IX
‘Neville! Thank God I’ve managed to get you on the phone. Look, I can’t make it this afternoon, I feel appalling — no, don’t panic, it’s nothing for you to worry about, just menstruation de luxe — really, I can’t think why God couldn’t have made female organs more cleverly, they’re nothing but trouble, even worse than teeth.’
‘My poor darling, I’m so sorry — but I’ve got to see you soon or I’ll go mad. What about tomorrow? I’ll cancel everything —’
‘No, tomorrow’s no good. I’ve got to work for the Bishop. How about Friday?’
We agreed to meet in the car-park of the Rialto cinema on Friday afternoon. That gave me two days to decide how I was going to do the impossible, and for the first time in my life I began to understand why people committed suicide. But of course I wasn’t the suicidal type.
Or was I?
Taking two aspirins to kill my hang-over I reached again for the gin bottle.
It was five minutes past seven in the morning.
X
‘And now,’ said the Bishop, smooth, powerful and dangerous in a pitch-black suit, ‘having completed all the chapters except the one on ethics, I think it’s finally time to demolish the New Morality.’
The sweat prickled on my forehead.
‘We’ll start,’ said Dr Ashworth after a pause to survey the battlefield, ‘with some random observations as usual. Are you ready?’
‘Yes, Bishop.’ My mouth was bone-dry.
‘Number one: Dr Robinson is attempting to apply the principle of
Situationethik —
’
He spelled the word before interpolating: — better to use the German designation, I think, as that calls attention to the original writing on the subject — a theory of morals according to which there is no human action which would be morally wrong in every circumstance. This theory parts company with the traditional teaching of the Catholic Church which, while acknowledging that vast numbers of moral decisions are determined by the "situation" — that is, the circumstances of each particular case — nonetheless holds that some actions are intrinsically wrong and can never under any circumstances be justified.
Dr Robinson contends that when attempting to resolve a moral dilemma nothing is prescribed— except love. The Catholic Church would agree with this,
but —
underline the "but", please -- it would say that this prescription must take into account certain absolute limits to conduct; the maintaining of such absolute limits is a safeguard against the sinfulness and fallibility of man. Dr Robinson, however, rejecting objective standards in advocating a subjective approach, declares that a solution to each moral dilemma can be discovered merely by surveying all the facts with loving compassion.
‘This is, of course, impossible.
‘Human beings are not omniscient, and only God can ever know all the facts in any given case. For example, a well-meaning counsellor may approach a case with enormous loving corn- passion yet because of either ignorance or wishful thinking or misunderstanding or just plain stupidity come to a conclusion which is entirely wrong. Love is not enough. We must have objective standards which provide the poor, faltering, limited human race with at least some indication of how we should conduct ourselves in order to avoid misery and destruction. The Bishop, I fear, has far too high an opinion of modern man’s ability to soar above his sinful, fallible nature and play God in ethical matters with impunity.
‘Number two: the Bishop writes as if Christianity were no more than a weak love ethic. Christianity is indeed about love but it is also about salvation and redemption. It is directed not towards a so-called modern man who lives some idyllic existence in which every problem can be solved with a kiss and a cuddle. It deals with people as they are – and very often they’re suffering, floundering amidst tragedy, perhaps even screaming in agony as the result of their wrong actions and the wrong actions of others. What has Dr Robinson to say to these people? Absolutely nothing. You must say rather more than: "All you need is love!" to someone who is tortured by guilt, racked with grief or overpowered by despair. When a man is being crucified during his personal Good Friday, he needs someone who symbolises Easter Sunday and the redemptive love of Christ, not some sunny-natured fool who bounces around at the foot of the cross and showers him with sentimental good will.
‘Number three: the Bishop theorises a great deal about human relationships but seems to have only the sketchiest idea about how his theories would work in practice. If a young man and a young woman are in love, he suggests, the young man will ask himself not: do I sleep with her? But: do I love her? According to Dr Robinson, if the answer is yes, then the young man, glorified by his passion, will abstain from sexual intercourse in order not to take advantage of his girl-friend. However, I put it to Dr Robinson that this is sheer romantic idealism which has no relation to reality. The young man, in reality, will ask himself: do I sleep with her? And immediately he’ll answer: you bet – if I can! He may be full of good intentions; he may sincerely believe he loves the girl; he may even wish to marry her eventually, but if a sexual attraction exists he’ll want to take the young lady to bed. And perhaps he will marry her. And perhaps they will indeed live happily ever after. One must always allow for cases where both parties are blessed by extraordinary good luck. But perhaps, alternatively, he’ll tire of her; perhaps he’ll abuse her love; perhaps she’ll abuse his; perhaps there’ll be an abortion, a breakdown, even suicide. There are any number of possibilities inherent in this situation, but two things at least are certain: first, sex is the most powerful drive known to man and any ethical theory that fails to take this into account must be seriously deficient. And second, such a powerful force can lay waste, maim and kill as efficiently as a powerful force such as a hurricane or an earthquake. Bearing this fact of life in mind, it would seem prudent to devise rules and safeguards which will help to minimise the potential damage. Dr Robinson has very much more confidence than I have in both the wisdom of inexperienced young people and their ability to protect themselves from serious harm.
‘Number four: the Bishop tells us we find God in loving relationships. Certainly we do. But supposing someone, through no fault of his own, has no loving relationships in his life; are we to say that in his loneliness he has no access to God? Or supposing a loving relationship comes to an end; are we to say that the parties concerned must part from God as well as each other? God cannot, I suggest, be confined merely to loving relationships, and I would also suggest that it is not only God who can be found there. The Devil can infiltrate any situation, and it’s quite possible to have an extremely loving relationship which is absolutely wrong and utterly destructive, not only for the parties themselves but for the innocent people who depend on them. The classic example of this, of course,’ said Dr Ashworth, pausing in his peregrinations to hover at my side, ‘is adultery. Have you got that, Venetia?’
‘Yes, Bishop.’
‘You don’t seem to be writing.’
‘I...’
‘Never mind, these are only rough notes. I’ll go more slowly. The classic example (as I was saying) is adultery. Number five: by adopting this subjective approach to ethics the Bishop seems to be aligning himself with those people who declare that the real obscenity in our society today is not sex but violence. Sex, I agree, is not an obscenity. But the abuse of sex, I would argue, is deeply obscene. I think it not surprising that at this stage of the century there should be a backlash against strict standards in sexual conduct, but I prophesy that the people who are now busy tearing up the old rules will reap rather more than they bargained for. I also venture to suggest that more harm, more grief and more soul-destroying misery are caused to more people by the abuse of the sexual rules than by the use of violence. For example, anyone who has ever witnessed the carnage wrought by a devastating adulterous liaison could never forget the horror of seeing people slowly driven mad by their — Venetia! My dear girl, what’s the matter?’
I finally broke down.
XI
‘Right,’ said the Bishop swiftly, ‘don’t move. Take this —’ A handkerchief was stuffed into my shaking hand — and hold on. Help’s coming.’ And sweeping to the door he flung it open and shouted: ‘Darling!’ just as he did when he returned home from an outing.
I sat glued to my chair and clutched his handkerchief and shuddered with dry, hoarse, racking sobs. Clear-eyed I stared at my open notebook and the shorthand which I knew I could never read back.
Voices sounded in the hall. I heard the Bishop say urgently: ‘It’s Venetia,’ and I also heard Mrs Ashworth’s lightning response: ‘Leave this to me.’
Hurrying into the room she stooped over me and put an arm around my shoulders. ‘You’re exhausted, aren’t you?’ she said briskly. ‘You must have a complete rest. I’ll tell everyone you’ve got flu.’
Tears finally streamed down my cheeks. I clutched her. But I was unable to speak.
‘Come along,’ said Mrs Ashworth, mercifully unemotional. ‘I’ll put you to bed and give you a couple of sleeping pills so that you can switch off and pass out. Much the best thing to do.’
She helped me to my feet and steered me upstairs. No one was in the hall. The telephone started to ring but someone answered it. The stairs seemed to go on for ever. ‘You can have the best spare-room,’ said Mrs Ashworth. ‘It’s got a beautiful view of the meadows, very soothing and restful. I’ll just get you a pair of Charley’s pyjamas. I’m afraid my nightdresses wouldn’t fit you.’
I sat down on the spare-room bed. The view was indeed very beautiful, and I thought how tactful it was of her not to give me a room which faced the Cathedral. But then I remembered she had no idea why I should now find any view of the Cathedral unbearable. The lapse frightened me. I had to remember I was among the enemy; I had to take fanatical care to make no mistakes.
Still shivering from head to toe I began to plot a plausible excuse for my collapse.
XII
‘So sorry to be such a bore,’ I said to Mrs Ashworth unsteadily when she brought me the sleeping tablets, ‘but the truth is I didn’t level with you earlier about Perry Palmer. I’m madly in love with him but he gave me a terrible time when I went up to London for my mother’s birthday and I’ve done nothing but drink gin ever since. All rather a nightmare. But I’m sure I’ll sort myself out eventually.’
‘Poor Venetia,’ said Mrs Ashworth, sounding sincerely sympathetic but remaining expressionless. ‘I’m so very sorry. Now do please take these tablets and pass out.’
Downing the pills I keeled over out of torment into oblivion.
XIII
‘Can I make any phone calls for you?’ offered Mrs Ashworth as she brought me tea that evening. ‘Is there anyone who might ring your flat and be concerned when there was no reply?’
I had to struggle to think. My brain was still sluggish from the pills but I thought of Aysgarth, receiving no letter from me at seven o’clock on the following morning and unable to contact me by phone. Then with horror I remembered that I was due to meet him in the afternoon for our postponed outing. If I failed to appear he would be demented.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Mrs Ashworth sharply.
‘Nothing.’ My panic was so great I could hardly breathe. ‘Now Venetia, that’s quite obviously not true. You’re white as a ghost and you look terrified —’
‘Mrs Ashworth, I’ve got to talk to Eddie Hoffenberg.’
‘I’ll ring him for you.’
‘No, no — I’ve got to speak to him myself, I must, I shan’t sleep a wink unless I speak to him!’
‘Very well.’ Mrs Ashworth said no more but led me into a light airy bedroom where a white telephone sat on a table by a large double bed.
Having collapsed on the counterpane I waited till she had left the room and then feverishly started to dial.
‘Eddie,’ I said as he answered, ‘listen carefully. This is an emergency. I collapsed at the South Canonry this afternoon — exhaustion, nothing more — and I’m staying here for a couple of days while Mrs Ashworth announces to everyone that I have flu. I told her —’ I hesitated, acutely aware that my words could be falling among eavesdroppers — I told her about my awful love affair with Perry,’ I said. ‘I had to explain why I was in such a state.’
‘I understand,’ said Eddie without hesitation. ‘Would you like me to tell him you’re temporarily out of circulation?’
‘Could you? I’m meeting him tomorrow afternoon, and if I don’t turn up —’
‘Leave it to me. But Venetia, you’ll really have to end this affair with Perry, you know.’
‘Yes, but —’
‘You must write to him. I was a fool to think you could break it off in any other way.’
‘I’ll write later, I promise —’
‘No,’ said Eddie, ‘you’ll write now. I’m not standing any more of this procrastination.’
‘But Eddie, I’m ill, I —’
‘Once the letter’s written you’ll feel better.’
‘No, I can’t do it now, I can’t —’
‘I tell you, YOU MUST! You’ll ruin him, you’ll ruin yourself, you’ll ruin everyone if you go on like this one day longer!’ I started to sob.
‘I’ll be at the South Canonry at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning,’ said Eddie, ‘and if that letter’s not written, I’ll break the news to him myself.’
‘No!’ I screamed but he had hung up.
I sobbed and sobbed.
Eventually Mrs Ashworth appeared and without a word led me back to bed. I got rid of her by pretending to be asleep. Then I lay awake in agony until dawn.
XIV
‘My darling Neville, There’s no kind, gentle way to say this, but...’
‘Dear Neville, How I hate to write this, but ...’
‘Darling Neville, I can hardly bring myself to tell you this, but...’
‘Dearest Neville, You’ll never forgive me, but ...’
I paused to burn all these attempts at confession in the ashtray and tried yet again to find the words to express the unspeakable. It was now the morning after my collapse and I was still lying in bed. I had brushed my hair but made no attempt to apply make-up. Intermittently I wept. Charley’s pyjamas, pale green cotton adorned with dark green piping, provided a touch of chic which was bizarrely at odds with my shadowed, drawn face. I looked like the worst kind of heroin addict, someone who could barely survive from one fix to the next. No wonder Mrs Ashworth had instantly diagnosed me as exhausted, and no wonder she had instinctively decided that such a seamy disintegration had to be passed off as a socially acceptable bout of flu.
With terror I realised it was almost eleven o’clock and the letter was still unwritten. Picking up my pen I wrote in a mindless daze of panic and pain: ‘Neville, forgive me but I can’t go on, I’m marrying Eddie, I don’t want to hurt you but I can’t go on, sorry, sorry, sorry but I can’t go on, there are no more words, V.’
There was a knock on the door, and as I started violently my hostess looked in. ‘Are you sure you feel up to seeing anyone?’ she asked. ‘If I rang Eddie now I could probably catch him before –’ She broke off as the doorbell rang downstairs. ‘That must be him,’ she said. ‘He’s early. But Venetia, if you want to change your mind –’
‘No.’ I was stuffing the letter into an envelope, sealing the flap. ‘I must see him.’ My fingers were very stiff and I hardly knew what I was doing but I laid the unaddressed envelope on the bedside table beside the ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. In the distance I was aware voices followed by footsteps but I paid them no attention. I could only concentrate on straightening the bedclothes
as
if I thought that by smoothing the sheet I could smooth away my turmoil.
The next moment I had a shock: the door swung wide and the Bishop walked in. I had not seen him since my collapse, but no doubt that was because his wife had advised him to keep away. He was dressed formally in gaiters for some approaching official engagement, but by speaking in his kindest voice he avoided being intimidating.
‘Well, Venetia,’ he said lightly, ‘it seems the clerical celebrities of Starbridge are all rushing to offer you sympathy!’
And as I looked past him I saw to my indescribable terror that not merely Eddie but Aysgarth had followed him up to my room.