast and an oncoming car hooted at us. ‘It seems to me that all modern man wants to know is: one, what can God do for me; two, why should I bother to believe in Him when I’m doing very nicely, thank you; and three, what are the odds on life after death?’
‘Oh yes, yes, yes!’ said Aysgarth indulgently, slamming the car into a lower gear in order to roar up a steep hill. ‘All people who are undeveloped spiritually get stuck on those sort of questions, but that’s only because they’ve got completely the wrong idea about God and think of Him as a tyrannical old man up in the sky. Once you show them that God is the Ground of their being and that He can be found in loving relationships, then their whole self-centred, self-seeking perspective on life will change and the way will be paved for spiritual progress.’
‘Ah!’ I said intelligently, but in fact I was no longer thinking of God. I was much too busy watching Aysgarth, much too occupied with fantasies about his short, thick, sexy fingers as they idly caressed the wheel.
VI
‘Should we make amends for last Wednesday’s sloth and walk up to the Ring?’ he suggested reluctantly when he parked the car ten minutes later.
‘No, it looks like rain – let’s play safe and stay here,’ I said at once, and he laughed as he switched off the engine.
After we had spent some time gossiping about a variety of subjects, he told me about his latest problem, a dispute over a modern sculpture which he had commissioned for the Cathedral churchyard. I was always surprised by Aysgarth’s interest in art, but apparently his impoverishment as a London schoolboy had prompted many retreats on wet winter weekends to the picture galleries where no charge was made for admission, and years later when he had become a dean his interest in art, long dormant, had revived. Many deans believed they had a duty to reflect the art of their times in their cathedrals, and Aysgarth had soon decided he was called to leave an aesthetic mark on Starbridge.
He had started by commissioning a stained-glass window from the Frenchman Chagall (then almost unknown in England except by the cognoscenti) and when this had been received with startled enthusiasm, he had formed his ambition to acquire a modern sculpture. However, photographs of the semi-completed work had now been greeted with horror by Fitzgerald and Dalton, and even Eddie, the Chapter’s third canon, had been dubious.
‘But what’s wrong with this great work of art?’ I demanded.
‘Nothing – it’s "fab", as Pip would say!’ Aysgarth became enthusiastic. ‘It’s red, white and blue, and consists of a matchstick type of man rising up a climbing-frame from an open box of cigars. The climbing-frame represents the spiritual life and the seven cigars represent the temptations of the material world – although of course they’re not really cigars; they’re a purely abstract representation of the seven deadly sins. Harriet’s calling the work "Modem Man in Search of God".’
‘Who’s Harriet?’
‘The sculptress. Harriet March, the widow of Captain Donald March who was killed on Everest. Surely you’ve heard of her?’
‘Trust you to have a beautiful girlfriend panting to offer you a symbolic representation of the seven deadly sins!’
‘My darling!’ said Aysgarth, greatly entertained. ‘So long as I have you, the beautiful Harriet can pant in vain!’
‘Quite right – why bother with symbolic representations when you can have the real thing?’ I retorted, and as he laughed, my right hand, which had apparently acquired a will of its own, came gently to rest on his left thigh.
I heard his sharp intake of breath and saw his mouth curve downwards in its sultriest line as the laughter died. The next moment he had grabbed my left shoulder with his right hand and was wrenching me closer to him. I was startled to discover that a passionate embrace in the front seat of a car requires a considerable degree of bodily contortion. It always looks so easy in films.
But if the embrace was passionate, the kiss was not. After grazing my cheek with his lips he stopped short of my mouth. ‘No, no, no,’ he said abruptly, slumping back behind the wheel. ‘That won’t do at all.’ He shoved open the door. ‘Let’s walk up to the Ring.’
‘Do we have time?’
Glancing at his watch he grimaced and pulled the door shut. ‘No.’ Glowering through the windscreen at the bare sensuous lines of the landscape he gripped the steering-wheel so hard that the brown age-spots on the back of his hands stood out starkly against the pale skin.
A long silence ensued.
Eventually I felt driven to mutter: ‘Sorry. My fault,’ but he answered in his curtest voice: ‘Don’t be absurd.’
As we continued to sit in the car a gust of wind hurled some drops of rain at the windscreen, and I was about to venture a comment on our wisdom in avoiding a walk when he said suddenly, not looking at me: ‘If it’s anyone’s fault it’s mine for permitting this friendship, but I can’t believe it’s wrong. I’ve been granted a unique opportunity to practise what I preach, and what I believe in is the primacy of love; I believe that if you really love someone you’ll love them enough not to damage them in any way. One must be self-denying, not selfish; protective, not destructive; reaching up always towards the light, not stooping to grovel in the dark. And when our friendship’s over – when you marry a man of your own generation who’s utterly right for you – then I want you to be able to look back without regret and think with affection:
there
was a man who really loved me.’
‘My darling Mr Dean –’
‘Neville. Of course, being only human, I do find myself wishing ... But that’s no good, is it? One can drive oneself mad by wishing. What is, is. One must accept it and do the best one can, serving God according to one’s conscience – and it would go against my conscience to destroy what we’ve found together. It’s a sin to destroy love, a
sin.
A genuinely loving relationship such as this ... well, Robinson says it all, doesn’t he? Let the conservative churchmen thunder away about absolute moral rules that can never be altered! The only ethic that matters is to act with love and compassion.’ Reaching out blindly he turned the key in the ignition but the engine stalled. He was in such a state that he could only stare afterwards at the dashboard as if he had forgotten how to drive.
Hesitantly my voice said: ‘Neville, this may seem a very silly question in the light of all you’ve just said, but ... well, if you love me –’
‘If!’ He looked at me as if amazed that I should be so tentative. ‘Of course I love you!’
‘So does that mean ... that’s to say, do you ... oh God, I can’t quite put this into words –’
‘Do I what?’
‘Have other romantic friendships. I mean, do I have to share you with anyone else? I mean –’
He was appalled. ‘My darling, you’re the most marvellous girl in the world and I love you so much I hardly know what to do with myself – how could I look at anyone else?’
‘Oh, Neville –’ I broke off, sick with relief, but then doubt smote me again. ‘But if there’s no one else,’ said my voice rapidly, ‘what do you do about ... oh God, I’m sorry to be so ignorant and unspiritual, but ... well, unless a man’s called to celibacy, doesn’t he go mad unless he has sex regularly?’
There was a pause. For a split second his eyes went blank but then the next moment he was responding in the way I had least expected: he laughed.
‘So that’s the reason for my Chapter’s erratic behaviour!’ he exclaimed amused. ‘Maybe I could solve my entire problems as Dean by prescribing mass-fornication!"
‘But seriously, Neville –’
‘Seriously, my dear, not only can the sexual drive vary enormously from individual to individual but it can also vary enormously within each individual. There are no hard and fast rules, I assure you, about the sexual behaviour of human beings.’ And he added helpfully: ‘Take my Chapter, for example. Fitzgerald professes to be called to celibacy. He’s probably a repressed homosexual, but whatever he is it’s plain that sex is low on his list of interests. Dalton’s a widower who would like to marry again. I suspect he’s becoming fed up with his enforced celibacy, but on the other hand he seems to get by all right – he usually manages to present an equable façade. Eddie’s probably got the strongest sex drive of the lot, but unfortunately he has problems which have so far prevented him marrying. Possibly his enforced celibacy exacerbates his tendency towards hypochondria and morbid introspection, but one can’t be certain; maybe an active sex life would in fact make very little difference to the neurotic side of his personality. The point to note, of course, is that none of my three celibate canons is either raving or dying from lack of sex, and contrary to all the male moanings you may have heard, no one has ever yet expired from chastity.’
I felt sick with relief again. Obviously he was implying that it was possible for him to do without sex.
Or was he? I remembered that split second when his eyes had gone blank. But probably the blankness had reflected a mere bourgeois
frisson
arising from the fact that an unmarried girl had asked him a blunt sexual question.
‘Gosh, Neville, thanks for talking so frankly – you must be thinking me a complete ignoramus, but –’
‘My darling, I’d be rather shocked if you weren’t!’
Yes, that, of course, was a typically bourgeois response and the split-second blankness of the eyes was now explained. At last I could relax. Without doubt he was undergoing a period of chastity, unwilling to sleep with the neurotic wife who was too paralysed by her fear of pregnancy to want to sleep with him.
I resolved to think no more of Dido.
VII
I was just manicuring my nails on the following afternoon and thinking that I might potter along to the South Canonry to do a little typing, when the front doorbell rang at the foot of the stairs which led up to my flat. Marina had gone to Oxford and Primrose would almost certainly be at work in Eternity Street. I decided it was probably my landlady, Mrs Lindsay – or possibly one of her four jolly-hockey-sticks daughters with whom I had nothing in common. I was still trying to devise a plan which would enable me to repel their friendly overtures without being rude, but fortunately I suspected that they already regarded me as an aloof freak and were anxious to leave me alone.
With reluctance I descended the stairs and opened the front door.
‘Ah, there you are, my dear,’ said Dido, streaming past me across the threshold and skimming up the stairs. ‘I’m sure you don’t mind if I come in, do you, but I was just passing down Butchers’ Alley on my way to Mitre Street to buy a wedding present for that dreadfully plain daughter of Mrs Pinn – such a mercy some man wants to marry her, it just shows one should never give up hope – when I remembered you, tucked away in the Lindsays’ flat above their garage – and my dear, I must tell you that a couple were burnt to death in a flat over a garage only the other day when the car underneath them blew up, I read it in
The Times
so it must be true. However, you’re not going to be here for long, are you, so I doubt if you’ll be burnt to death, but nevertheless you should be very careful of exhaust fumes and always keep your window open.
‘Anyway, my dear, Maurice Tait came to dinner the other night and mentioned that he’d seen you loitering with Stephen in the cloisters and I thought: Venetia! How dreadful, I’ve quite forgotten her – and I’m famous for remembering all my acquaintances, from the Bishop right down to that poor Cathedral cleaner with the cleft palate – so
immediately
I said to Stephen: "Darling," I said, "we must have Venetia to dinner – it’s ages since she’s been here!" and Stephen looked pleased because he’s so fond of you, Venetia dear, along with Harriet March and half a dozen other young women – Stephen always has to have his little harem! – and as my entire life is devoted to making Stephen happy I’m all for encouraging these harmless friendships by including the girls in my guest-lists – why, I even post his letters to his female correspondents when I find them lying on the hall table! I’ve never been able to understand wives who can’t take a generous, tolerant attitude to all their husbands’ friends, and indeed, as I’ve so often told Primrose, I’m firmly convinced that possessiveness is the mark of an inferior nature – good heavens, look at this! What a dingy little room, no light, and the carpet needs replacing and what a pity the walls are such a sickly shade of cream, but never mind, at least you must be saving money as the Lindsays would surely never dare charge much for such a run-down little garret.
Now, Venetia my dear, I’ve been examining my diary, and it’s a
little
difficult to slip you in at present, but how about the Saturday after next, eight o’clock for eight-thirty? I shan’t invite Eddie, I know things are delicate there – and never let it be said that I’m not a supremely tactful hostess – but I’ll try to lure Perry down from London for the weekend.
‘Well, I really must rush off to Mitre Street, but it’s been lovely to see you and I’m glad you’ve at least got some sort of a roof over your head – although if you’ll take my advice you’ll remove those vulgar posters from the walls and put up something more dignified. After all, we mustn’t forget, must we, that you’re now nearer thirty than twenty and really too old to behave like a teenager over Elvis Presley. Well, goodbye, my dear, it’ll be lovely to see you on Saturday week, I’m so glad you’re working for the Bishop, living on top of the Archdeacon and having little chats after evensong with the Dean – I mean, it’s all so terribly
seemly,
isn’t it, and I’m sure it’s such a relief for your parents who must have been wondering where on earth you were going to drift to next – no, don’t worry, don’t bother to come down, I’ll see myself out ...’
She flew away like the evil witch in a fairy-tale.