The Green Knight (8 page)

Bellamy put down his pen and thrust away the blanket which he had drawn over his shoulders. He lived now in one room and it was small and cold. It was late at night. The light of the lamp illumined Bellamy's hand, and he thought, looking at it, how old my poor hand is becoming! He knew that his reply to Father Damien, swiftly written, was confused, even in places silly. But this impetuous outpouring was, he felt, the only
truthful
way in which he could write to the priest. Or was it, precisely,
not
truthful? Was not his letter ‘picturesque', itself a case of ‘romanticism' and ‘neurotic erotic self-indulgence'? It showed no evidence of
hard thinking
. Should he not tear it up or rather use it as a text to be profitably
seen through
? He had not answered the questions, he had not replied to the charges. It was as if he immediately ‘de-realised' the stern things which the priest had to say, softened and sugared and crumbled the grim language about being ‘stained'. Yes, of course he was stained by the world, of course he knew that
that
existence would not be peace but the continuation of life under very unpleasant circumstances! In refusing to reflect on these things he was simply leaping over the difficulties. But was not this leap just what was now required of him? Was not this
faith
? Father Damien's letter, which he was now perusing again, expressed unease. The priest was troubled, startled, by the way in which Bellamy had rushed at the whole matter, and was retreating from the more come-hither position which he had occupied earlier. Bellamy had now known Father Damien for nearly two years, had visited him twice (Father Damien was ‘enclosed') and written to him many times. Now Bellamy's letters were disturbing the holy man. But did not Bellamy intend to disturb, was there no end to Bellamy's duplicity? In his ‘flirtation' with the doctrines of the East he had perhaps gone further than he had told his mentor. And there were the angels, the visions of which Father Damien thought so poorly and which had made Bellamy's doctor speak (though the idea was dropped later) of epilepsy. The visual experiences had now gone from him leaving only, and that was now less often, the strong sense of presences, inducing anguish, joy, tears. He thought, the images are withdrawing from me. That is as it should be. What is now is simpler, more humble, more absolute. Simple because it is just a matter of desire, of Love calling unto love. (Sex?)

Bellamy put his letter into an envelope, addressed it to the remote abbey where Father Damien was incarcerated, licked the envelope and stamped it. By this time his thoughts had wandered a little, returning to the image of Jesus, breathing His last upon the Cross, then hurrying away upon His mission to Hell. He now recalled that he had once seen (where?) a very moving picture of a scene (by whom – a disciple of Rembrandt?) entitled ‘Christ in Limbo'. But surely Limbo was not Hell? Hell was where wicked people went, Limbo was where innocent unbaptised babies went. (He could not recall any babies in the picture.) And also presumably virtuous people who lived before the Incarnation. Perhaps Christ visited Limbo on some other occasion. What was He doing, anyway, in either place? What comfort could He bring, what good could He do? What greater torment than to see that light, and then to see it eternally withdrawn? This picture of the eternal withdrawal of light evoked another distant image: that of a slim fair-haired youth going away down a road, turning, looking, then going on, then vanishing. The figure was faded like an old photograph, just faintly tinted in colour, the pale blue of the boy's shirt, the pale blue of his eyes. The name of the boy was Magnus Blake, and he looked at Bellamy now, as he had sometimes looked in dreams, not accusingly, but with a mournful puzzlement. Bellamy had seen his tears but there were no tears now. It had all happened at Cambridge and it had all been so short and so simple. They had fallen in love. Magnus was two years younger. Shortly before this thunder-clap Bellamy had decided, after certain messy and inconclusive experiences, that it was all right to love one's own sex, but in his case this must be done chastely. His brief glimpse of violent passion terrified him. He explained this to Magnus who thought Bellamy's ideas were mad. They argued fiercely. Bellamy, feeling himself on fire, not able to trust himself near the boy, broke off relations abruptly. It was the end of term. He left Cambridge and did not come back. He did not answer Magnus's letters. After he sent back a letter unopened the letters ceased. He killed within himself the voice which murmured ‘it is not too late'. Several years later a Cambridge acquaintance, who did not know of Bellamy's relationship, mentioned Magnus, speaking of a ‘broken love affair', but adding that Magnus had now ‘found a lovely new partner' and emigrated to Canada. All Bellamy's anguish was renewed. A long time had passed and Magnus had probably had other ‘broken affairs' since Bellamy had left him. Of course Bellamy
had
to leave him. But he did not have to do so in such a cruel way. He blamed himself for that sudden ruthlessness which he had felt then to be directed against himself only. Perhaps if he had been braver and better he might have talked it out drearily and made Magnus tire of him. But it was precisely this which he couldn't face. He had to be high-handed with himself, to wound himself and make sure it was his own blood upon his hands. It was
his
heart that must break, and his consolation would be to brood upon his own pain. He had told this story to the priest, Father Dave Foster, who had converted him to Catholicism, and later on to Father Damien. But somehow, when he told it, it changed, medicated in the telling and handed back to him as an instance of selfish irrational guilt and of youthful problems overcome long ago. The other person he told was Lucas Graffe; and to Lucas alone he told another of his secrets, that when he left Birmingham three years later he had suffered a severe depression, otherwise known as a nervous breakdown. The walking away down the road and the looking back had really happened. From the door of his lodgings he had seen Magnus walk away, look back and walk on. Bellamy closed the door. Magnus expected to see him again, he did not know that the argument was over forever. Bellamy left Cambridge the next morning.

Bellamy removed his black jacket and undid his white shirt. Since his ‘decision' he had dressed always in black and white, a solemnity undermined by Clement who said he was just always playing Hamlet. (A part to which Clement had so far aspired in vain.) Bellamy had given up his job at the further education college, and thereafter sold his large flat in Camden Town and moved into the one-room flatlet in Whitechapel. He had sold or given away almost all his belongings. He had given away his dog. These were steps upon the spiritual road of no return. Although Bellamy had had, in spite of his ‘resolution', some strong ‘temptations' after he left Cambridge, Magnus had had no successor. He was now thinking about Harvey, another blond boy with blue eyes. It occurred to him that now for the first time he was connecting Harvey with Magnus because of what had happened at the bridge, which had been so entirely Bellamy's fault. Supposing Harvey had fallen into the ravine. Oh if only Harvey could get absolutely better! For this he prayed silently in an old familiar childish mode of discourse which was one mode of his relation with God; there were perhaps for him more sophisticated modes but none more natural. Bellamy thought about Harvey, about his particular eager beauty and his affected raffishness of a quattrocento dandy and thought too of the crestfallen boy, so disappointed and so shocked, affecting courage and continually making jokes, whom he and Clement had shepherded back to England. And Clement too: everyone knew that Clement was upset by his brother's disappearance but only Bellamy knew
how
upset, how strangely, wildly upset Clement was. Bellamy understood. About Lucas's whereabouts Clement had said: I want to know and yet I don't want to know. Of course Clement was afraid: afraid that Lucas might have killed himself or else perhaps become insane, lost his memory and after an unsuccessful attempt on his own life be lying unidentified and raving in some mental home. It must be a terrible thing to have killed a man; and Lucas's reaction would have to be something extreme. The publicity, the ordeal in court when Lucas was accused of ‘excessive violence' and virtually (as his defending lawyer indignantly said) of murder, would have shaken anyone. Lucas reticent, proud, dignified, secretive, eccentric, must have been overwhelmed.

Thinking of Clement, then of Lucas, then of Louise, Bellamy's thoughts returned homeward to Anax, pausing on the way to reflect that now, because of Anax, he could not go to Louise's house any more. He had not foreseen this separation when he decided to send the dog away; but of course it was implied, Anax must not now see him or hear of him ever again, he must learn to forget him. Bellamy checked what might have been some awful grief. He missed the warm bundle upon his bed at night, tucked into the crook of his knees or lying stretched out long against his leg, silent and good, adjusting himself patiently to Bellamy's movements, aware of Bellamy's sleeping and his waking, knowing when it was morning time and Bellamy would take him in his arms and he would lick his master's face. Father Damien had said, do not send the dog away. That meant something. But the dog was gone. When Bellamy had spoken to Moy, who remembered everything, about Anax's judgmental eyes, he had not meant to indicate a censorious look. It was rather the look of perfect innocence, perfect love, which could not but be just. Bellamy thought, a dog is an image of God, better than us. He thought too of Louise and her children and of Harvey who also seemed to be her child, and how they and Clement had made up a family for him, provided him with a family life, something inherited from Teddy, a holy trust, a bond of duty, a place of absolute forgiveness and reconciliation. He loved them all, perhaps especially Moy with whom he had, since her earliest childhood, had some special intuitive understanding, so that they laughed at once, as at some private joke, when they met each other. The innocence of the children, the silent wisdom of the mother. Clement too upon whom that light fell – perhaps it was like a dream, something too perfect which was about to fall away into the distractions of the real world. Did it not depend upon the children who were so soon to lose that magic? Or do I imagine this, Bellamy thought, simply because
I
am losing it, and I want to believe that it will not survive me? He wrinkled up his face and put his hand before it as if to conceal it from some accusing stare, perhaps the just amorous gaze of Anax. He wondered, smoothing out his grieving mask, whether Anax was now sleeping on Moy's bed, or was he in his basket. That would of course be, not the basket of the defunct Tibellina, but his very own old basket, brought with him from Bellamy's flat on that terrible day of parting. Was he asleep, or perhaps awake and thinking of Bellamy,
could he forget him? But was not forgetfulness
the very goal, the thing itself, the blotting out of the world?

He got into bed and turned out the light. He lay for a while open-eyed, suspended, as if held in a dark void. As his eyes closed he saw himself walking in a strange twilight through endless huge empty halls, lofty halls with dim ornate roofs, empty yet full of being, the great unbounded spaces of his soul. Then, falling asleep, he began to remember how, at the Battersea Dog's Home, he had picked up Anax as a young dog, little more than a puppy, and how he had
chosen
him from the great yearning mob of other dogs, seeing his strange loving eyes and his brave intent face among the innumerable faces of poor doomed dogs, and carried him away in his arms. And he thought, it's like Christ in Hell. Why didn't He save them
all
and take them away with Him? Perhaps He
couldn't –
but why not? And as he fell into deeper sleep he thought, but
I
haven't even taken one away from death, I can't find Anax, I've lost him,
he's still there
, and he will be destroyed and his body will be burnt – and he began to run back, retracing his steps through the lofty empty halls which endlessly hopelessly continued to open one into the next.

 

 

 

 

‘Now I see why you've been hiding it!'

‘I haven't been hiding it!'

‘Yes, you have, you're ashamed of it, you've been putting it under the bed.'

‘Well, I've got to put it somewhere!'

The thing in question was Harvey's plaster cast. He was visiting his mother who was ensconced in his own tiny flat. Of course strictly speaking Joan should have been enjoying the grander scene
chez
Clive and Emil, but with Harvey crippled it was agreed that he must live in the large flat with the lift. Anyway, as Harvey pointed out, Clive and Emil were obliging
him
, not his mother.

Joan was lying back, supported by pillows, in Harvey's narrow bed which folded back into the cupboard when not in use. Harvey moved the cast, lifting its alien weight with his hands.

‘Let me see. Who put all those scribbles on it?'

‘Louise and the others.'

‘Who did which?'

Harvey named the authors.

‘How touchingly characteristic. Moy does a dear little creepy-crawly, Aleph does a dragon-cat, Louise does the obvious, Sefton can't think of anything, and Clement is a comic dog. It's all self-portraiture.'

‘They've been so kind to me.'

‘You are becoming as dull as Louise. Could you pour me some more champagne?'

It was the next morning about ten, and Harvey had found his mother in bed dressed in a white fluffy
négligé,
drinking and smoking.

He poured the champagne. ‘No, I don't want any. Do you mind if I open the window?'

‘I mind very much. It's raining outside.'

‘The rain won't come in. This room is full of smoke. I can't breathe.'