The Philosopher's Pupil (28 page)

‘Of course there is, we are surrounded by it — when someone loves another person and suffers for him, with him — this releases spiritual energy — like an electric charge.'

John Robert reflected. ‘Well — silent fruitless love there's plenty of, and we would need a God to give any point to
that.
I don't believe in your redemptive suffering. A delightful idea, like your mystic Christ — a lie. It's self-flattery, illusion, like almost anything that pleases. Are you a homosexual?'

‘Yes, but I live chastely. I don't mind what other people do.'

‘So you are a narcissist?'

‘Certainly, narcissists can look after others because they are content with themselves. They are creative, imaginative, humorous, sympathetic. Those who lack narcissism are resentful envious husks. It is they who try to give it a bad name.'

John Robert laughed, then frowned.

At that moment they were walking, at the modest pace imposed by the priest, along the road called Forum Way which bordered the end of the Belmont garden. Behind the wall could be seen the tall dramatic gawky form of the ginkgo tree, and the shallow green roof of the Slipper House shining from the recent rain. There was a glossy black-painted wooden gate in the wall. John Robert cast a glance towards the Slipper House, then at the gate.

‘You're a Jew?'

‘Yes.'

‘Does that worry you?'

‘Should it?'

‘Being a Christian, isn't that treason, doesn't it feel like a betrayal?'

‘No! I am a religious man. That at least my religion does for me.'

‘Frees you from guilt.'

‘From irrational guilt.'

‘But does it change you at all, does your Christ
do
anything for you?'

‘He stops me from doing things.'

‘That was what Socrates's daemon did.'

‘But - it's not difficult — '

‘You mean you don't make sacrifices?'

‘No.'

‘So there's not much at stake for you then, with your Christ.'

‘At stake? Everything's at stake.'

‘If you don't really have to raise a finger, everything is not at stake.'

‘I mean - it's a totally different world.'

‘The world of faith, of your faith?'

‘I know … that there is always … more quietness, more silence … more space … into which I can move … on … and be made … better, somehow … It's not a drama, not sort of exciting, or violent, like things being at stake.'

‘I like your picture. Morality makes mincemeat of metaphysics by the simplicity of its claims. And that fool Ivor Sefton thinks that metaphysical imagery is paranoiac! We are all image-makers. So a quiet life and no guilt? What do you do in your parish work?'

‘I enact rites. I wait for people to summon me.'

‘A fireman priest! Not a fisher of men.'

‘I am a fish not a fisher, a fish in search of a net.'

‘I will make you fishers of men if you follow me. There was a little sect who used to sing that, in Burkestown, when I was a child.'

‘They're still there, down beside the railway.'

‘Simple faith.
They
think they are saved.'

‘Faith means - at least, not having to count your sins.'

‘But if there is no God you must count your sins, since no one else will, or do you believe that virtue is a harmony of good and evil?'

Father Bernard was horrified. ‘I am not a Gnostic! A most detestable heresy! That really is magic!'

‘Heresy! Are you not up to your neck in it? But why magic?'

‘The desire to know can degenerate into mere trickery. Our natural love for evil makes us think we understand it. Then we read good into it, like turning lead into gold. But it's not like that - the difference between good and evil is absolute - the two poles are not in view - we are not gods.'

‘You believe in this absolute difference, this - distance?'

‘I think we experience it at every moment. Yes, I believe in it - don't you?'

Rozanov said after a moment, ‘Why are we so sure about this? Is it the sort of thing we can be sure about? What would be a test? What does seem clear is that the spiritual world is full of ambiguities, full of these “readings”, full of the magic you are so afraid of. If you appeal to experience, well we experience that all right. What about your mystic Christ. Isn't he an ambiguous magical figure? For instance, you are in love with him, aren't you?'

Father Bernard had begun to feel upset, annoyed with Rozanov, and even more with himself for having so crudely spoken about things which were, when unspoken, so clear and pure. He said, ‘I shouldn't have spoken of him.'

‘Ah, I understand, I understand. We'll leave him alone. But isn't religion bound to descend into consolation? You don't want to change, or to sacrifice anything, but because of some vague experience you regard yourself as excused, as innocent,
simul iustus et peccator?
'

They were now quite close to the Common, walking through Druidsdale, and the priest noticed that Rozanov, who had hitherto allowed his companion to determine the route, had taken a sharp right-hand turn in order to avoid going along the road where George McCaffrey lived.

Father Bernard did not answer directly, but said, ‘You were right to mention love. Isn't that somehow the
proof that
good and evil exclude each other?'

‘Plato might have thought that, Plotinus might have felt it, but I doubt if
you
can make sense of it.'

‘Perhaps I can't - but - when we love people - and things - and our work and - we somehow get the
assurance
that good is there - it's absolutely pure and absolutely
there
- it's in the fabric - it
must
be.'

‘We like to make much of this word “love”, to pat it and stroke it - but does love as we know it ever appear except as a mask of self? Ask your own soul. Who was that?'

At that moment they had been passed by Nesta Wiggins's father, who raised his hat respectfully to the philosopher.

‘Dominic Wiggins, a tailor, he lives in Burkestown, a nice man.'

‘I remember the Wigginses,' said John Robert, ‘they were Catholics.'

They were now walking on the Common where the ground was damp and muddy. Father Bernard hated getting mud on his shoes. Part of his cassock had become unpinned and was trailing on the wet grass verges. He was beginning to want a drink. If they stayed on the shorter path back into Burkestown by the old railway cutting they could reach the Green Man in twenty minutes. Or had someone told him that the confounded philosopher was a teetotaller?

Father Bernard said, ‘We like to say that everyone is selfish, but that's just a hypothesis.'

John Robert said, ‘Good, good!' He added, ‘Your mind interests me. But you haven't answered my question.'

‘When we love pure things we experience pure love.'

‘People? Wretched crooks, thugs to a man?'

‘Loving others as Christ - I mean loving Christ in them.'

‘That really is sentimental twaddle. Kant thought we should respect Universal Reason in other people. Bunkum. If
ex
hypothesi
I wanted you to love me, I should want you to love
me,
not my reason or my Christ nature.'

‘Well - yes - of course you are right.'

‘And things - I believe you mentioned loving things - how's that done?'

‘Anything can be a sacrament - transformed - like the bread and wine.'

‘What for instance? Trees?'

‘Oh trees,
yes - that
tree — '

They were just passing a hawthorn bush, it could scarcely be called a tree, which was putting out, amid its healthy shining thorns, sharp little vivid green buds.

‘The beauty of the world,' said John Robert. ‘Unfortunately I am insensitive to it. Though it might have point as a contrast to art. Art is certainly the devil's work, the magic that joins good and evil together, the magic place where they joyfully
run
together. Plato was right about art.'

‘You enjoy no art form?'

‘No.'

‘Surely metaphysics is art.'

‘That is - yes - a terrible thought.' The philosopher was silent as if appalled by some dreadful vision which these words had conjured up. He said, ‘You see - the suspicion that one is not only not telling the truth, but
cannot
tell it - that is - damnation. A case for the millstone.'

As Father Bernard could think of nothing to say to this the philosopher went on:

‘Your idea of loving pure things is trickery, and I doubt if the notion of loving Christ in rotten swine like you and me even makes sense. It's sentimentality. It's all done with mirrors like the Ontological Proof. You imagine a perfect love which emanates from a pure source in response to your imperfect love, in response to your frenetic desire for love - then because this gives you a warm feeling you say you're certain.'

‘I
know
that my Redeemer liveth.'

‘
Mutatis mutandis!
I suppose that's what's called faith. You feel it all coming beaming back. But you would need the God you don't believe in to make it real. It's all the same imperfect stuff churning to and fro. You want a response. You can't have a real one so you fake one, like sending a letter to yourself.'

Father Bernard said, ‘It's true - we
do
hunger for love -
that's
deep all right. You too - you long to be loved - don't you?'

After a moment Rozanov said, ‘Yes, but it's a weakness - that's the thing that
I
say in a whisper. Ah - well. Do you love your parishioners, the chap you visited? You see, after all you
do
visit them.'

‘A woman - well - not exactly.' The image of Miss Dunbury accused Father Bernard and he laughed. ‘No - but I'm glad she exists.'

‘You laugh? She makes you feel happy, pleased?'

‘Yes, she's funny. She's virtuous and absurd.'

‘Isn't happiness your good then?'

‘No, no, no. Good is my good.'

‘What does this tautology do for us? Good is a Cheshire cat.'

‘But don't you think then that we can - do - anything?'

‘Morally? We can be quiet and sensible and feel contempt for ourselves. And there is the idea of duty, an excellent conception. I mean, these things go on. But chiefly - we can see ourselves as petty and ridiculous and - and base.'

‘That is
your
happiness.'

John Robert laughed. ‘There isn't any deep structure in the world. At the bottom, which isn't very far down, it's all rubble, jumble. Not even muck, but jumble.'

‘Isn't this stoicism, protecting yourself from being surprised by anything?
Nil admirari.
'

‘Protecting yourself from being surprised, or disgusted, or horrified, or appalled into madness - by anything - especially by yourself.'

‘Is morality a mistake then?'

‘A phenomenon.'

‘I think you are being - shall we say - insincere.'

‘Insincere. Good. Go on.'

‘You seem to me to be a very
moralistic
person. For instance, you seem to set some absolute value on truth.'

‘Moralistic is not moral. And as for truth — well, it's like brown — it's not in the spectrum.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘It's not a part of morality, not like you mean morality. Truth is impersonal. Like death. It's a doom.'

‘Cold?'

‘Oh, these metaphors!'

‘But you can't just recognize one value.'

‘Why not?'

‘I mean if you recognize one value won't you find all the others hidden inside it?
Must
one not be able to?'

‘What sort of “must” is this? Are all values to come tumbling out of one like goodies out of a stocking? Truth is
sui generis.
And as for the rest - there is no spectrum, that was a bad image, a slip.'

‘A significant slip, I think.'

‘The idea of the internal connection of virtues is pure superstition, a comforting illusion, the sort of thing that I believed when I was twenty.
That
doesn't bear close examination.'

‘Oh
no
— ' said Father Bernard, or rather he murmured it. ‘Oh
no,' no.
'

They were now in sight of the Ennistone Ring, the point at which the sage must at all costs be prevented from setting off diagonally across the Common and out into the countryside. Father Bernard was glad to see that he was flagging a little. The path had been uphill and they were both short of breath.

‘Bill the Lizard saw a flying saucer up here,' said Rozanov.

‘But you don't believe in such things?'

‘Why not? Think what
we
can do, and add a million years.'

‘But they don't - appear - interfere.'

‘Why should they? They're studying us. I should like to think that there were intelligences
absolutely
unlike my own. It would somehow be such a
relief.
Perhaps they live longer and have - oh -wonderful -
real-
philosophers.'

‘I find the whole idea uncanny,' said Father Bernard, ‘and somehow-horrid.'

‘Bill didn't feel this. He felt it was something good - a wholly good visitation. But then - he would be likely to see - something good.'

‘Even if it wasn't there? I imagine you don't class Mr Eastcote as one of us rotten swine?' This casual characterization had been festering in Father Bernard's mind.

‘No,' said Rozanov with discouraging curtness. Then, ‘Why, whatever have they done to the Ring?'

The priest and the philosopher gazed at the megaliths which were arranged in a broken circle some sixty yards in diameter. There were nine stones. The earliest reference to them is eighteenth-century, when four of them were standing. The others were uncovered and collected and erected in their present still-disputed positions by a nineteenth-century archaeologist. Six of them are tall and narrow, three (one of these fragmentary) roughly diamond-shaped, suggesting the two sexes. Here even speculation ended. It was hard to believe that mortal men had placed them there at some time for some purpose. There they stood in the pale sad damp light, occupying a temporal moment, wet with rain, transcending history, oblivious of art, resisting understanding, monstrous with unfathomable thought, and dense with mysterious authoritative impacted being. The wind blew the long grasses at their feet, while beyond and between them could be seen rounded hills and woods where here and there grey church towers were successfully illumined by the shifting cloudy light.