Today was a very special day for Moy. It was a Monday and she was not going to school. She was sixteen. It was her right not to go to school. Since her fourteenth birthday she had, at intervals, told her parent and siblings that when she was sixteen she would leave school. Sefton had advised her sternly not to, the other two dismissed the matter, saying vaguely she must wait and see. As the date approached Moy informed her headmistress, who mildly suggested that more schooling might assist her in later life, and her form mistress, who agreed that Moy's talents lay elsewhere.
Miss Fitzherbert, with whom Moy had not discussed her dismal visit to Miss Fox, simply advised her to âGo on painting, why not'. At home, Aleph congratulated her, Louise argued feebly, and Sefton presented Moy with a list of London art schools with addresses and telephone numbers. This list, which she had not studied, was laid out upon one of the shelves weighed down by a large black stone with a white band upon it. So now she was free. She lay on the bed, oppressed by lassitude, ennui and fear, listening to Clement's angry voice on the floor below.
She had not recovered from her fight with the swan. She still woke at night panting, having to sit upright in bed. The huge heavy white breast reared itself above her like a great shield in nightmare dreams, pressing her down. She was tormented by other images and uncertainties, had the little black duck actually got away or had it already been drowned before she reached it, had she really seen it escaping? Also: had she perhaps
hurt
the swan? She had fought with it so desperately, she remembered, in the fragmented kaleidoscope of their battle, seeing its great black webbed feet like hands, and clutching them frantically to thrust them away. Had the poor swan been hurt, had she damaged one of its feet? She sat up now abruptly, disturbing Anax who jumped off the bed and retired to his basket, stepping into it carefully with slow deliberate paws. She took off her necklace and put it away in a drawer next to the little lapis box which was still occupied by the white stone, and by a piece of paper saying that strength obeyed virtue. Moy knelt down beside the stones which she had now, just lately, as if part of her changing life, removed from the shelves and put into cardboard boxes on the floor. She had become alarmed by her powers of telekinesis and by the occasional naughtiness of some stones which had apparently developed their own mobility and propelled themselves onto the floor. Anax did not like this, he looked baleful, he growled. âPoor stones, I'm sorry,' Moy said to the stones as she turned them over in their boxes. Who am I, she thought, to interfere with the destiny of a stone? Perhaps they all want to be elsewhere, out in the sun and the rain, out in the sea, where I found them, in their own places, in freedom? She recalled a scene when, as a small child, she had implored Sefton not to drop a stone into a well. Sefton had laughed and tossed it in.
The larger stones had remained upon the floor against the walls. She looked with particular contrition toward the conical stone, still covered with runic scrawls of yellow lichen, which she had removed from the wild hillside near Bellamy's cottage. It had been embedded in a grassy dell, just showing its noble greenish golden head, and seeming to look toward the solitary rock, other denizen of the dell, the grey rock criss-crossed with little cracks, which in some other even older language must have had meaning too: hidden in the dell, the only stone, the only rock, rising up from the long grass. Moy had quickly seized the beautiful stone, pulling it up out of its hole in the earth, and putting it gleefully into her stone bag. Coming down the hill she had met Bellamy who took her heavy burden from her. It was only when he was putting the bag into the car that Moy was stricken by the sense of having committed a crime. She wanted passionately to take the stone back to where it belonged, with its friend, the two of them together upon that remote stoneless hillside. But would she be able to find her way? Now the conical stone with its yellow message was exhibited, dusty as in a museum, in a little rainless room, among other random captives. How unhappy it must be. And she thought of the grey rock far way, lonely in the night and the day, the sun and the storm. Tears came into her eyes.
She rose and went to sit upon the side of her bed. The wound with which she travelled vibrated within her. She thought, I shall never have what I desire. I shall become bitter and defeated and dim, and I shall never really paint, I am a freak, a crippled animal, something to be put down, put to sleep, put out of its misery. I am like the little maimed dragon of Carpaccio â except that the dragon was innocent. From now on my life will become defiled, it cannot be otherwise. How does evil begin in a life, how can it begin? Well, I shall soon know.
Â
Â
Sefton, lying on the floor in the Aviary, was not idly resting, she was reflecting. Where did the Romans come from? If Augustine had not discovered Plato would things have been different?
What
things would have been different? The Renaissance for instance? When she rose and descended the stairs she missed Clement's departure and also failed to see Harvey, who had by now secreted himself in Aleph's bedroom awaiting her return. As Sefton reached the foot of the stairs the second post arrived, depositing upon the floor a scatter of advertisements, a letter in Joan's handwriting addressed to Louise, and another letter lying face downwards. Sefton piled the advertisements upon the hall stand, setting Louise's letter apart. She turned over the other letter. It was addressed to herself. As she instantly recognised the writing she stood for several moments very still. Then breathing deeply she moved into her bedroom and closed the door. She sat down on the bed, opened the envelope, and read the letter through carefully. The letter ran as follows:
My dear Sefton,
I wonder if you could come and see me on Thursday morning about ten? If you cannot, perhaps you would drop in a note to that effect by hand. Otherwise I shall expect you.
Yours,
Lucas
âWhat did you dream about last night?'
âA tiger.'
âBurning bright?'
âNo. What did you dream about, Harvey?'
âThe tower of Siena cathedral.'
â
Tiens
!
'
â
Tiens
nothing. It was made of marzipan. Then it turned into a picture by Mondrian.'
âMarzipan, Mondrian. I envy you your aesthetic dreams.'
Aleph had at last arrived, finding Harvey waiting for her. They sat as usual facing each other, Harvey on the bed, Aleph on the chair.
âYou're using your old stick, the hospital one. What's happened to your smart one?'
âThis one is less smart but more useful. Are the Adwardens back?'
âYes.'
âAnd Rosemary and Nick and Rufus?'
âYes. And, yes, I'm going to Yorkshire with Rosemary. I shall sleep in that four-poster bed. Then we are going to tour the dales and cross the Scottish border. The others are staying in London.'
âI wish they'd invite me. I think Nick and Rufus are against me.'
âNo one is against you.'
âMy mother is. She wants me to take a job to support us.'
âWhy don't you run away to Italy, why don't you just
go
?'
âWould you come with me? All right, that's a joke. Anyway I have to stay here with the doctors.'
âBut you're studying, aren't you, you're working? I wouldn't mind living in Emil's flat.'
âThat's another thing. Emil and Clive are coming back, I have to move. Sorry, I'm becoming a little misery and I know you hate little miseries. I feel so trapped.
Eternel retour.
I still don't know what it means, but it's what I feel. I saw an awful thing, a woman crying, I mean
terribly
crying.'
âAnyone we know?'
âNo. Oh
hell.
'
âThis house is full of crying women.'
âSurely Sefton never cries.'
âShe was crying last week over the death of Alexander.'
âAleph, don't you cry. I don't want you ever to cry, I want you to be happy eternally, I want you to be your own perfect self forever. I feel so terrible before you, so wrecked, so broken, so vile, I've never felt like this before, I'm not worthy, I'm under a black cloud, I'm a faithless knight, I ought to be punished, I ought to be sent away for seven years to be some awful person's servant.'
âYou think I'd still be there after seven years? Come, now I'm joking!'
âI love you, I want us to be together forever, I can't bear the idea of being separated from you, you won't be away long, will you, I want to talk and talk and talk to you, I want to look at you, you are so beautiful, you are the most beautiful creature in the world, I wish you weren't going away, I want to say so much and to say it
right
â I shall say it later, only don't leave me.'
âYou mean it's as if we are in a fairy tale, and there's something we can't say, some word we can't utter, some riddle we can't answer â and if we
did
say it or answer it we would die, or be in paradise together.'
âYes, Aleph. Only I'm filthy and guilty and worthless, I'm under a spell, I'm under a curse.'
âHarvey, you are asleep. You will awake.'
âYou will wake me, you will, won't you â '
âBut we have to be noble, both of us, don't you think?'
âYou mean wonderful, like people in Henry James?'
âNo, noble, heroic, straight-backed, like people in Shakespeare.'
âYou mean good brave people in Shakespeare. Yes, we are both under a spell, we are paralysed because we have been so perfectly together all our lives. And so we are â unlucky â anyway I am â '
âHarvey, please don't go on, unless you want to see another woman crying! You know all this is a sort of nonsense.'
âIt isn't.'
âAll right, I know it isn't. But do buck up, brace up, as Sefton would say, pull your socks up!'
âI think we are really talking to each other, we are really being
with
each other, we are
being
each other. I shall always love you, Aleph, remember that. Let me hold your hand, this is a special moment after all, our special moment in time, as if the gods were near, as if we were really going to be released. Wait, Aleph darling, lovely one, let us just be quiet together, it's like prayer, it's like salvation.'
âYes, yes. But don't be so tragic, dear Harvey. It's lunch time. Louie is downstairs in the kitchen, and I heard Moy go down. Let's just dry our eyes and go down together. You'll stay to lunch, won't you? Louie will be so pleased.'
âLunch
? Aleph, don't be
daft
!'
My dear Father,
I have abstained from writing to you for some time, according to your ordinance, and I hope that you will forgive this communication, which comes without your blessing. I need your advice, I need your prayers. I spoke to you in my last letter about an angelic personage who has entered my life, a man wronged and fighting righteously for justice. I have now become, reluctantly, involved in a fiercer and more dangerous phase of this struggle. I say reluctantly because our (mortal) foe is someone whom I also love. Can one say â I have met with anti-Christ and I love him? The situation is in fact almost infinitely complex, visible in all its aspects only to the eye of God. I have attempted in this, alas one must now call it,
feud
, to act as a mediator and peace-maker, but in vain. I fear extremely for my angel and for his adversary. May I not now visit you? There is little time left. Those here below must be forgiven. For we wrestle not against flesh and blood but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. Please excuse this thoroughly confused letter. I am in a deadly dilemma and do not know what I should do. At least â I think â nothing here is
my fault.
Yet how can one say that? Blessed is the peace-maker, for he shall be called the child of God. And he who tries and fails to be a peace-maker may ever after reproach himself for not having had the courage to
prevent
what he could not
control.
I cannot explain this in a letter. I beg you to reply to this and let me come at once to talk to you before these two men destroy each other. The sight of your calm holy face would I am sure endow me with the necessary wisdom and
courage.
Your loving and faithful disciple,
Bellamy
P.S. You said pray at every moment. I have been unable to do that, but I have tried to pray
often,
sometimes using words which I have heard you use. But I have had a curious sensation as if my prayers were becoming
fat.
Can prayers become fat? It sounds idiotic, but I could explain the image. I am not, I hope, going mad. I tell myself that God accepts any prayers, even false ones, if you see what I mean.
Â
Â
My dear Bellamy,
Your letter has been forwarded to me from the monastery. As I was about to let you know, I have left the Order, and the priesthood, and the Church. I have, as the saying goes, lost my faith. I can no longer believe in the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob or indeed in any personal God or supernatural (I use this word advisedly) divinity, or in the divinity of Christ or in eternal life. I do not believe in what I once took to be my lifelong mission, the abnegation of the world and the saving of souls. I have no more authority and no more wisdom and I have for some time now felt myself to be a liar as I spoke to humble penitents who possessed a faith which I lacked. I am sorry to have to tell you this, destroying or damaging perhaps some structure in you which I seemed to be erecting and you seemed to desire. However, it would be foolish pride on my part to imagine that you will, after some brief dismay, feel that you have in truth lost anything of great value. You are a natural (to use that somewhat silly but here soberly apt term)
seeker
, and you will
find out your own way.
As I now have to do for myself. I give no address since I do not want you to (should it occur to you to do so) come and find me. Frankly, you would be unwelcome, and I would be, for your purposes, worthless. Please do not write to me. Any letters sent to the monastery will be, at my behest, destroyed there, so pray do not send any. Bellamy, I am sorry. I hope you will find goodness and happiness â I feel that you are a person to whom both might naturally belong. Be happy yourself and make others happy. You should stay with Christ, that presence need not fade, it can be an icon. But do not be miserable seeking for moral perfection. Remember Eckhart's advice (for which he was deemed a heretic): do not seek for God outside your own soul. My more worldly advice to you is as follows. Leave your hovel in the East End, which by now even you must see to represent a preposterous falsehood. Do not seek solitude. Return to some small flat near to your friends, and get a job (not unlike the one you left) wherein you can be extremely busy every day relieving the needs and sorrows of others. And do, as a sign of sanity, go back to your dog!
Yours most sincerely,
Damien Butler
Â
P.S. I have been, let me say this to you in all honest humility, impressed and moved, even edified, by your ardent, though in some ways illusory, faith, and your, as it happened, impossible, desire to give up the world. You thought that I could teach you â perhaps it is you who have taught me. In taking leave of you I wish that I may, sincerely and without presumption, utter the words of Virgil as he takes his final leave of Dante:
Non aspettar mio dir più nè mio cenno:
libero, dritto e sano e tuo arbitrio,
e fallo fora non fare a suo senno:
per ch'io te sovra te corono e mitrio.