The Philosopher's Pupil (82 page)

I have mentioned the departure of Father Bernard. With this, and in a bizarre way, is to be associated the fate of ‘our own Madame Diane'. As may be imagined, Diane was cast into the deepest grief and indeed despair by George's sudden and total (and inexplicable) defection. The news that he ‘was ill' and had definitely returned to his wife flashed quickly round Ennistone, and Diane heard it from several eager sources at the Institute. She had imagined in the extremest detail their new life in Spain. With extra money which he had given her she had bought herself every sort of garment which might be required for life in a hot country and appearances on the beach. She felt for the first time in many years, perhaps ever, almost happy. Now suddenly George had been taken from her as totally as if by death, and she entertained no hope of seeing him again. Her abandonment of hope was impressively rapid and complete. Had she ever really believed in Spain? No doubt like many of those who lead precarious lives she had a good deal of ‘instant desperation' stored up for dealing promptly with catastrophe, when the worst pain is the continuation of fruitless hope. She considered suicide but turned instead to the priest.

People often take other people's crises as a symbol for their own, and are guided as by a sign. Several unfortunates known to me decided, after they had become aware of George's change of being, that it was time for them to change too. Father Bernard was one of these: one who had the additional impetus of extreme shock. With a most inconvenient and unbecoming haste, most disturbing to a hierarchy which had become more used to his eccentricities than he realized, he divested himself of his priestly power. He wrote to his bishop announcing his decision and asking to be immediately laicized, and from one day to the next abruptly ceased conducting church services. He moved out of the Clergy House into a lodging in Burkestown. In doing so he gave away most of his possessions. In this way Hector Gaines acquired a large number of books, some of them quite esoteric, on theological and religious matters, and I acquired the Gandhara Buddha, which is on my desk at this very moment. During this time, conspicuous in his shabby mufti, he went about a lot and talked a lot to the various people who visited him or invited him out of sympathy or curiosity, declaring frequently that he was going to Greece and would end his days as a servant in some remote monastery on Mount Athos. The next news was that he had actually gone and had taken Diane Sedleigh with him.

No one suggested, nor do I think, that there was any relation between them other than tender friendship. Diane had never made any secret, among those to whom she talked (and who of course talked to others), of her special affection for the priest whom she valued so much because he was ‘not like other men'. The idea of leaving not only Ennistone but England had become firmly fixed in Diane's mind. She was maddened by jealousy of Stella, and everything she saw reminded her of George. But she had never been out of the country before and hardly ever farther afield than London. She needed a guide and escort, and the idea of ‘pairing up' with the priest may well have been hers. Their objective was certainly Greece, though how they intended to live there was never clear perhaps even to them. The mirage was, in any case, never made trial of since, to use Father Bernard's own words in a letter to me, he simply ‘lost her' in Paris. After they had spent one night there at a cheap hotel near the Gare du Nord, while the priest (for so he undoubtedly and in spite of everything still thought of himself) was away buying their railway tickets Diane simply walked out and disappeared. Father Bernard waited several days and then went on to Greece by himself. He did not consider going to the police.

What happened to Diane was something which might have belonged to her own fantasy life. The excitement of being in Paris produced a sudden wild euphoria, the more intense by its contrast with the despairing lassitude in which she had recently been plunged. She went out, I think, simply to seek her fortune, to ‘live dangerously' and ‘have an adventure'. She made her way to a hotel in Saint-Germain-des-Prés and here she met Milton Eastcote. The meeting was accidental, and yet had also a perfectly comprehensible background. The hotel in question was one which William Eastcote had frequented in his student days (it is a good deal grander now, but still not very expensive) and George had learnt of it from William and had stayed there once or twice. He mentioned its name to Diane during one of their brief fantasies of flight together. Diane had noted the name of the hotel and used to meditate upon it as on an amorous mantra. She went there so as to set eyes on it at last, and because she thought it might bring her luck. It did. Milton Eastcote, who had also learnt of the hotel from his cousin, used it as his Paris base. Milton's philanthropic activities were perfectly genuine, he did indeed help prostitutes and other outcasts, and his good works in the east end of London were justly esteemed. However, like many more people than you might imagine, he had a quite other and secret side to his character, and in the course of saving fallen women sometimes discreetly saved one for himself. Diane had been pointed out to him at William's funeral, where she had attracted attention by appearing with George. He had liked her type. Now suddenly she materialized before him in Paris. He approached her courteously. Diane now lives in a pleasant airy apartment on the Quai aux Fleurs with a view of Notre Dame. I saw her there myself not long ago. Diane has invented a past for herself which is more in keeping with her present affluence, and has indeed done her very best to become a different person. She has learnt with creditable speed to speak passable French. Self- Interest can stimulate intelligence, and her wits have no doubt been sharpened by her sense of the urgency of at last grasping her future with both hands. She seems to feel quite secure. When I saw her, tea was brought in by a uniformed maid. She inquired, with an air of sympathetic concern, after ‘poor George'.

Emma and Pearl have also ‘done well', although they failed to complete the romantic symmetry of our midsummer idyll by getting married. There has been, by mutual agreement between that estimable pair, no romance. They could not but be brought together again, after Rozanov's death, by their concern and affection for Tom and Hattie. But it was soon clear to both that mutual sexual relations are not for them. They have instead become (and I predict will steadily remain) fast friends, bringing a lot of affection, happiness and wisdom into each other's lives. Contrary to Emma's expectations, Pearl gets on very well with his mother, especially on the basis of endlessly discussing him. Pearl (here I claim some credit) has been encouraged to think it is not too late to chase after some education, and does not lack advice about how to set about it. Fortunately too her considerable ‘watchdog' savings can buy her time, which she spends passionately studying for exams in a flat in north London, where Emma, Tom and Hattie are frequent visitors. Meanwhile, one of Emma's problems was solved by the sudden disappearance of Mr Hanway, who ran off to Italy with one of his pupils. Emma received his apologetic letter with relief. (It appeared from the letter that Mr Hanway imagined that Emma was deeply and inconsolably dependent on him; such are the misunderstandings which can exist between people who look into each other's eyes.) With Mr Hanway gone, it seemed to Emma that perhaps he could just go on singing, without having to give it up because he could not dedicate his whole life to it. (He still worries about this question, however.) Emma gained the brilliant ‘first' predicted for him and is now a fellow of Balliol College, Oxford. On the whole he is happy, when he is not thinking about Ireland. And to return, a little further on in time, to our hero and heroine, Tom got himself a sound second-class degree and hopes to find a teaching job, while Hattie has taught herself Russian and is going to the School of Slavonic Studies. Tom continues to work on his poetry (he lately had a poem printed in
The Times Literary Supplement)
and has started a novel. Even though his university career failed of the hoped-for brilliance, the town remains convinced that he will turn out to be a great writer.

I shall now draw towards an end by inserting as a final document a letter which I received from Greece from Father Bernard.

My dear N,

Thank you for yours which I picked up at the Poste Restante on one of my rare visits to Athens. I was interested in all the news, though I must confess that Ennistone and all its folk seem very far away now and not a little (may I say it) provincial! So Diane has become a lady at last, or sort of! I wish her well. Her disappearance from my life was providential. Her presence would have given rise to misunderstandings and would have seriously impaired my single-mindedness. The essence of my news is ineffable, but I can list a few facts. Things went badly at Mount Athos (no one's fault, the holy men are simply not very intelligent). After that there occurred an event at Delphi about which I will try to tell you if we ever meet again. I know you are open-minded about what you call paranormal phenomena and I call religious experience. About the latter I have indeed learnt something since I came to this numinous country. I have also been led at last to a clear understanding of my true vocation. I, and others (how many are we, I wonder?), are
chosen
to strive for the continuance of religion on this planet. Nothing else but
true religion
can save mankind from a lightless and irredeemable materialism, from a technocratic nightmare where determinism
becomes true
for all except an
unimaginably depraved
few, who are themselves the mystified slaves of a conspiracy of machines. The challenge has gone forth and in the deep catacombs the spirit has stirred to a new life. But can we be in time, can religion survive and not, with us, utterly perish? This has been
revealed
to me as the essential and only question of our age. What is necessary is the
absolute denial of God.
Even the word, the name, must go. What then remains? Everything, and Christ too, but entirely changed and broken down into the most final and absolutely naked simplicity, into atoms, into electrons, into protons. The inner is the outer, the outer is the inner: an old story, but who really understands it? It is vitally
important
that I live now in a
cave.
Well, it is a tiny abandoned chapel, a slit made in a rock. Do not ask me how I found it. I live in a solitary place beside the sea surrounded by white stones and brilliant green pine trees. I have made a wooden cross. Fireflies are my lamp at night. I lie at the bottom of the world, and I cannot express to you how
brilliantly
it shines upon me, the light of an untainted Good. My bread is as pure as the stones, I drink from a nearby spring. The Anglican Church has amazingly granted me a tiny pension, but I do not need it since some nearby villagers have adopted me (they think I am mad) and every day bring gifts of loaves and fishes. I have no doubt that when cold weather comes someone will bring me a brazier. So I live. I preach to my flock in New Testament Greek and by a miracle they understand me. (I am also learning
their patois.)
When no one comes I preach to the sea birds. What do I preach? That there is no God, that even the beauty of Christ is a snare and a lie. ‘Nothing exists except God and the soul': and when one has understood
that,
one knows that there is no God. For what is real and true look at these stones, this bread, this spring of water, these sea waves, this horizon with its pure untroubled line. Only perceive purely and the spiritual and the material world vibrate as one. (This was revealed to me at Delphi.) The power that saves is infinitely simple and infinitely close at hand.
    I cannot go on. It is sacrilege to utter words which are bound to be misunderstood. My simple peasants understand my Greek better than you will understand my English. When how and whether I shall be called to a larger ministry I know not. Perhaps I shall have to journey afar, perhaps in the end the world will come to me here, or perhaps I shall die obscurely and soon. Meanwhile I cast about me as I may the seeds of truth. May the clean wind of the spirit bear them to fruitful beds.
    Now about what you had to say in your letter about John Robert: I believe that you are wrong. You are too
interested,
it is for you a spectacle. I have thought about him and prayed over him too, as I pray now. I was his last pupil and I failed the test. If I had known what I know now I could have saved both him and George. John Robert asked me not to speak of George
and I agreed
because I was afraid of him and because I was flattered by his attention. When I spoke of pastoral duty he said, ‘You don't believe it', and I bowed my head, and the cock crew thrice. So it is that I have witnessed three murders, two by George and one by that philosopher (perhaps there is a teaching in this). John Robert died because he saw at last, with horrified wide-open eyes, the futility of philosophy. Metaphysics and the human sciences are made impossible by the
penetration of morality into the moment to moment conduct of ordinary life:
the understanding of this fact
is religion.
This is what Rozanov distantly glimpsed when he was picking away at questions of good and evil, and he knew that it made nonsense of all his sophisms.
    There is no beyond, there is only here, the infinitely small, infinitely great and utterly demanding present. This too I tell my flock, demolishing their dreams of a supernatural elsewhere. So you see, I have abandoned every kind of magic and preach a charmless holiness. This and only this can be the religion of the future, this and only this can save the planet.
    But I write in water. I shall give this letter to one of my people. I know not if it will ever be posted. Goodbye, my dear N, I raise my hand to bless you.

Yours, Bernard Jacoby

The local priest has just visited me. He seems displeased! Perhaps I am destined for martyrdom after all!

I read part of this letter (not all of it of course) to Brian and Gabriel. Gabriel stopped a tear. Brian said, ‘
Everybody
seems to be going batty these days.'