X
I sat for a long time on the sofa in my sitting-room and stared at the unlit fireplace. Outside the rain eventually stopped. The room was very quiet. The serenity of Flaxton Hall enfolded me like a womb.
Having made the decision to skip tea I went out, wandering through the dank Italian garden and ploughing in my wellington boots along the muddy path which encircled the lake. From the far side I looked back at the Hall. Its ruthless Georgian symmetry seemed peculiarly satisfying, a dream from the brain of a classicist devoted to geometry, a vision from which all the mess and muddle of the world, all the anomalies and contradictions, had been magically eliminated. I suddenly realised how devoted I was to Georgian architecture and how partial I was to the classics. I began to wish I had gone up to Oxford after all.
Squelching back around the lake I reached the floral garden designed by my mother where huge blooms reeked and flashed in artificial chaos among vast curving borders. I was still faintly revolted by such horticultural excess, but now I could see how well that riotous extravaganza of colour complemented the austere lines of the house. I paused to stare at the Hall again. Some people would have said it was as repellant as the garden, as lifeless in its perfection as the over-manicured mausoleums which the National Trust propped up for tourists, but I knew it could never be lifeless for me. It was home. It was where I belonged, and when I thought of my little nest in Starbridge I could see that although it was wonderfully original the originality would one day wear thin. Starbridge, as my father had said, was really just an interlude for me, and later when I was married I would have a large house of my own, another geometrical dream, with a huge garden, all lawns and trees, no flowers in sight, and there would be a lake, not necessarily an artificial lake designed by Capability Brown, but nevertheless a serene stretch of water where I could lie in a boat and gaze at the sky and think beautiful thoughts.
The best part about being married would be that I’d have the chance to achieve an idyllic life as a châtelaine. All the Coterie would roar down for weekends, and what fun we’d have, celebrating life with lashings of champagne! In fact I now realised I could hardly wait to acquire my own little corner of England because once I was a châtelaine with a husband to prove I was no pitiable freak I could become me at last, lying on a couch like Madame Récamier, smoking a cigar like George Sand, talking philosophy like George Eliot, tossing off witticisms like Dorothy Parker and hipping and thighing around like Mae West. I would be faithful to my husband, of course; it would be my moral duty to reward him as lavishly as possible for transforming me from a pathetic spinster into a married sizzler, but nevertheless I thought I might amuse myself – just occasionally – by dallying with a little bit of masculine fluff during my leisure hours .. .
Returning to the house as well as to earth after this mesmerising fantasy, I left my wellingtons in the flower-room, slipped back into my shoes and padded upstairs. On reaching my bedroom I found that a letter had been pushed under the door. It read:
‘Darling, I’m so sorry about the mess. Your father’s been wonderful, and we’ve just finished mulling over his new monograph on the Battle of Actium. He thinks it was entirely Cleopatra’s fault that she and Antony were defeated but I think this view hardly does justice to Cleopatra – or indeed to young Octavian who, as history subsequently showed, was a far more formidable man than either of his rivals in the Triumvirate. I must say, it was pleasant to forget all about Harriet’s sculpture – and Sir George Bone-Pelham’s corpse! But I confess I remain rather bothered by the scene between you and your father. I can’t visualise it at all. Surely
something
must have been said? I can’t believe he would have condoned our new intimate friendship. I daresay I’m being very lower middle-class, but I just don’t "get it", as the younger generation say. Do please explain! All my love, N.’
I wrote back: ‘Darling Neville, You can’t talk about your wife. And I can’t talk about my father. Let’s leave it like that, shall we? Masses of love, V. PS. Glad you survived the monograph on the Battle of Actium. Papa’s such a bore about Cleopatra – I think he honestly believes all her troubles stemmed from the fact that she wasn’t educated at Cheltenham Ladies’ College.’
I shoved this note under his door and slipped away without attempting to talk to him.
Some people from Flaxfield joined us for dinner. Mr Wharton, an old friend of my father’s, talked incessantly of politics, Mrs Wharton discussed gardening with my mother, and Margaret Wharton and I reminisced fitfully about the schooldays we had shared at Cheltenham. Halfway through the meal old Wharton remarked brightly that he had seen a book on sale at W. H. Smith’s and it appeared to be about theology even though it had been placed among the best sellers; there was a naked man on the cover and the book had some sort of catchy title — had the Dean ever come across it?
I had a sudden glimpse of a vast, indifferent world which Dr Robinson’s theological H-bomb had never reached, and it was then, as my imaginary mirrors tilted to reflect yet another reality, that I began to be fatally disorientated.
XI
In bed that night I asked myself which scenes represented reality and which scenes represented a dream. Then it occurred to me that all the scenes were real but that they took place in different worlds which existed alongside one another in parallel strips of time. All I had to do in order to sort myself out was to perceive which world I belonged in, but perception was no longer easy; I seemed to be living in more than one strip. I still thought that Starbridge was intensely real and that the interpretation of
Honest to God
was the most crucially important intellectual question of my life at that moment, but the other world was now equally real, the world of geometric houses and sensible marriages and agnostic indifference to theology, the world where my father, stupid man, had had the brains and the cunning and the sheer bloody guts to bare his soul and thus prove, without ever mentioning the word love, exactly how much I meant to him.
I thought:
that
was real.
But Aysgarth was real too, my darling Mr Dean, so vital, so amusing, so clever, so passionate, so adoring ... and such a mystery.
He
refused to bare his soul, but what did his silence actually mean? Did it mean he didn’t care for me sufficiently to be honest? Or did it mean he was so mixed up that he could find no words to express his secrets? How could I know? How could I ever know? All I knew was that I didn’t want to give him up .. .
And that, I had no doubt, was the greatest reality of all.
XII
‘My darling,’ wrote Aysgarth early the next morning, ‘you looked quite lovely at dinner last night, much the most attractive woman in the room. How amusing that Wharton had barely heard of
Honest to God!
But if he was abroad when it was published and reads only the secular press, all is at once explained. I was impressed by your father’s summary of the book! I always feel he would have made a good theologian if only the tragedies which overtook his father and brother had not resulted in him rejecting God in order to come to terms with his pain.
‘While on the subject of your father I must tell you that I shall not, of course, press you further about your interview with him; I can quite see this may well have been upsetting and best forgotten. But darling, when I refused to talk about Dido, it wasn’t because I didn’t want to share everything with you. I did. And I do. It’s just that the subject is so awkward that words are hard to find.
‘However, let me now make a big effort to "deliver my soul", as the Victorian preachers used to say. Actually I think it’ll be easier in a letter because I can always tear it up and start again if I get in a muddle. Or if I can’t immediately think of the right word I can sit and wait for it to come. So here goes — I shall tell you the whole truth about all the aspects of my past which you’ve found so baffling. Darling, believe me, I long to be completely honest with you.
‘Let me start with the phenomenon which you call my "multiple personality". There is in fact only one personality, me, but I’ve gone through different phases. As you know, I’ve travelled a very long way in my life on an upward social curve, and like a motor car ascending a steep gradient I’ve periodically had to change gears. In other words, I’ve had to adjust my personality in order to keep pace with my changing circumstances, and I’ve mentally labelled each readjustment with a new name (Nevilles One, Two, Three, Four and Stephen). Some of these "personae" have been better integrated, as the psychologists say, than others, but rest assured that Neville Four is perfectly integrated and "the real me"! Neville One was an innocent – naive and shy. In contrast, Neville Two was a pushy, ambitious creation of whom I came to disapprove profoundly. Neville Three was my attempt to contain him, but the attempt was not altogether successful. Stephen, on the other hand, has been a good creation; he’s without doubt my mature self, but he’s always cost me a lot of effort to maintain. What’s so wonderful about the emergence of Neville Four is that he’s just
as
good as Stephen but he costs me no effort. That’s why I feel I’ve uncovered my real self at last. I feel I’ve achieved a perfect inner harmony.
‘Whenever I "change gears" – that is, move into a new "persona" – I like to forget all that’s gone before. This is because adjustment to a new life is easier once one’s wiped the slate clean. Also, to forget is a form of psychological survival. I had hard times in my youth after my father died bankrupt. My first marriage ended in the tragedy of Grace’s death. My marriage with Dido began awkwardly and was only set right when I was reborn as Stephen. My life has in many ways been very difficult – although I don’t want to turn this letter into a prolonged moan! Charles Raven, the hero of my younger days in the Church, used to say that until a man has been down into hell he’s not fully mature, and I believe that to be true. It’s part of the mystery of suffering. I know I’m fully mature, but sometime I can’t help reflecting what a price I’ve had to pay for that maturity.
‘This must be where I talk about Dido.
‘(LATER) I’ve just spent ten minutes writing nothing and now feel I must put down at least something, no matter how inadequate, in order to overcome my writer’s block! Let me start by saying this: my first wife was so wonderful and so perfect that after she died I knew I had to marry her exact opposite. I couldn’t have stood some lesser version of Grace, perpetually reminding me of what I’d lost. And I knew I had to remarry. I was well aware that I wasn’t designed by God to be a Victorian hero chastely mourning his lost love for the rest of his life.
‘I must also state that I felt very guilty about Grace’s death. As you know, she died of pneumonia during a family holiday. We always took our family holiday in Devon, but that year I insisted on a change of plan and we went to the Lake District. It was a long way from our rented cottage to the shops and one morning Grace got soaked to the skin and a chill set in. It could never have happened in Devon where our cottage stood next to the village shop. So after she died, I felt responsible. It even seemed I’d destroyed her, although I concede this was taking an extreme view of what happened. However, gradually I conceived the idea not only of marrying her exact opposite but of marrying someone whom I could rescue, look after and keep safe – I saw it as a way of atoning for what I’d done.
‘I thought of Dido straight away. I’d actually met her before Grace died, although of course we were mere social acquaintances then; there was no romance of any kind between us while Grace was still alive. When I eventually approached Dido she didn’t want to marry me, but that only made me keener – I’ve always liked a challenge! I realised she had a lot of problems but that merely reinforced my conviction that I was being called to look after her, and later, when she did come to love me, my call seemed even clearer. Love is one of the ultimate prizes of life. One can’t just tear it up and chuck it in the wastepaper basket. Once Dido had come to love me I knew I had to cherish her and preserve her from destruction. There was no choice. You don’t argue with a call from God. You simply roll up your sleeves, get down to work and do the best you can.
‘And I did. My reward has been not only Elizabeth and Pip, to whom I’m devoted, but the three children who died either shortly before or shortly after birth. These lost sons of mine I named Arthur (after my father), George (after Bishop Bell) and Aidan (after an elderly clergyman I deeply respected). Dido was never interested in choosing names for them and couldn’t understand why I bothered, but to me the naming was important; it was an acknowledgement of their reality, perhaps even a symbol of thanksgiving for their very short existences, certainly a statement that they had been welcomed, not rejected, by their parents.
‘At first Dido did accompany me to the cemetery to visit their grave, but once she had her living boy and girl she lost interest in the dead — whom she always saw, I’m afraid, as representing her failure to reproduce successfully — and now I go to the cemetery on my own. I’ve never lost interest in those children. They’re very real to me, even though I may never speak of them. I see them all quite clearly. They’re never tiresome or difficult as living children inevitably are sometimes; they’re always happy, always bright, always perfect. When Arthur had his seventeenth birthday the other day I thought: how amazing that Arthur should be seventeen! And I could see him at once, looking like me but tall and slim like my father. But of course I can’t talk about him to Dido. She’d think I was being morbid, but how can a shining dream be morbid? I love my shining dreams, my world of might-have-been.
‘In novels dead babies always seem to draw a couple together, but that didn’t happen in our case. Quite the reverse. But I try not to blame Dido too much for her attitude because she always found childbirth an ordeal and perhaps the births were traumas which ultimately she could only surmount by blocking out her most painful memories. I never wanted her to go on having children like that, but she had to have her boy and her girl. I overheard Primrose saying once to one of her Gang that Didohad to have five children in order to keep up with Grace, but that wasn’t true. Dido didn’t want Aidan at all because by then she already had Elizabeth and Pip; Aidan was an accident. But she wouldn’t have an abortion, which was what the doctor recommended and which I certainly didn’t oppose, since her life was in danger. I think possibly she wanted to die. She was in a very bad mental state at the time and afterwards she did have a severe breakdown. But at least she survived, thank God, and I didn’t have to live with the knowledge that I’d destroyed her with that pregnancy. No more babies after that, of course. While they were doing the Caesarean they sorted out that problem. During the breakdown afterwards Dido used to sob for hours and say she’d been deprived of her femininity, but they didn’t take anything out, they just tied something up. I explained that over and over again but she only went on sobbing. It was a very bad breakdown. I felt so sorry for her. She was so pitiful, so pathetic. Her life has in many ways been a tragic one.
‘That’s why I was so impatient with you when you seemed to be jealous of Dido earlier. If only you’d known! You have so much: your youth, your health, a good temperament free of neurosis, looks, brains, charm, a talent for getting on well with people instead of putting their backs up ... And Dido has so little, just her children and — well, yes, she has me. Or rather, she has Stephen. But she doesn’t have
me,
Neville Four. I belong entirely to you, and what goes on between Stephen and Dido just doesn’t count, it’s of no significance — why, it doesn’t even happen! Everything important, everything that’s
crucial
doesn’t happen with Dido at all. Of that you can be quite certain.
‘Well, there it is, darling — the plain, unvarnished truth at last. As you see, I’m at heart a very simple, honest person, but I admit I do sometimes have difficulty finding the words to explain myself, particularly if the explanations involve deep emotions. (When we meet, please don’t ask about Arthur, George and Aidan unless I raise the subject first.)
‘I suppose the earnest disciples of Freud and Jung would want to know all about my parents and my Uncle Willoughby, but I hardly feel that sort of ancient history’s relevant to us now in 1963, and anyway an old codger’s sentimental reminiscences about his extreme past could only be monumentally boring to anyone under thirty! Suffice it to say that my father, my mother and my uncle were all wonderful, all perfect, and they loved me as much as I loved them.
‘And talking of love I shall now close this letter by telling you that you’re the most miraculous thing that’s ever happened to me and I hardly know how to wait until I can take you in my arms again. Be sure to write me a line as soon as you return to the Archdeacon’s lap on Monday morning! My darling, I remain always — till the day I die — your most devoted and adoring N.’