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THWARTED AMBITIONS
Long Prose
Copyright © 1980-2009 John O'Loughlin
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CONTENTS
Chapters 1-12
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CHAPTER ONE
"Will
it look anything like me when it's finished?" the writer, Andrew Doyle,
casually inquired of the man seated at the easel, whose slender body was partly
obscured by the canvas upon which he was still busily applying large dollops of
deep rich paint.
"Yes, I dare say it will," Robert
Harding replied. "At least, it'll
look more like you than anyone else."
"Thank goodness for that!" the
thirty-year-old Irishman sighed.
"One can never be too sure nowadays."
There ensued a short pause, before the
artist asked: Do you object to Expressionist interpretations, then?"
"Only when they distort one's image
unfavourably," quipped Andrew. "As long as you don't purposely make me
out to be worse-looking than I really am ..."
"You needn't worry about that!"
declared Harding reassuringly, a large pair of dark-brown eyes momentarily
focusing on his sitter's impassive face.
"It's usually the opposite tendency I have to guard against. For it's precisely the tendency to make
people out to be better-looking than they really are which seems to appeal to
so many of them, ensuring me a guaranteed sale at the expense of artistic
truth!"
"And you don't like to flatter
them?" the writer knowingly ventured.
"Not if my integrity as an artist
suffers in consequence!" Harding averred.
"For I don't relish being dictated to by wealthy
patrons."
Andrew Doyle had to smile. "Well, you needn't worry about that
where I'm concerned," he said.
"I can only just afford to pay the price you're asking."
"Which, in any case, is a special
concession," affirmed the artist, some liberal brush-work just audible
beneath his rather deep baritone voice.
"If it wasn't for the fact that you're my next-door neighbour, I'd
charge you at least twice as much."
"What, three-hundred quid?"
gasped Andrew unbelievingly.
"Maybe more."
At which remark there came a gentle
stirring to their left, as Carol Jackson, current girlfriend of the man who
spoke it, was heard to comment: "He's a born capitalist!" - a statement which duly drew both men's attention to her
scantily-clad reclining form. "If
it wasn't for the fact that I normally profit from him, I'd have no hesitation
in considering him a ruthless shark."
"Oh, come now!" protested Harding
jokingly, a mock appearance of outraged innocence momentarily taking possession
of his handsome thirty-three-year-old face.
"I never charge above my worth, not even where people whom I
personally dislike the look of are concerned."
Andrew Doyle fidgeted nervously in his
chair. "And are there many of
those?" he asked.
"Too many, I'm afraid!" replied
Harding bluntly.
"Three-quarter-witted aristocrats, half-witted bourgeoisie, and
quarter-witted proletarians, to name but ..."
"I sincerely hope I'm not classifiable
in the latter category!" interposed Carol, her acerbic tone-of-voice
betraying an emotional sharpness partly intended to avenge her on her lover's
previous protest. "I should hate to
think you have such a low opinion of my mind."
"Not that low, honey," the artist
admitted. "But certainly lower than
my opinion of your body. After all, it's
the latter which really matters, isn't it?"
Miss Jackson refrained from commenting on
this evidently rhetorical question, but conceded Harding the privilege of a wry
smile, which could be interpreted as a tacit confirmation of the fact. Yes, it was first and foremost as a body that
she expected to be respected, considering the degree of its sexual
attractiveness. A high opinion of her
mind from a man like him would simply have detracted, in her view, from its
standing, made her feel too masculine.
It was usually through her body that she obtained her chief pride in
life, both as a lover and, no less significantly, as a model. And that body or, at any rate, three-quarters
of it was very conspicuously on show today - thanks in part to the
exceptionally fine weather.
"No, I don't particularly mind a woman
being half-witted when she's attractive," Harding resumed, following a
reflective pause. "It's when she's
ugly that I take offence. My aesthetic
sensibilities are then somewhat grossly offended."
"As I can well imagine," chuckled
Andrew, before turning an admiring eye away from the sensuous sunbather on the
ground and refocusing his attention on the artist. "An attractive female doesn't have to be
too intelligent, does she?"
"Not for my purposes," admitted
Harding with a sly wink. "Yet, to
tell you the truth, I've known some who did.
Exceptions to the rule, of course, but attractive and highly
intelligent, would you believe? Quite a problem, my friend."
Andrew felt both puzzled and
intrigued. "In what way?" he
wanted to know.
"Oh, in a number of ways
actually," the artist declared.
"But chiefly as regards my art." He brushed away at the canvas awhile, his
gaze slightly abstracted, before adding: "They'd criticize or make fun of
it on the pretext that it was too decadent or too arcane or too simple or too
traditional or too derivative or too commonplace or too ... something or
other."
"And was it?"
"How should I know?" Harding
exclaimed. "I never bothered to
inquire why. So far as I'm concerned my
work is what it has to be, irrespective of the current fashion. But these cursed clever females knew better,
of course. They'd have expected me to
knuckle under to the latest aesthetic conventions at a moment's notice, the
drop of a fashionable hat, so to speak.
Never mind one's personal psychology or class/race integrity. Just keep-up with the
artistic trends."
"Which you
presumably refused to do?" Andrew conjectured.
Robert Harding sighed and vaguely
nodded. "Only when it was necessary
for me to follow my personal bent and do what I felt had to be done," he
confirmed. "Although there were
times, I have to admit, when I was ahead of them - relatively rare as they
were! But even then I was subject to
criticism or mockery from the more intelligent women, who were of the express
opinion that I'd done the wrong thing, departed from art altogether, mixed-up
too many diverse styles, gone too far ahead, and so on. Whatever I did, I just couldn't win. So in the end I gave-up collecting highly
intelligent women and reverted - or perhaps I should say progressed - to
collecting only moderately intelligent ones, who didn't know enough about
modern art to unduly exasperate me with their opinions, and who very rarely
commented upon my creative faults or presumed shortcomings."
"I see," said Andrew, whose
sitter's impassivity was slightly ruffled by a trace of ironic amusement at
Harding's expense, since it seemed to him that the artist was exaggerating his
misfortunes for the sake of a little masculine sympathy. After all, weren't some women intelligent
enough to keep quiet about matters which might give offence to any man with
whom they had intimate or, at any rate, regular connections? He had known a few who were, anyway. Rather than making them critical of one's
literary or aesthetic predilections, their intelligence sufficed to keep them
discreet, to inhibit the formulation of rash or superficial judgements,
opinions, etc., which might have upset their lover and had a detrimental, if
not fatal, effect upon their relationship.
Perhaps Harding had lacked the good fortune to encounter such females? Perhaps, on the other hand, he had no real
use for them, since possessing an instinctive ability or subconscious need to
attract the other sort - a sort whose above-average intelligence required that
they adopt a condescending and, at times, positively hostile opinion of his
work? It wasn't for Andrew to arrive at
any definite conclusions on that score, but he half-suspected, from what he
already knew about his next-door neighbour, that there might well be more than
a grain of masochistic truth in the latter assumption! Even Carol Jackson, whose predominantly
sensual nature apparently precluded her from placing any great pride in her
intellect, struck one as being somewhat imperious, if not downright rude, at
times. Attractive she might be, but it
was hardly in Andrew Doyle's sensitive and fundamentally self-respecting nature
to consider attractiveness an excuse for impertinence! On the contrary, he would automatically have
revolted against any female who exploited her good looks or sexual standing in what,
to him, seemed such an ignominious fashion.
Experience had more than adequately taught him that he had no patience
for women who were rude. They simply
offended him.
Towards four o'clock the artist opted for a
late-afternoon tea break, thereby giving his subject an opportunity to stretch
his legs by strolling around the elongated back garden in which he had been
patiently, even stoically, sitting for the greater part of the day. Apart from the presence of a couple of old
apple trees, a few lilac bushes, and a narrow bed of roses along the length of
the fence adjoining his property, the garden in question contained little to
suggest that its owner had any real interest in gardening, since it was of such
a simple and straightforward appearance.
What interest Harding might have had in his garden appeared to be
confined to keeping it in trim, not to encouraging it to blossom! This artist was fundamentally a negative
gardener - in other words, one whose only motivation for cutting the grass or
pruning the rose bushes or removing the weeds was to prevent his garden from
becoming a kind of mini-jungle. As for
pride in the garden or gardening per se, he would evidently have
considered that infra dignum, since too much the artist or aesthete to
desire being associated, in his imagination, with the philistine status of a
mere gardener!
Following their tea interval, the delicate
business of portrait painting and sitting was resumed with fresh resolve, the artist
assuring his handsome client that he would soon be through with the task
to-hand, which had now taken him the best part of a week.
"And when you've finally completed
it?" Andrew asked, curious to learn what Harding's next project would be.
"I'll be able to start work on a
portrait of Henry Grace," the latter revealed.
"Who's he?"
Harding looked up from the canvas with an
expression of genuine surprise on his flushed face. "Don't tell me you haven't heard of him?"
he gasped.
"I'm afraid not," confessed
Andrew, a faint but perceptible blush betraying his sudden psychic discomfiture
in response to Harding's well-nigh incredulous expression.
"Well, he's one of the leading art
critics of our time," the artist duly affirmed. "Famous throughout the greater part of
the Western world."
"Really?" Andrew exclaimed, as an
enthusiasm for fresh knowledge suddenly usurped the domain of his emotional
unease.... Not that it was a knowledge he valued particularly highly, since, by
natural inclination, far more interested in artists than in art critics. But, even so, the addition of Henry Grace to
his small store of names such as Charles Baudelaire, André Breton, Herbert
Read, Kenneth Clark, Anthony Blunt, and Edward Lucie-Smith was not without at
least some significance to him, in that he now possessed a rudimentary
knowledge of approximately seven art critics, past and present. Admittedly, seven was a small number compared
with the hundreds of artists who had claimed a place, no matter how humbly,
amid his teeming brain cells. But it was
a growing number nonetheless! Had he not
known so much about so many artists he would certainly have felt more ashamed
of himself, where Harding's manifest surprise was concerned. But the fact of one's knowledge in one context
usually precludes feelings of shame at one's ignorance in another, especially
when the latter is ordinarily regarded by one as of less interest or value
anyway. However, being an artist,
Harding doubtless had cause to lay claim to a greater knowledge of art critics,
so it was understandable that he made such a show of surprise at Andrew's
expense, even though, unbeknown to himself, the latter's ignorance was
perfectly justified. Alas, our habit of
projecting ourselves into the world around us, including the human world, is
not one that we can easily shake off or dispense with! We measure others according to our own
standards, no matter how insular or limited those standards may happen to be!
"Yes, it will be the first time I've
been granted the privilege of painting the portrait of a really eminent
critic," Harding rejoined, as soon as it became clear to him that the
other man had nothing to add to his initial exclamation, "so, for once,
albeit with due respect to yourself, I'm quite looking forward to knuckling
down to the job. It will be interesting
to hear his comments on the subject."
"How did you receive the commission,
if that's the right word?" asked Andrew.
"Simply through Mr Grace himself, who
rang me, a few weeks ago, to ask whether I'd consider doing his portrait,"
Harding matter-of-factly replied.
"Naturally, I immediately leaped at the chance with an unequivocal
'Yes!' I mean, I couldn't really refuse
him, could I? Not after he'd written so
eloquently and eulogistically of a couple of my recent paintings in 'The Arts
Review', the previous week. I was
flattered, to say the least. A friend of
his standing in the art world would not be without its advantages, provided,
however, that one could actually secure his friendship."
Andrew offered the artist a diffident
smile. "And do you believe you
can?" he asked.
"To some extent I believe I already
have," Harding affirmed. "But
a lot will obviously depend on what happens when he comes here next week, as
promised, and I knuckle down to the arduous task of reproducing, with minor
variations, his famous face on canvas.
If we can strike-up an interesting conversation in the process, it could
well transpire that his faith in my professional abilities will be cemented by
a friendship which may well prove to my lasting advantage. It would only take a few more favourable
reviews, and perhaps even a book on my work, for me to become internationally
famous - of that I'm quite convinced!
For his influence in the West, and particularly Britain, is quite
considerable - in fact, so considerable that a really good write-up from him in
one or other of the more prestigious arts magazines would boost my professional
reputation overnight."
"Just as a really bad write-down from
him would ruin it," Carol declared with severity from her reclining
posture to his right.
"So I'm aware, honey," Harding
conceded, frowning slightly. "But
the chances of that happening to me are, to say the least, pretty remote."
"Oh, I'm not for one moment suggesting
it would happen to you," Carol rejoined, gently raising herself on
one elbow. "Although it has
happened to some people, hasn't it?"
"So I gather," conceded Harding,
who was suddenly feeling more than a shade annoyed by his girlfriend's light
sarcasm - a sarcasm, alas, with which he was all-too-well acquainted by now!
"Anyone you personally know?"
Andrew asked him.
"No, to tell you the truth, I don't
know all that many people in the art world, not even among the artists
themselves, because I never go out of my way to establish contact with
others," Harding bluntly replied.
"Not unless they're important to
you," Carol sarcastically remarked.
Harding had to smile, albeit weakly. "Few of them ever are, at least not in
my experience," he rejoined.
"But Henry Grace could be.
He's one of the few critics with influence and, with a little luck, I
may be able to induce him to wield some of that influence on my behalf."
"Particularly if you grant him a
special concession," Carol suggested, her attention shifting from the painter
to the canvas and back again, as though to link them. "You need only knock the price down
from, say, five-hundred quid to about two-hundred-and-fifty quid to soften him
up a bit. He'd almost certainly
appreciate the gesture."
A tinge of embarrassment swept across
Harding's clean-shaven face, though he quickly did his best to stifle it
beneath a little forced laugh. "I
had thought of that," he confessed, scarcely bothering to look in Carol's
direction. "But I don't want to
make my desire to win his support too obvious.
Besides, he might get offended."
"I rather doubt it," the model
murmured through lips which had already broken into an ironic smile. "I expect he'd be only too delighted to
learn that you were offering him his portrait at a knock-down rate on the
strength of your professional admiration for him. It would be a good way of establishing, if
not furthering, your friendship."
"Yes, I entirely agree!"
chimed-in Andrew, feeling he ought to offer the artist some encouragement by
way of justifying his own special concession.
After all, it wouldn't do to think that he was the sole exception.
Harding was slightly touched by this
unexpected contribution from his sitter.
"Well, I shall certainly bear it in mind," he promised. "Although it'll obviously depend on how
we get-on during the forthcoming sessions.
If my case transpires to being hopeless I'll have no alternative but to
charge him the full amount, if only to compensate for any personal inconvenience. It remains to be seen." And with that said, a silence supervened
between them all which wasn't broken until, giving vent to an exclamation of
triumph some twenty minutes later, the artist stood up and announced to his
sitter that the portrait was at last completed.
"You like it?" he asked, as, abandoning his seat, Andrew
apprehensively walked over to witness the result.
"Yes, I'm relieved to say I do,"
the writer admitted, following a brief inspection of its moderately
Expressionist outlines. "It's
definitely more like me than anyone else."
"I told you it would be," Harding
rejoined, his thin lips curving into a self-satisfied smile. "Although it does flatter you rather
more than I had intended."
"Oh, come now!" protested Andrew
half-jokingly. But he was unable to prevent
himself from blushing.
CHAPTER TWO
It took a
couple of days for Andrew Doyle to get used to the presence of his portrait
hanging in the study of his ground-floor flat.
Frankly its existence there struck him as somewhat pretentious,
elevating him out-of-all-proportion to his actual status. Gradually, however, he became less conscious
of that and more resigned to living with it as a matter of course. Whether or not other people would approve of
the work ... was a matter of complete indifference to him, as was its presence
on the wall above his writing desk. Now
that the temptation to have his relatively youthful face transposed to canvas
had been realized, he could forget all about the experience and turn his
attention towards matters of more importance to himself. He might even be able to sell the portrait to
a wealthy and admiring collector one day - assuming he ever became sufficiently
famous to be in such a privileged position!
For the time being, however, it would have to remain where it was,
sightlessly staring out onto the back garden.
As for Robert Harding, there was as yet
little that Andrew really knew about him; though, to judge by the paintings he
had seen next door, not to mention the one he had recently purchased, it was
evident that his neighbour, besides having a talent for self-publicity, was a
talented and versatile artist, who could develop quite interesting
potentialities if time permitted.... Not that time was completely on his side
as regards the age in which he lived - an age when traditional representational
art, no less than traditional representational literature or music, was
steadily on the decline and, to all appearances, could hardly be expected to
pick up again. At least that was how
matters generally stood, though there were, however, a few notable exceptions -
works of art which approximated to egocentric greatness in an age of
post-egocentric simplicity and even naiveté, whether in respect of the
superconscious or of the subconscious.
But even that was better than no art at all, if one had a taste for art
in general. And even post-egocentric
art, conceived, say, in terms of Abstract Expressionism or Post-Painterly
Abstraction, was only such in relation to traditional art, where a balance held
good between the sensual and the spiritual, the physical and the mental, and
dualistic man was aptly reflected in his representational creations. Nowadays, on the other hand, that balance had
been tipped so much in favour of the spiritual, even with a new disparity
between progressive and regressive manifestations of it, that a kind of
transcendent rather than Christian art prevailed, in testimony to a later stage
of evolution, wherein the abstract predominated over the concrete. Doubtless there was a limit to just how abstract
such art could become before it reached a peak, one way or the other, and this
limit, signified in the most radically progressive examples by a monochrome
canvas, had arguably already been presented to the public, thereby signalling
the unofficial end of painterly art. For
once the highest and most radical abstraction had been attained to, there was
no going back to a less abstract approach to painting, no returning to the
concrete, even if contrary approaches to abstraction were still possible! Progress in art couldn't be reversed simply
because one had a nostalgia for earlier trends.
Art wasn't a game that could be one thing one moment and a completely
different, unrelated thing the next! On
the contrary, it was a very definite procedure which progressed from age to age
through the requisite transformations laid down by both artistic precedent and
the fundamental nature of the age itself.
If it didn't, in some measure, reflect the age into which it had been born,
no matter how many contradictions that age may have inherited from the past, it
wasn't genuine art but, rather, a sham carried out by aesthetic philistines who
simply wanted to please themselves and imagined, in consequence, that art could
be completely irresponsible, turning its back on the problems and overriding
concerns of the age in the name of an ivory-tower isolationism which would
inevitably reduce it, or whatever they produced, to the comparatively
contemptible level of an amateur pastime - devoid of social or moral
significance!
Thus modern painterly art, in attaining to
an abstract climax, was drawing to a close, refusing to turn away from the
logic inherent in its development towards increased spiritualization and
thereby desert its primary responsibility in response to and furtherance of the
developing transcendental nature of the age.
A number of the artists involved with this responsibility could
certainly have gratified themselves - not least of all financially - by
adopting a more traditional approach to art and thereupon painting works which
the ignorant or mediocre could have recognized as 'genuine art' -
three-dimensional perspective and a credible balance between the concrete and
the abstract, with the appropriate traditionally-approved colour schemes
included for good measure. But for a
variety of reasons, not excepting their responsibility to society or, more
correctly, to themselves as artists, they refused to do so, resolutely sticking
to the dictates of the age, with its abstract predilections. And even if some of them didn't possess these
talents primarily because they were heirs of the Industrial Revolution and the
large-scale urbanization which had resulted from it - in other words, because
the environments in which they had matured were inimical to the life of the
soul, with its emphasis on the sensuous and the emotional - then their
transcendental allegiance to the dictates of the age was still the most
important consideration, rendering the ability or inability to paint in
traditional terms largely if not completely irrelevant. If the ignorant or cynical wished to think
otherwise, so be it! But their desire to
see 'real art' instead of 'modern art', at the latest and most genuine exhibitions,
would never be realized, neither now nor in the future. The urban environment was fundamentally
against it.
But where did Robert Harding fit-in to all
these thoughts that flitted through Andrew's mind in a plethora of paradoxical
contradictions as he sat in his study one morning, about a week after the
completion of his portrait, and indifferently gazed out, through his closed
french windows, on to the garden, now freshly bathed in sunlight. Certainly there was much more to Harding's
art than the execution of semi-Expressionist portraits - passably accomplished
though they were. On the few occasions
when he had sat in his neighbour's studio or wandered around from room to room
out of idle curiosity, he had noticed examples of Expressionism, Abstract
Expressionism, Op, and even Surrealism on various of the walls - each work
testifying to the painter's awareness of contemporary or, at any rate, modern
trends ... as largely bearing, thought Keating, on a petty-bourgeois
intelligentsia who necessarily fought shy of photography, with its communistic
and, hence, objective implications for social realism more symptomatic, it
seemed to him, of a proletarian humanism.
If portrait painting was one of Harding's lines, it could hardly be
described as the only one; though, off-late, it had evidently usurped the
domain of his other painterly concerns and rendered them at least temporarily
redundant. How long he would continue to
paint portraits was anyone's guess, but it seemed not unlikely that his recent
decision to do so was in part sparked off by a growing discontent with the
bi-polar trend of modern art towards increased abstraction, and a desire, in
consequence, to return to a more concrete and possibly traditional mode of
painting such as might, besides offering him greater financial reward, gratify
his penchant for form, for unity and coherence.
Whether he would eventually grow disillusioned with or tired of this,
however, remained to be seen. But he
showed no signs of doing so at present.
On the contrary, the very fact that he had asked his new neighbour of
only moderate literary fame whether he would like his portrait done and, when
this worthy individual had modestly declined, well-nigh insisted on it, on the
pretext that it would be to his subsequent professional advantage to be seen on
canvas, suggested an urgency of intent bordering on the ridiculous, so
imperative must have been his need to find someone, no matter how socially
insignificant, on whom to practise.
Doubtless the preoccupation afforded him by Andrew's subsequent, if rather
unenthusiastic, consent prevented him from being either idle or, worse still,
relapsing into a non-representational mode of art which, for some
as-yet-unspecified reason, he preferred to avoid. That more than likely being the case, it was
obviously in his personal interests to carry on from where he had left off and
execute a number of other such works - works which would, in some measure,
unburden him of the contradictory pressures and responsibilities of being
modern. For it did seem that the aesthete
in Harding, which Andrew had recognized and been obliged to acknowledge on
their first meeting, little over a month ago, was in earnest rebellion against
the latest developments in art which, in their utter and disarming simplicity,
scorned the traditional criteria of aesthetics as though they had never
existed.
Not that Harding had intimated to him of
any such rebellion at the time, nor, for that matter, subsequently, since far
too discreet to risk exposing himself to opposition, ideologically or
otherwise, from a person he as yet knew very little about and wanted, for the
aforementioned reasons, to exploit. All
the same, it wasn't too difficult for Andrew to put two-and-two together and
adduce from his reticence and general aestheticism the likelihood of a
conservative if not reactionary turn-of-mind where uncritical fidelity to the
more progressive contemporary trends in art was concerned. Even his considerable knowledge of Christian
art, a knowledge embracing almost everything of any value from approximately
the 10th-19th centuries, spoke eloquently on behalf of an unsatisfied
aestheticism and preference for traditional values, for a return, in short, to
that compromise between sensuality and spirituality which had characterized the
era of egocentric art. An unequivocal
admission of this fact might have rendered him vulnerable to attack and
rejection by one who, on first setting foot in his house, had expressed
tentative approval of an Abstract Expressionist canvas, after the manner of de
Kooning, hanging in the entrance hall.
Yet for reasons only vaguely hinted at, and then unconsciously, he had
refrained from any such admission and, instead, pandered to Andrew's tastes to
the extent he could.
Nevertheless it was evident from the first
that a kind of spiritual friction existed between the two men which no amount
of duplicity or neighbourly deference could entirely cloak - a friction which
led the writer to critically reflect upon a number of things which had passed
between them during the course of the afternoon in question, and not least of
all where politics and religion were concerned.
For although neither of them had 'come out', as it were, about their
respective beliefs and allegiances on those counts, nevertheless it was fairly
evident, from various statements and casual asides Harding had let drop during
their conversation, that they were by no means of a kindred disposition but,
rather, of an unequal if not downright antagonistic one! Still, neighbours were neighbours, and the
fact that they were both professionals of approximately the same age - Andrew
being a mere three years younger than the painter - was conducive towards the
establishment of a cordial, not to say optimistic, acquaintanceship. How they would respond to each other in due
course when, through familiarity, they became a little less guarded in their
conversation, remained to be seen; though Andrew already harboured some
misgivings as to the prospect of a genuine friendship, based on religious and
political affinities, subsequently developing.
Even that remark Harding had casually let drop, during the final
afternoon of his sitter's ordeal the previous week, about being obliged to
paint three-quarter witted aristocrats, half-witted bourgeoisie, and
quarter-witted proletarians had, unbeknown to himself, provided the writer's
sensitive imagination with further clues as to the political mentality of his
new neighbour, causing him to reflect upon the probability of an allegiance,
consciously or unconsciously, to the upper classes in contrast to any
socialistic bias which would have favoured the people.... Not that the
descending scale-of-values, evidently improvised on the spur-of-the-moment, was
without at least some applicability to the general intellectual or imaginative
differences which undoubtedly existed between the classes in question. But, even so, a remark like that could easily
be interpreted in terms of fascism or even of royalism. Yet Harding, with his aestheticism and
expansive knowledge of Christian art, was unlikely to be a fascist, even if the
possessor, consciously or unconsciously, of fascist tendencies. No, in all probability, he was simply a
bourgeois aesthete, as most young aesthetes tended to be these days. And that doubtless went some way towards
explaining why he was in rebellion, willy-nilly, against the trend of modern
art towards increased abstraction and had consequently reverted to painting
portraits, to reinstating the concrete to the extent he could. The bourgeois in him had taken fright at the
progressive spiritualization of art, but to save face or, at any rate, prevent
this realization from breaking through the thin barrier of moral integrity with
which he protected his conscience, the aesthete had conveniently come to the
fore and recoiled from the simplicities of the latest abstractions in the name
of 'genuine art', to thereupon initiate a return to portraiture, with its
sensuous form.
Yes, that was how it seemed to Andrew
Doyle, as he reflected on the probable motives for Harding's abandonment of
painterly abstraction, an abstraction which, in any case, he had never appeared
to practise too ardently or convincingly, if the original paintings on display
in his house were anything to judge by!
On the contrary, the first impression a number of them had made on
Andrew was hardly such as to suggest that their creator possessed a profound
and intimate knowledge of modern art!
Rather, that he managed a perfunctory attempt at emulating it. The result, one felt, was more a pastiche
than a genuine outpouring of progressive sentiment, a thin veneer of modernism
over the essentially reactionary and conservative nature of the artist's
soul. Perhaps a brave attempt at
camouflaging his true loyalties? But not
a particularly convincing one! His
return to portraiture must have come as something of a relief.
The sudden sound of someone laughing from
the direction of the artist's back garden caused Andrew to start from his
morose speculations at Harding's expense and wonder who it could be? Then he remembered that Henry Grace had been
expected to put in a few appearances, next door, for the sake of his portrait,
this week, and wondered whether it mightn't be him? Apparently, it was in the nature of Harding
to paint in his garden when the weather permitted, and today, being so clear
and warm, was evidently no obstacle to his pleinair predilections
but, rather, a strong encouragement to them.
Whether or not he had already painted part of the new portrait in his
studio would have no bearing, seemingly, on any subsequent decision to paint
outdoors. For he somehow managed to
change from one light to another without any professional qualms or undue
technical difficulties. The only
possible obstruction to this environmental resilience would come, if at all,
from his sitter, who might object to being exposed to the sun for too long, or
of having to endure stiff breezes, etc.
But such obstructions were apparently few-and-far-between, a majority of
sitters evidently preferring the superficial beauty and apparent cleanliness of
Harding's back garden to the profound ugliness and essential stuffiness of his
studio.
With curiosity aroused, Andrew silently
opened his french windows and tiptoed out into the garden, availing himself of
the cover afforded by the tall lattice-fence which divided his strip of turf from
Harding's. Although the laughter had
evaporated, a little sporadic conversation could be heard instead, which was
punctuated, every few seconds, by enigmatic silences or subdued humming. Tiptoeing up as close as possible to the
fence without running the risk of detection, he peered through a narrow gap in
the lattice at the scene beyond, where Harding was indeed at work on the art
critic. For at that moment the sound of
a woman's voice saying: "D'you know, Henry, I really can't remember the
last time you drank champagne," was distinctly audible above a protracted
bout of subdued humming which issued from the direction of the man in question.
"Can't you, my dear?" Mr Grace
responded in a vaguely commiserating tone-of-voice.
"Not unless it was at Raymond's, that
time in '76," the lady conjectured.
Andrew swivelled his eyes over to the right
to get a look at the physical source of the female voice which, until then, had
simply eluded him. He could just
discern, through the tangle of rose bushes the other side of his fence, the
outlines of a profiled head with short grey hair freshly tinted a pale purplish
hue. With further optical manoeuvrings
it was just about possible for him to follow the length of her lightly dressed
body from the top of her head down to the tips of her toes, as she reclined,
without sunglasses, in a bright-green deck chair which Harding had evidently
brought out into the garden on her account.
She must have been in her late fifties or early sixties, judging by the
colour of her hair and the mature timbre of her voice.
"Yes, it may well have been," Mr
Grace admitted, following a period of reflective deliberation which might have
led one to suppose he was pondering a problem of such magnitude that its
correct solution was a veritable matter of life-and-death to him. "Although I've an uneasy suspicion I had
a drop in '78 at Maxim's, the time they were opening their new gallery."
"Which was something I missed, wasn't
it?" the lady commented, half-excusing herself.
"Yes, I do believe it was," Mr
Grace confirmed, casting her a sidelong and vaguely reproachful glance. "However, it tasted more like cider, so
you didn't miss much - not, at any rate, with regard to the refreshments!"
From what Andrew could see of him, Mr Grace
was a man of approximately the same age as his wife, with grey hair, an average
build, and a patrician profile. Not a
particularly handsome-looking figure but arguably an intelligent-looking one
nonetheless, a man with an air of authority, acquired, no doubt, during the
course of his lengthy career as a maker or breaker of painters. One felt that if he hadn't been an art critic
he would have been a judge. Possibly
even a priest. But at the present
juncture in time he was very definitely a sitter for Robert Harding, who,
ensconced at his easel no more than a few yards away, appeared to be deeply
engrossed in the application of bright pigment to a canvas slightly larger than
the one he had used for his previous client.
It was indeed refreshing to behold such an unabashed demonstration of
industry, to see the artist knitting his brows and occasionally allowing his
tongue to delicately protrude from between his moistened lips under the
apparent exigency of the latest feat of concentration he was imposing upon
himself with the encouragement of Mr Grace!
Not once, during the entire course of his own modelling engagement with
the artist, had Andrew noticed such a display of ardent commitment! The artist, except when replying to the
comments of his mistress, had retained an almost unbroken equanimity, a
serenity of visage bordering on the angelic.
But now? One might have thought
him in the throes of some demonic possession or suffering from a fierce and
implacable migraine. The transformation
in his approach to portraiture appeared so complete ... that Andrew was tempted
to laugh, so incongruous an impression did it make on him. If it was an act Harding was putting on to
impress the renowned art critic, there could be no doubt that he was flogging
it for all it was damn-well worth! A
more concentrated act of sustained commitment one couldn't have imagined. Clearly, the absence of Carol Jackson from
the scene had something to do with it.
For, with her present, he wouldn't have felt quite so confident that the
act would be taken seriously. Indeed, he
might not have been able to perform one at all.
But that was probably beside-the-point and only an aside Andrew felt
inclined to entertain on the strength of his sublimated amusement.
"Have you ever been to Maxim's, Robert?"
the figure in the deck chair suddenly inquired of the painter.
"Yes, once or twice actually," he
answered.
"Really?" Mrs Grace appeared lost in thought, but Mr
Grace, having apparently lost interest in the champagne problem, pressed the artist
to reveal what he thought of the place.
A slightly nervous cough from Harding
intimated to all present the likelihood of a negative response. "Rather too modern for my tastes,"
he tentatively confessed, after a moment's cautious hesitation.
Andrew automatically started back from the
fence, as though to avoid the gaze of someone who had a suspicion he was
there. It was a veritable
revelation! A confirmation of his prior
assumptions concerning Harding's creative predilections! Maxim's evidently specialized in abstracts.
"Yes, I had imagined it would
be," Mr Grace remarked in an overly sympathetic tone-of-voice, the
rudiments of a conspiratorial smile in swift pursuit of his words. "And thus rather too subjective, what?"
The artist nodded in agreement and
proceeded to mix some fresh pigment on his abstract-looking palette. "Not quite what I'd regard as art,"
he softly commented, becoming a little more forthright. "Though they do deal in a few paintings
more to my tastes - portraits and landscapes, for example. Not to mention the odd nude of variable
quality."
"Quite!" the critic conceded,
nodding vaguely. "Unfortunately the
emphasis is on Abstract Expressionism, Op, Pop, and Post-Painterly
Abstraction. They don't even deal in
Cubist or Surrealist works these days."
"Doubtless they're just another victim
of the times," opined Harding, some freshly tinted pigment poised on the
end of his brush, like a blob of coloured ice cream. "Going down the slippery slope of commercial
modernism in deference to creative degeneration," he added caustically.
"So it would appear," sighed Mr
Grace. "Frankly, if modern art
degenerates any further, I'll be out of a job.
One feels the critic is a dying breed."
"Well, at least he won't die-out in
your lifetime," Mrs Grace declared from her deck chair.
"Small consolation for those who come
after me!" the critic retorted, turning briefly, at Harding's professional
expense, towards his wife.
"Fortunately, however, there are some artists in the world who are
doing their level best to stem the rising tide of anarchic disintegration and
thereby grant one the rare opportunity of reviewing art instead of kitsch. Artists who refuse to kow-tow to the latest
trashy shibboleths but remain loyal, even in the face of hardship, to the
essentially objective nature of art."
It wasn't too difficult for Andrew to
notice that, following this comment from 'On High', a modest but perceptible
smile had insinuated itself into Harding's formerly stern mien - a smile which
betrayed his heartfelt pleasure in identifying with the sentiments of his
distinguished sitter. Yes, how
significant all this was becoming for the writer, as he continued to spy on the
unsuspecting trio through the small gap in his fence! Now there could be absolutely no doubt
concerning the artist's bourgeois aestheticism, his reactionary tendencies
vis-ŕ-vis modern art! Objectively
speaking, he didn't want progress but only regress or, failing that, perpetual
stasis. He wasn't prepared to let art
exhaust itself, to come to its inevitable painterly end in the ultimate
abstraction. He was one of those who
wanted, on the contrary, 'to stem the rising tide of anarchic disintegration'
as Mr Grace, himself evidently an enemy of progress, had so crudely put it, and
thus prevent the evolution of Western art from reaching its subjective
goal. And, if possible, he would
doubtless do more than merely 'stem the rising tide'; he would endeavour to
reverse it, so that the age could become a victim of his anachronisms and thereafter
be obliged to regard them as alone representative of artistic progress, the
'progress' of a post-abstract accommodation with photographic objectivity, and
thus of the bourgeoisie with the proletariat, of liberal and social humanism.
To be sure, it was easy enough to see why
portraiture had become such a must for Harding recently, as also why he hoped
to curry favour with Mr Grace. And, to
judge by the conversation and sentiments exchanged between the two men, he was
doing just that - establishing the basis of a mutual understanding which would
further his cause by, hopefully, bringing his work into greater
prominence. For if Mr Grace wielded as
much influential power as Harding supposed, then there could be little doubt
that the subsequent assistance of the critic would prove of inestimable value
in his hitherto lone-handed battle against abstraction.
Turning away from the fence in manifest
disgust, Andrew swiftly tiptoed back to his study and gently closed its french
windows behind him. He had seen and
heard quite enough of his next-door neighbour for one day!
CHAPTER THREE
Donald
Prescott was by nature an eccentric. He
was also a wealthy bachelor who spent a great deal of time photographing models
for both native and foreign magazines.
One of the models he photographed most often, whether dressed or
undressed, was Harding's current girlfriend, Carol Jackson, whose slim though
shapely figure he particularly admired.
She was also popular with the editors of a variety of successful men's
magazines, and this fact had led to the formation of a sort of Carol Jackson
industry for which, apparently, there was never any shortage of custom. Whatever the presentation, she could be
depended upon to excite curiosity. And
Donald Prescott, her favourite photographer, knew how to make the most of
her. He was a dab hand at exploiting
women!
At forty-five he was securely established
in his chosen profession, able to pick and choose as he thought fit, and no
less able to indulge those favourite eccentricities of his which had earned him
almost as great a reputation as his camera.
Among their number was the establishment of the 'Rejection Club' for
young or aspiring authors who had garnered more than fifty rejection slips from
publishers, which met twice a month in the drawing room of his South Hampstead
residence, and whose members spent the greater part of the meeting discussing
literature and philosophy, their own and everyone else's. At present, the club membership numbered
about forty, a majority of whom had around 50-100 rejection slips to their
name, though a few had as many as 200 or more.
What, besides eccentricity, had prompted Prescott to start the club was
a desire to find out more about the difficulties aspiring authors were
confronted with, and to ascertain whether rejections followed as a consequence
of a given writer's work being bad or good, insufficiently commercial or
insufficiently accomplished, too truthful or too illusory, and so on. Having received approximately fifty
rejections from a variety of publishers during the three years he had spent,
before turning to photography, as an aspiring author, he wanted to discover
whether there were others who'd had as little luck as himself and, if so, for
what reasons? Thus he placed a number of
advertisements in local newspapers and magazines to the effect that he intended
to start a club for people with fifty or more rejection slips to their name, in
order that they could get together on a fortnightly basis to discuss their
problems, find out where, if anywhere, they were going wrong, and, if they
couldn't rectify anything, at least obtain some mutual consolation and
encouragement from one another.
All this had occurred some ten years ago
and duly resulted in a steady flow of people in-and-out of the club, most of
whom only stayed a few weeks but some of whom, warming to the hospitality and
sympathy they received there, were of the opinion that it was in their
interests to stay much longer. The
condition of entry did, however, necessitate that one should produce evidence,
in the form of rejection slips, to prove one's work had in fact been rejected
at least fifty times, in order to preclude the possibility of anyone's bluffing
their way into it. But once this fact
had been demonstrated, one was free to come and go at one's leisure.
Contrary to Prescott's initial suspicions,
a majority of the struggling authors who frequented his house on this basis
weren't imbeciles or amateurish duffers who couldn't write to save their skins
but, on the contrary, highly-gifted and serious-minded people whose work tended
to be either insufficiently commercial to pander to popular taste or, in some
cases, detrimental to bourgeois interests and the class system which favoured
the rich and high-profiled, including those with a public school and university
background, at the expense of the poor and downtrodden, who, excluded from the
more glamorous or influential forms of employment, could never or rarely get
sufficient media or other publicity to make them a desirable prospect from a
publisher's point of view. Indeed, it
had completely taken him by surprise to discover that so many intelligent
writers regularly had work rejected because it was either too scholarly, too
philosophical, too ideologically radical, too complex, too outspoken, too
satirical, too ethnic, or even too revolutionary in its treatment of plot,
characterization, style, grammar, etc., for general dissemination within the
commercial framework of the free market.
Reading through one-another's typescripts they learnt a great deal more
about themselves and the general publishing climate of the age - sub-zero as
far as any passionate relationship to intellectual heat was concerned! - than ever they would have done had the club not existed and
frequent rejections obliged them to presume that their work was simply 'not
good enough'. On the contrary, it was
generally found to be 'too good' (both morally and intellectually), too
out-of-the-ordinary to attract a large public, given the crass nature of most
people's literary tastes or, more specifically, of the system which bludgeoned
them into conformist mediocrity. Now
this discovery at least sufficed to reassure the members of the 'Rejection
Club' of their respective literary abilities, even if it couldn't alter
anything in terms of their immediate or short-term prospects of being
published. For few if any of the more
intelligent, gifted, and well-educated ones (usually self-taught on the basis
of home reading which transcended school education to an extent and in a way
which made the latter seem relatively inconsequential) were prepared to
sacrifice their creative integrity to the great modern antigod of popular
taste, and thereupon reduce their creativity to the
lowest-common-commercial-denominator on the basis of a materialistic concession
to the supply-on-demand tyranny of market forces!
Indeed, as the club developed and its
members became more intimate, a kind of anti-popular campaign was launched in
which they vowed to write contemptuously of established authors who specialized
in and profited from crime, thriller, war, horror, spy, and occult stories,
kow-towing to popular predilections with an opportunistic blatancy totally
unworthy of a cultured and discriminating turn-of-mind! Such authors, particularly the most
commercially successful of them, were unanimously regarded as the literary
scum-of-the-earth, and poster-size reproductions of their fame-wallowing faces
were duly tacked to the walls and exposed to graphic disfigurement and verbal
abuse as a reminder of just how contemptible they were. And, by way of reminding themselves of their
common cause against commercial trash, the 'Rejection Club' sported, in large
letters on a wooden plaque which hung over the drawing-room's mantelpiece, a
reassuring quotation from The Soul of Man Under Socialism by Oscar
Wilde, which read: 'No country produces such badly written fiction, such
tedious common work in the novel form, such silly, vulgar plays as
England. It must necessarily be so. The popular standard is of such a character
that no artist can get to it. It is at
once too easy and too difficult to be a popular novelist. It is too easy, because the requirements of
the public as far as plot, style, psychology, treatment of life, and treatment
of literature are concerned are within the reach of the very meanest capacity
and the most uncultivated mind. It is
too difficult, because to meet such requirements the artist would have to do
violence to his temperament, would have to write not for the artistic joy of
writing, but for the amusement of half-educated people, and so would have to
suppress his individualism, forget his culture, annihilate his style, and
surrender everything that is valuable in him.'
Thus read the very pertinent and admirably anti-commercial quotation
with which the club members sought, under Prescott's moral guidance, to boost
their morale and strengthen their resolve never to capitulate to the
pseudo-cultural enemy, whatever his
class, but to carry-on fighting against him in the name of art, truth, spirit,
intelligence, honesty, courage, idealism, etc., to the bitter end or,
preferably, until such time as an ultimate victory had been won and everything
low and mean was systematically consigned to the rubbish bin of commercial
history. That Oscar Wilde had fought
against this enemy to the bitter end, they fully realized. But so, too, had other such 'saints' of their
'church' as Baudelaire, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Huysmans, James Joyce, Aldous
Huxley, Hermann Hesse, Henry Miller, Lawrence Durrell, and Thomas Mann, so that
it was with such courageous names as these in mind that they continued to write
and dispatch typescripts not guaranteed to solicit popular endorsement.
Yet there was also another side to the
club's attitude towards commercial literature which, initiated by Prescott
himself, took the form of an imaginative sympathy for those exceptional
publishers who, less overly exploitative than the majority of their
competitors, would much rather have published only works of cultural and
literary value but were obliged, through force of economic necessity, to
kow-tow to commercial criteria and only publish such books as could be expected
to appeal to a wide public. Here it was
not so much the author whose work, though intrinsically valuable in itself, had
been regularly rejected whom one was expected to sympathize with, as the
publisher who suffered nightmares of depression and humiliation at having to
publish so much rubbish, novelistic or otherwise, simply to make ends meet, and
who, deep down, would rather have published only what he knew to be
artistically and/or culturally meritorious.
Instead of which, the cut-throat circumstances of life in a capitalist
economy obliged him to earn the privilege of bringing out a few genuinely
valuable books by publishing a host of trashy ones - much to his personal
dissatisfaction!
Yes, in order not to become too prejudiced
against publishers, and thereby run the risk of losing all track of economic
reality, Donald Prescott reminded his fellow-rejects, from time to time, of the
difficulties they faced, and of the noble intentions which the most reputable
firms always harboured. The literary
saint who suffered all manner of tortuous misgivings and reserves in the face
of commercial pressures had to be juxtaposed with the well-intentioned
publisher who, no less frequently, suffered all manner of tortuous misgivings
and reserves in the face of economic pressures, before one could hope to get
the two in perspective and arrive at anything like a reasonable viewpoint. Otherwise one would be deceiving oneself and
doing a grave injustice to both author and publisher alike! Yet this didn't mean to say that, as a
writer, one should therefore 'sell out', by sacrificing one's creative
principles, and automatically commit literary suicide. If one had any creative principles at all, it
was one's duty as an artist to stick by them in order not to allow commercial
pressures and temptations to get the better of one. For if one didn't, there could be no question
of work of intrinsic literary value ever being produced by one again! One would simply be reduced to the
contemptible status of the literary riffraff - a victim of the democratic mob
and an enemy of the spirit! There could
be no question of any member of the 'Rejection Club' becoming that!
Such, at any rate, was how Prescott had
reasoned in the heyday of his dedication to the club, which, however, had
lately ceased to appeal to him to the degree it did, before he made a name for himself
in photography. More from habit than
genuine conviction, he still kept it going and entertained the surviving
members to the extent circumstances would permit. His eccentricity in this respect had not
deserted him, even if his initial enthusiasm for the cause, born in days of
misery and struggle, had somewhat waned under the influence of his subsequent
successes. Nowadays it was primarily to
show off his latest photographs and air his prejudices on a variety of topics,
from the obsolescence of horse racing to the moral vacuousness of society
women, that he allowed a couple of rooms in his spacious house to be invaded,
twice a month, by the leading rejects of the literary world, a majority of whom
had become so set in their rebellious ways and so absolutely unable or
unwilling to revise their approach to writing ... that they virtually regarded
every new publication with deep suspicion, believing it must necessarily be
morally bad in consequence, and would almost certainly have turned against any member
of the club who deserted them in this respect, as though he were a traitor to
their cause and accordingly merited the kinds of abuse and contempt ordinarily
reserved for the more conspicuous examples of commercial success which hung,
somewhat pathetically, from each of the main walls, as though from gibbets!
Concerning Donald Prescott's other main eccentricities, however, it is perhaps wiser not to speak at
all. Although it might prove of passing
interest to the odd person, here and there, to learn that he was possessed of a
marked predilection for women's underclothes, particularly panties, which he
collected with a zeal and pride not far removed from what a collector of books
or records might experience with each new addition to his collection of cultural
artefacts. Not that he went into ladies'
underwear shops and actually bought them over the counter or anything like
that. Oh no! They came to him via the models, including
Carol Jackson, whom he had at one time or another succeeded in seducing (and he
had succeeded in seducing the great majority of them). One pair of panties from each model was his
requirement which, once acquired and pegged to a clothesline in one of his
spare upstairs rooms, became for him the equivalent of what a scalp must have
been to a Red Indian in the bad old days of intertribal or colonial warfare -
namely an object of conquest.
Altogether, since he first began collecting
them, just over six years ago, he now had some 330 pairs of assorted panties
dangling in parallel rows of different height across the large room in which he
chose to keep them - panties of every shape, size, and colour, with a number of
G-strings thrown-in for good measure.
And to each item exhibited in this provocative fashion was appended a
small cotton tag bearing, in neatly printed block capitals, the forename of its
original owner, together with the date of surrender. Thus one might have encountered, in this
extraordinary museum of women's briefs, upwards of twenty exhibits bearing the
name Susan, sixteen the name Christine, twelve the name Margaret, ten the name
Carol, and so on, right the way down to those specimens which were as yet
unduplicated, but bore such interesting and exotic names as Norma, Jayshree,
Yogini, Shobhana, Shahla, Alia, Isik, and Anne-Marie. To be sure, the genuine connoisseur of
panties could hardly have failed to be impressed by this collection, were he
granted the good fortune to be escorted around the 'Panties Museum' - as
Prescott liked to call it - by the curator-in-residence himself and invited to
scrutinize the exhibits to his heart's content, listening all the while to the
running commentary provided by his host as a means to enlightening him as to
the character and quality of their original owners, not to mention the dubious
means by which they had been acquired!
Such an unprecedented spectacle could hardly have failed to elicit at
least some enthusiasm from the guest whose privilege it was to witness what
Prescott proudly referred to as 'The finest private collection of assorted
female briefs in Western Europe', even if the accompanying invitation to take a
sniff at as many of them as he pleased in order to verify, where possible, the
authenticity of their current owner's claims, wasn't guaranteed to meet with
his wholehearted approval! For it had
occurred to a few sceptics, when confronted by these exhibits for the first
time, to doubt the genuineness of Prescott's claims and to question whether he
hadn't simply bought them all in various shops, at one time or another,
appended name tags to them, and then cold-bloodedly invented some cock-and-bull
story about his conquests, together with equally spurious information regarding
the characters and physical qualities of the young women concerned, the better
to impress his visitors. But the doubts
of the sceptics - for the most part elderly males unwilling to believe their
host could possibly have had it off with so many women during the course of his
photographic career - were invariably silenced when each of them was personally
invited to sniff certain of the exhibits, and accordingly verify the fact that
they had indeed been worn and still bore faint traces of their original owners'
person. To be sure, the smell of the
museum was not, in view of
However, the vast majority of
But one of the people who never declined the
photographer's invitations to visit him was Carol Jackson, who was now posing
for his latest camera in quite the most slender brassiere it had ever been her
privilege to wear, her head thrown back in a posture of sensual abandon, her
hands crossed behind it. How many more
snaps of this nature
"So how's your artist friend been
keeping lately?" Prescott asked, as the time approached for them to take a
break from their morning's labour.
"As well as can be expected,"
Carol replied, before settling herself down in the nearest armchair and
lighting a mild cigarette with the aid of a plastic lighter.
"And still painting hard?"
Prescott rejoined.
"As far as I know," Carol
admitted. "Portraits at the
moment."
"Portraits?" Prescott raised his brows in a show of acute
surprise. "Are they any good?"
"Not bad; though I'm not properly
qualified to judge, am I?" said Carol rhetorically. "However, he must have some talent for
portraiture if Henry Grace is sufficiently interested to have commissioned his
portrait. You've doubtless heard of him
before."
The photographer smiled faintly and then
gently nodded. "I've actually talked to him," he confessed. "Quite a few times, in fact."
"Really?" Carol hadn't even vaguely considered the
possibility, and was somewhat surprised in consequence.
"He used to be among my most regular
visitors at one time," Prescott declared, with a little chuckle. For a moment he stared unseeingly at Carol,
as though absorbed in some arduous recollection, before asking: "And what,
pray, does friend Robert think of him?"
"Professionally or personally?"
Carol wanted to know.
"Either."
The model reflected awhile, inhaling and
exhaling some smoke from her cigarette.
"Well, professionally he thinks very highly of Mr Grace," she
revealed. "But personally ... I'm
not so sure. They appear to get on quite
well together - at least to the extent that circumstances currently permit
them. But I haven't yet succeeded in
finding out all that much, partly because Robert systematically refuses to
discuss the subject with me. He
absolutely forbids me to be present in the garden or, for that matter, the
studio while Mr Grace is there. And Mr
Grace has bloody-well been there from three to four hours a day all the past
week!"
"Presumably that's the time it takes
Robert to complete a portrait?" Prescott conjectured.
"I imagine so," Carol confirmed,
frowning.
The photographer poured out a couple of
glasses of sweet white wine and then handed one to Carol, asking: "What
about Mr Grace's wife - is she there, too?"
"Yeah, Patricia accompanies him to
Richmond every frigging day!" Carol exclaimed with exasperation. "Keeps him company, apparently."
Prescott had to laugh at that! It was just like Henry Grace, he reflected,
to drag his wife along with him.
"What's so funny?" Carol wanted
to know, becoming puzzled and slightly offended by the photographer's attitude.
"Oh, nothing really," Prescott
assured her. "Just a little private
joke, that's all."
"Anyway, Robert is doing his utmost to
get into his latest sitter's good books," Carol declared, changing the
subject slightly. "He's of the
opinion that his career will thereby be considerably enhanced."
Having got over his little joke, Prescott
merely smiled and wandered over to his camera, which he proceeded to gently
stroke with the hand not holding a glass of wine. "Your lover must have a much higher
opinion of Henry Grace and his professional influence than I do," he at
length said.
Carol was somewhat flummoxed by this
remark. "What makes you say
that?" she asked.
"Simply what you told me," the
photographer replied. "I very much doubt
whether an old rogue like Mr Grace would put himself out on Robert's behalf, no
matter how hard the latter tries to impress him. He's just not that kind of man."
Deep down Carol was almost amused or, at
any rate, secretly gratified by the possibility that her boyfriend was making a
damn fool of himself when he thought he was being most wise. "Are you sure?" she queried.
"Absolutely sure," Prescott
affirmed in a tone which left no room for uncertainty. "Besides, even if Mr Grace were to do
the improbable, I doubt whether his professional influence would appreciably
improve Robert's prospects of advancement to greater fame. After all, a single art critic, even when
well-known, doesn't have all that much clout.
Doubtfully as much as your admirer may, for reasons best known to
himself, like to imagine anyway."
"But Henry Grace is internationally
famous!" Carol protested, feigning concern on her boyfriend's behalf. "Surely that fact must be taken into
account when assessing either his potential or actual influence?"
Prescott reluctantly abandoned the camera
and sat down in his customary leather-backed chair. "Oh, I entirely agree," he
conceded, a glint of ironic satisfaction faintly discernible in his large eyes. "But so what? Will that make any real difference? To put it bluntly, his fame is essentially a
thing of the past. He achieved it during
the 'sixties, extended it in the 'seventies, and took a stand on it in the
'eighties. I doubt whether he has budged
a fraction-of-an-inch in over a decade.
And during that time his actual influence has been in steady decline,
falling, I dare say, to a level which could only impress those of his own
generation who remember his early fame and, out of self-serving sentimentality,
are still inclined to equate him with it!
However, to the young art critic of today and, I might add, to most of
the younger generation of artists, he's a blundering anachronism, a voice to
which one can listen but whom one needn't take too seriously. Even he must know it, despite his
considerable capacity for self-deception.
For he's completely out-of-touch with the latest developments in
painterly art, never mind light art and anything else, my own photographic
interests notwithstanding, which might broadly be identified with proletarian
as opposed to bourgeois interests."
"But how d'you know all this?"
Carol queried, still unwilling to take Prescott's opinions at face-value. After all, could she be certain, knowing as
much about him as she did, that he wasn't making it all up just to amuse
himself at her expense? She stubbed out
the burnt-down remains of her smouldering cigarette, sipped a little more wine,
as though to extinguish the fire in her mouth, and then looked at him expectantly.
"Through what I've recently read by
him, read about him, heard from various artists and critics about him, thought
about him, remembered about him ... oh, through so many channels," the
photographer at length asserted, expressing, via a broad sweep of an arm, the
general breadth of his information.
"He writes well and is respected in many countries by a great many
people - don't get me wrong there! Yet
his influence isn't so great that he could be expected to win-over the hearts
and minds of the more youthful or progressive art-lovers. On the contrary, his influence on the younger
generation would be very slight, believe me!
And it's above all to the younger generation that your admirer would
have to appeal, if he hoped to increase his fame - not to those outmoded people
whom Grace could still be depended upon to influence in some way."
"But maybe that's precisely what
Robert wants," suggested Carol, recalling to mind the conventional nature
of his most recent work. "Simply to
be appreciated by art enthusiasts of a more traditional stamp, and thus become
renowned as a champion and defender of conventional aesthetic values."
Prescott gave vent to a short, sharp burst
of sardonic laughter, such as he usually only succumbed to when confronted by
suggestions or comments which ran contrary to his own better knowledge. "That may be," he conceded, for
Carol's sake, "but I would hardly describe the thought as one guaranteed
to appeal to the ambitions of any self-respecting, progressive artist! If it's that kind of fame he's after, he
might as well take his canvases to an antique dealer as to a modern
gallery. Indeed, he might as well
give-up painting original works altogether and concentrate on copying old
masters instead. He'll be appreciated
alright, but only by those philistines who know next-to-nothing about modern
art and can only relate to what preceded it.
In other words, people who require of art that it conforms to something
intelligible to them, something pleasantly picturesque. But if he thinks he'll secure universal
acclaim through reverting to such muck, and if he thinks Henry Grace will help
him acquire it, then he's sadly mistaken!
Just as he's sadly mistaken if he thinks that, by returning to a more
traditional framework, he'll be saving art from the ogres of modernity and thereby
restoring it to a healthier condition.
Nothing could be further from the truth!
All he'll end-up bloody-well doing is to acquire, with his rather
limited fame, the contempt of all truly contemporary artists and connoisseurs
of modern art for being both a fool and a reactionary down-dragging influence
on the age. But don't tell him I told
you that. Let him discover it for
himself, if he's really determined to pursue this futile course of his."
"I wouldn't dare tell him," Carol
responded. "He wouldn't listen to
me anyway, having dismissed so many of his previous girlfriends for being
critical of his work. He'd probably send
me packing there and then."
Prescott glanced at his watch and commented
how it was time they got down to some more work before lunch, since he had
another model - a new one - to see during the afternoon and didn't want to fall
behind with his schedule. What kind of
panties she would turn-up in, he didn't of course know. But he was fairly confident that, before she
left his studio an hour or two later, she would have surrendered them to his
private museum and thus enabled him to expand his collection to 331. Without a doubt, he was distinctly looking
forward to conquering her! For the time
being, however, there was Carol Jackson to photograph again, and this time
minus her bra. She had already been
conquered, and on more than one previous occasion, to boot!
CHAPTER FOUR
It was with
some surprise that Andrew found himself being invited by his next-door
neighbour, the following week, to join him and Carol on a visit to Henry
Grace's house in Berkshire, over the weekend of July 25/26th, and, no less
surprisingly, found himself accepting the invitation with alacrity. Apparently the critic had been so pleased
with his portrait and so impressed by the hospitality granted him during the
course of his sitting for the artist, that he had decided to invite Harding up
to Berkshire as a sort of reward for all the trouble to which the latter had
evidently put himself in the execution of his painterly duties. And Harding, overjoyed by this most wholesome
response to his stratagem, had automatically accepted the invitation,
flattered, as he was, to be the guest of so distinguished a man.
The fact that no recourse had been made to
the special financial concession he had contemplated offering the critic was
another joy to him. For, in reality, he
could ill-afford to be overly generous in that respect, and was only too
relieved that such a ploy wouldn't be necessary, after all. And Henry Grace, in the throes of his
gratitude, had not only invited him, but permitted him to bring one or two of
his friends along as well, in order to make the journey less lonely and the
visit more sociable. It would amount, in
effect, to a pleasantly educative social gathering - one comprised of the
Graces, together with a few of their close friends and/or relatives, and
whosoever Harding brought with him - which was sure to provide a worthwhile
experience for all concerned.
The prospect of such an experience was
therefore what particularly appealed to the three young people as they set off
from Richmond in the painter's car, on the morning of July 25th, for Mr Grace's
country house, situated near Maidenhead.
It was a relatively short drive which faced them as, abandoning Surrey,
they crossed into Berkshire, exchanging few words but being content, on this
warm sunny day, to take-in the provincial scenery, much of which was
refreshingly agreeable to behold.
What, exactly, he would find to say to Mr
Grace when they arrived, Andrew didn't have a clue; though, to judge by what he
had previously overheard from the secret vantage-point of his back garden, he
doubted whether it would amount to anything very congenial or sympathetic! He might even be obliged to stand-up for his
radical views on art in the face of conservative opposition, and criticize both
the artist and his newly acquired friend for endorsing reactionary tendencies
inimical to the further progress of art.
He didn't know. But it wasn't
beyond the range of his imaginings, as he lolled on the back seat of his
neighbour's battered BMW, to suppose that some such defence of modern art might
be forced upon him. After all, wasn't it
obvious that he was being driven towards the enemy's camp, a camp Harding doubtless
found of agreeable prospect but which he could only regard with deep suspicion,
albeit in an intriguing and secretly gratifying kind of way? For if he was going to lay his cards on the
table, he figured he might as well do so with style, with a thoroughness and
relish which, no matter how offensive to the opposition, would serve to flatter
his idealistic integrity in loyalty to his views, and thereby preclude any
allegations of hypocrisy.
As for Harding, there could be no doubt
that he was the most excited of the trio, the one who most looked forward to
arriving at the destination towards which they were speedily heading, and the
one whose thoughts were almost entirely set on furthering the good impression
he had already made on the critic and, if possible, winning some additional
supporters to his side, supporters who, through Henry Grace's example, might
well commission him to paint their portraits in due course. Indeed, the thought had earlier crossed his
mind that it could well be his fate to paint portraits of Mr Grace's family, as
well, perhaps, as an extra and possibly even larger one of the critic
himself. After all, the man was
sufficiently wealthy to afford additional commissions. And why shouldn't he, Robert John Harding, be
the artist to execute them? The work he
had already done was bound to excite further interest in his talents,
consolidate his growing reputation, and thereby enhance his prospects of
greater success. Even Andrew, whom he
had invited along more from professional tact than because of any altruistic
motive, could prove of invaluable assistance in that respect, adding to the
confidence already established by saying a few words in praise of his own
rather more modest portrait, which, unbeknown to himself, could hardly fail to
excite further curiosity, not to say critical regard.
Yes, it was indeed a good idea to make use
of Doyle in this way. It might even be
possible to show the author's portrait to Mr Grace sometime, get the old man to
write about it. And even the one of
Carol Jackson, done several weeks before, might prove of more than passing
interest to the critic's keenly-experienced eye.... Although there was
something odd about Carol herself, these past few days. Harding couldn't quite determine what, not
having probed her very deeply, but he was pretty sure that she was holding
something back from him, keeping herself in secretive reserve on some enigmatic
pretext or other. Perhaps she had a
professional problem or two on her conscience, or a qualm about visiting Mr
Grace? It wasn't like her at all. Still, it would probably blow over, like a
heavy shower, in due course. Miss
Jackson wasn't always smooth sailing anyway!
But the journey to Henry Grace's house
certainly had an air of smoothness about it as, with an hour to go before noon,
they entered the drive and drew-up alongside its dark-green front door. The house, set well back from the road by a
pretty front garden, was quite impressive, with a whitewashed facade and eight
latticed windows positioned equidistantly along its two stories, giving overall
emphasis to length rather than height.
Imposing without being ostentatious, the dwelling bespoke bourgeois
comfort and charm - the kinds of qualities which Andrew Doyle had grown
accustomed to living without, during the course of his several years'
experience of North London lodgings and, latterly, small garden flat in
Richmond. But it rang a bell in his
memory nonetheless, as he pictured to himself the New England-style house in
which he used to live, compliments of a friend's family, at Merstham, in
Surrey, before being obliged to move to the grimy metropolis.
A brief rap on the door by Harding was
promptly answered, and the visitors, excited and apprehensive by turns, were
invited inside by a smartly dressed, grey-haired woman whom Andrew immediately
recognized as the one he had spied sunbathing in Harding's back garden the
previous week. Close-up, she looked
slightly less impressive than at several yards' distance; though there was
something about her dark-blue eyes, fine brow, aquiline nose, and sensuous lips
which suggested she had once been an extremely attractive woman - even if age
had somewhat detracted from her natural assets.
"So delighted to meet you, Mr
Doyle," she averred, squeezing the writer's hand with a more than
reassuringly firm grip, as he was first introduced to Mrs Grace and then to Mr
Grace by an impeccably polite neighbour.
"I do hope you'll enjoy it here."
"Yes, splendid of you to come!" Mr
Grace declared, shaking hands in turn and beaming appreciatively at the three
young people before him - particularly the artist, with whose face he was of
course already familiar. "My wife
and I are anxious to make your stay here as pleasant as possible. And so, too, is our daughter, Pauline."
A young woman with long black hair of a
very fine texture and blue eyes the exact colour of her mother's had appeared
in the entrance hall in her parents' wake, and was now extending a
nervous-looking hand towards each of the three guests in turn.
"Unfortunately my son is at present
visiting a neighbouring friend," Mr Grace confessed, as the last handshake
was duly terminated. "But you'll
meet him soon enough, don't worry! He's
a year-and-a-half older than Pauline, who has just turned eighteen."
"Oh dad, do you have to tell everybody
my age?" Pauline protested good-naturedly, a slight but perceptible blush
suffusing her slender cheeks.
"They'd guess it soon enough
anyway," her father responded, playfully patting her on the rump. "Now then, as you're all no doubt hungry
and thirsty after your little journey, we must set about finding you some
refreshment. Lunch is currently being
prepared, but a drink is something I can fix you up with right away. If you'd just care to follow me into the
lounge, where, incidentally, your excellent portrait of me is now hanging,
Robert."
Obediently, they followed their host into
the said room, accepted a glass of wine, and stood before the portrait in
question, which hung over the mantelpiece in an expensive-looking carved-oak
frame - one that appeared to take the artist by surprise, since he hadn't
provided anything like it himself.
"Yes, a useful addition," Mr
Grace opined, in response to some eulogistic comment from Harding. "It makes the work appear more
dignified, don't you think?"
"Absolutely!" the artist agreed,
going-up closer to the mantelpiece in order to scrutinize the frame in more
detail. "It's a Carlton, isn't
it?"
"A Wark-Davidson actually," the
critic corrected, with a benign smile.
"I purchased it the day after you finished your work. Thought it might impress you!"
The room in which they were now standing,
Andrew noted, was tastefully decorated, being furnished in modern though not
trendy items, and provided shelter for five additional paintings, three of
which were landscapes of a fairly conventional naturalistic order, the
remaining two being portraits of, as yet, unspecified persons; though the
patrician tone and bearing of each suggested a strong connection with the Grace
family. As to the occupants of the room,
however, it was manifestly apparent that none of the other guests - if other
guests there were to be - had as yet arrived.
For, apart from the three newcomers and the Graces themselves, the lounge
was otherwise empty. Presumably Mr
Grace's friends would turn-up later, at a time more suited to their
habits? The prospect of having to spend
most of the day in his company probably didn't appeal to them, after all.
Meanwhile, the attention having shifted
from the portrait to the other paintings in evidence, and even to a discussion
on art in general, Andrew was obliged to listen to both Mr Grace and Harding
without being able or, indeed, invited to offer any comments himself; though he
did contrive to nod his head once or twice and to grunt knowingly, in response
to the occasional glance the critic directed towards him, more out of
politeness, it seemed, than from any intentional desire to include him in the
conversation. But, as though to rescue
him from the social isolation into which he was further and further sinking by
the moment, young Pauline meekly inquired of him whether he was an artist, too?
"No, not in the painterly sense,"
he quietly and almost apologetically replied, turning towards the pretty face
on a level with his own. "Although
I have to admit to being something of an artist as regards the production of
literature."
"Ah, so you're a writer!" deduced
Pauline, offering him an admiring smile.
"Yes, in a manner of speaking, though
I very rarely use a pen," he informed her.
"You could say I'm essentially a philosophical artist."
Visibly intrigued by this unexpected
revelation, the young woman then asked: "Have you, eh, written many
books?"
"Just a few," he admitted,
feeling slightly embarrassed by her apparent enthusiasm for the subject, and
no-less slightly regretful for the fact that his dream of having his work
brought to public attention on CD-Rom in addition to paper had yet to be
realized. "Two novels and a volume
of essays," he added.
"How interesting!" Pauline
exclaimed. "I've always wanted to
meet a writer."
"Is that so?" Doyle found himself
responding, his embarrassment giving way to a slight annoyance at being taken
for a kind of hero. Doubtless this young
woman, like so many of her kind, had motives for feeling that a 'writer' was
someone special - a sort of intellectual superman. Perhaps it was one of her most cherished
illusions, to meet the modern equivalent of Keats or Shelley or Dickens or
Hugo! One could never tell. But, then, one could never expect an
eighteen-year-old to relate to a thirty-year-old anyway, to view writers
through the same pair of eyes. To her,
they were evidently something special.
To him, they were occasionally something special but, for the most part,
insufferable bores! Few indeed were the
writers with whom he would want to identify, especially among the moderns! But that, alas, wasn't a fact he could impart
to Mr Grace's daughter, who was doubtless flattered by her illusions and secretly
gratified, moreover, that one of her pet wishes - to meet a practising writer
face-to-face - had now actually come true.
All he could do, under the circumstances, was bear up to the distinction
he apparently signified in Pauline's estimation and accept her unspoilt opinion
of authors without demur. Possibly she
would come round to a more discriminating view of them in due course, once her
juvenile hunger for creative heroes of one sort or another had been satisfied
and her literary appetites consequently declined. In the meantime, a writer, even those of the
type Andrew particularly despised, was a more interesting and distinguished
prospect, in her eyes, than, say, a clerk or a stockbroker or an insurance agent
and, as such, he deserved greater respect.
"Have you written anything yourself?" he asked, desperately
desiring to ward off the aura of heroism which now threatened to engulf him and
turn him into a 'being apart'.
With a paradoxical little laugh - half
self-deprecatory and half self-assertive - which suggested she didn't quite
know what to think, Pauline replied: "Quite a few poems, actually. And a few one-act plays, too. But I don't intend to branch out into a novel
yet - not, anyway, until I've completed my time at university, which is due to
commence in September."
"Is that so?" responded Doyle,
who was vaguely amused by the way she spoke of her impending 'time' at
university, as though it were a kind of prison sentence looming over her. "So you intend to become a writer
eventually?"
He had guessed correctly. She had definite ambitions in regard to
literature, which she hoped her 'time' at university would help her to realize,
and principally by providing her with all the knowledge she would need to
become a success. For it was only by
studying the literature of the past in some detail that one could hope to
emulate and, if possible, strive to excel it in the present. That much, at any rate, she had learnt at
boarding school, and her parents had more than once confirmed her in the matter
since her departure from that venerable old institution earlier in the year;
though they had also expressed certain reservations concerning the long-term
viability of a literary career. But,
then, parents were usually like that, so what matter? Pauline was determined to press ahead with
her studies in literature and, at the end of her 'time', take up the pen
professionally, so to speak, in order to embark on a successful career as a
leading novelist. It was basically as
simple and straightforward as that - a fact which the writer could surely
appreciate?
To be sure, Andrew Doyle made an attempt at
playing along with the young lady's ingenuousness as best he could, amused and,
to a degree, bewildered by her ambitions, not the least of which appeared to be
her intention to emulate and, if possible, strive to excel the literature of
the past in the present! No doubt, she
would learn, in due time, that that wasn't possible and that those who, by
producing works of a traditional nature, attempted to do so ... were usually
the ones who succeeded least, being hopelessly out-of-date and contemptible in
the eyes of all genuine artists or, at any rate, authors who moved with the
times and refused to write or, alternatively, type or key-in anything which didn't
reflect the essential Zeitgeist of the times. But Pauline, sweet thing, couldn't be
expected to know that at the tender age of eighteen. She still had a lot of schooling to get
through, even if it didn't all take place at her future university and she was
subsequently obliged to seek additional enlightenment elsewhere. Whether she would continue to live in poetic
illusion and write poetic illusion ... remained to be seen. But at this stage of her life, she couldn't
exactly be blamed for her naiveté. On
the contrary, it was to be expected.
"Well, I hope you succeed in your ambitions," he at length
remarked, trying not to reveal his personal thoughts on the matter. "There are quite a few female novelists
around these days. One of the
consequences of Women's Lib, I suspect."
"A thing you approve of?" Pauline
hastened to ascertain.
"Only when they really are
intellectually liberated and not worldly reactionaries in disguise." But that was a bit profound and, regretting
his slip, he simply smiled and tentatively nodded his head.
The young woman sighed in relief. "I'm so glad to hear it," she
confessed.
CHAPTER FIVE
After lunch
the three guests were invited by Mr Grace to take a stroll with him across some
nearby fields and through the surrounding woods. Only Mrs Grace stayed behind, apparently to
take care of the housework and attend to any additional guests or callers who
might arrive, as the party of five, including Pauline, set off to savour the
warm afternoon sunshine and leisurely traverse the peaceful countryside.
As previously, Mr Grace, who led the way,
devoted most of his conversational attention to Harding, with whom he appeared
to have struck-up a good relationship - one doubtless owing something to their
mutual knowledge of and concern for art, since it constituted their main
topic. But every now and then, as though
for form's sake or to prevent the other two guests from feeling left out, he
directed a few words at Carol and Andrew, included them in his discussion of
art or probed them about their respective interests. He seemed especially polite towards Carol,
even though she didn't go out of her way to chat with him but remained
strangely aloof, as though the walk was all that really mattered to her and the
conversation simply a tedious distraction from it.
However, for Andrew, who found himself
accompanied by Pauline, the conversation into which he had drifted before lunch
was resumed on a slightly different footing afterwards, as he listened to her
quiet but clear voice expressing various opinions on literature, poetry,
writing technique, etc., and responded, to the limited extent circumstances
allowed him, with his own opinions in due course. Not that he was particularly keen on
listening to what young Miss Grace had to say, nor eager to contradict or
question her views. Quite the contrary,
it was rather a bore to him, since the twelve years which separated them, their
dissimilar temperaments and unequal experience of writing, rendered intimate,
interesting, and educative conversation virtually impossible. Yet he had to persevere somehow, pretend he
wasn't bored, and thus make some effort to grant the young woman the pleasure
she evidently acquired from walking and talking with 'a writer'. Besides, if her conversation, relative to her
youth, was somewhat superficial, at least there was the compensation of her
physical attractiveness – an attractiveness which Andrew Doyle couldn't help
noticing and secretly admiring as they strolled along together, a few yards
behind the little group in front.
Yes, there was indeed something about her
physical appearance which gave one pleasure, reminded one of her mother, and
caused one to speculate as to whether she had ever had a lover. No doubt, a pretty creature like her would
have attracted men before now, perhaps even older ones. And not only on account of her classical face
or long dark hair, either. Her body was,
to all appearances, by no means lacking in feminine charms, now somewhat
paradoxically clothed in a tight-fitting pair of quality denims which amply
sufficed to highlight her highly seductive rump and womanly thighs, with the
addition of a semi-transparent nylon vest such as could only draw attention to
her breasts, nestling snugly in a white brassiere edged with frills. To be sure, she was by no means a slow
developer for her age but, if anything, a shade precocious, suggesting someone
of about twenty - a fact which may have owed more than a little, Andrew
speculated, to her mother's relative maturity, since Mrs Grace must have been
in her late thirties or early forties at the time of Pauline's birth.
But her body had evidently developed way
ahead of her mind, which was very decidedly that of an eighteen-year-old. And it was to her mind, rather than her
attractive body, that Andrew was obliged to give most of his attention, as they
trailed along behind the trio in front and continued their predominantly
literary conversation. However, there
were periodic breaks in it which enabled him to return to his private thoughts
or overhear snippets of conversation from the leading group, snippets which, at
times, bordered on the ridiculous, as Harding and his critic friend continued
to exchange views on art with a conservatism and reactionary tone which the
writer had by now come to expect. What
Carol thought of it all, he couldn't know for sure. Yet it was becoming sufficiently apparent,
from the stand-offish nature of her relationship to the others, that she wasn't
particularly impressed. No doubt, she
would have been more a part of the scene had they been discussing models or
modelling. But Mr Grace could hardly be
expected to do that! Beyond the world of
art he seemed to know very little and not to care for very much. His life was dominated by his criticisms, and
it was his role as an art critic which made his life bearable. Without them he would be nothing, reduced in
size to the level of an ordinary man, an intellectually insignificant man. Needless to say, he couldn't afford to
forsake them, to run the risk of becoming or appearing ordinary - least of all
in front of an artist! And to take an
interest in other matters, to squander too much time on the concerns of other
professions, would have been to do just that, to become ordinary, to forsake
his role - in short, to become an amateur.
No, Henry Grace had no intentions of sacrificing his professional pride
and status for the sake of a young woman who preferred modelling to art! Besides, bearing in mind Harding's commitment
to painting, she was outnumbered 2:1, a fact which spoke eloquently for
itself. Two people's professional
self-esteem couldn't possibly be sacrificed for the sake of one person's,
particularly when that person was a relatively insignificant model. Common sense forbade!
Yes, and it was also common sense which
forbade Andrew from launching out, at various times in the afternoon's
proceedings, with a defence of modern art, and impressing upon the other two
men the antiquated, not to say futile, nature of their opinions. For if he had, he would almost certainly have
compromised himself in his host's eyes, deeply wounded his next-door neighbour,
and embarrassed the young woman whose company he was obliged to entertain, with
an overriding consequence that the walk would have been thoroughly spoilt. So he wisely restrained the impulse to
champion the cause of abstraction and retained, instead, a discreet silence on
the issue which, with better effect, might be broken at some more propitious
opportunity. Like, perhaps, when he was
questioned on his own views and obliged to do himself proper justice in
consequence.
It was towards tea-time when, tired and
sunburnt, they returned from their country stroll. Meanwhile Philip Grace, the son of the
household, had returned from his morning visit to a neighbouring friend and was
on-hand to greet the guests as, once more, they entered the large detached
house via its imposing front door.
Unlike his sister, this young Oxford undergraduate had flaxen hair,
pale-blue eyes, and a slightly retroussé nose.
He was also a few inches taller, standing just under 5'10", and
possessed a build bordering on the muscular.
As Andrew soon discovered, he was keen on sport, particularly cricket
and athletics, which he frequently indulged in at university, and liked to go
cross-country running at least once a week.
At first sight, one might have taken him for a German or possibly even a
Swede, so much did his fair complexion connote with a strongly Nordic strain. But he was distinctly an Englishman in
character and speech, and wouldn't have been flattered by suspicions to the
contrary!
In addition to this athletic and
serious-looking young man who, in-between casting shy glances at Carol,
endeavoured to strike-up a conversation with Harding, the gathering had also
been augmented by the presence of a certain Edwin Ford - a short, stocky,
dark-eyed young man who transpired to being the neighbouring friend whom Philip
Grace had gone to visit that very day, and who duly introduced himself as a
fellow-undergraduate.
"What subject are you reading?"
Andrew politely inquired of him in due course.
"Philosophy," he replied, with a
slightly ingratiating smile. "I'll
soon be in my third year, unlike Philip here, who is due to begin his second
shortly. But we've known each other
since we were so high (here he lowered a horizontal hand to the height of about
three feet from the floor), and although he's at Oxford and I'm at Cambridge,
we still continue to see each other during vacations. As you probably realize, we're both on
vacation at present - at any rate, as far as legitimate absence from college is
concerned!" He smiled anew, as
though to provide a visible full-stop to his statement. Then, by way of changing the subject, asked
Andrew whether he was the artist everybody had been talking about?
"No, I'm a writer actually," the
latter confessed, wondering who the 'everybody' could be. "Of mostly philosophical tendency,"
he added, in an effort both to preclude the student from asking what type and
simultaneously curry favour with him.
"Oh, how interesting!" Edwin
exclaimed. "Not Marxist, by any
chance?"
"No, not exactly," Andrew
replied, a slight embarrassment in the presence of the others taking the place
of the weariness he had felt, the moment before, at the prospect of being
obliged to go through what he had already gone through with Pauline all over
again.
"In point of fact, he's a socialist
and a transcendentalist," the latter suddenly remarked, coming to his
rescue. "A sort of socialistic
transcendentalist."
Andrew Doyle's embarrassment shot up a few
degrees, with the reception of this statement, and he automatically cast a
furtive glance in the general direction of the other group - for, in effect,
two groups had formed - to see if he could detect any visible change in their
collective demeanour. But they seemed
not to have heard or, at any rate, been affected by it.
"A socialist and a
transcendentalist?" Edwin duly exclaimed, his loud tone-of-voice betraying
a degree of astonishment which caused Andrew further psychological discomfiture
as, with less than steady gaze, he noted its effect on the other group - an
effect of bemused curiosity which prompted one or two of them to turn their
head in his direction, as though to say: 'Well, what's all the fuss about
then?' Oh, how he wished, at this
moment, that he hadn't told Pauline so much about himself during the course of
their walk that afternoon! His lack of
tact in one context had certainly not compensated him for his excess of it in
another. Quite the contrary! But it was evident, by the startled
expression on the chubby face of the philosophy student before him, that an
answer or, at any rate, explanation was expected.
"Yes," he at length admitted,
doing his level best to ignore whatever curiosity certain members of the other
group might still be displaying at this point, and looking at the expressive
face of the student in question in as calm and collected a manner as
possible. "I happen to subscribe to
both."
"Do you mean to tell me that you
subscribe to atheistic socialism and God-bound transcendentalism
simultaneously?" Edwin objected, still manifestly incredulous.
"Of course not!" Andrew retorted,
becoming slightly defensive. "I
don't believe, however, that socialism need necessarily be opposed to
religion. On the contrary, I believe
that it should eventually serve our spiritual aspirations by complementing
Transcendental Meditation."
"Then you're definitely no
Marxist," declared Edwin, suddenly appearing a shade offended. "For, as you may know, Marx warned his
followers to be on their guard against transcendentalism, as constituting a
threat to socialism. Anyone who puts
salvation in the sky instead of here on earth, and thereby discounts atheism,
is a threat to socialism."
"Oh, I quite agree," Andrew
conceded, too much committed to the argument he had entered into with the
philosophy student to be able to pull out or change mental track. "But, even so, Marx had a rather mundane
personality, didn't he? You couldn't
very well expect a man of his corpulent type to think particularly highly of
transcendentalism, whatever he considered it to be. Somehow, he doesn't strike me as the
meditating type. He's much too
materialistic and intellectual."
"Well, that doesn't detract anything
from the claims of Marxism, does it?" Edwin hotly retorted, his face
betraying signs of impatience, even embarrassment, by a faint colouring of the
skin. "The Marxist viewpoint is
still the Marxist viewpoint, whether or not he was too materialistic."
Andrew nodded vaguely. "Oh, I quite agree," he
repeated. "But it's a rather
limited one, all the same. After all,
just because a fat man of German-Jewish descent proclaims that
transcendentalism is something to be guarded against, it doesn't necessarily
follow that transcendentalism's bad. On
the contrary, it more than likely indicates that such a man wasn't qualified to
either understand or practise it, given the limitations of his predominantly
endomorphic temperament and build, in the, er, Sheldonian sense of the
term," he added, alluding to one of the American psychologist W.H.
Sheldon's principal physiological classifications.
"But, damn it all! ‘God is dead’"
the student, echoing Nietzsche, vigorously objected, "and, in a sense, has
been so for some two thousand years. All
this nonsense about transcendentalism, spiritual aspirations, TM, and so on, is
irrelevant, out-of-date, passé. You remind me of Philip when you speak of
such things. Christianity and Christ are
inimical to socialism, incompatible with it.
The co-operative society must be atheistic!"
"Thoroughly mistaken,"
asseverated Andrew, who had by now cast off his remaining inhibitions and was
in a fighting mood. "And I wasn't
alluding to Christ when I spoke of transcendentalism, but to the Holy
Ghost."
"What difference does it make?"
Edwin retorted. "God is God no
matter what you call Him."
Andrew had expected some such mistaken
opinion, and sighed in heartfelt exasperation at it. "Quite wrong!" he averred. "The God of the pagans, or
pre-Christians, was the Father, or whatever you'd like to call their equivalent
of the Creator, the so-called Almighty.
The God of the Christians is - or, if you prefer, was - Jesus Christ. And, finally, the God of the
transcendentalists, or post-Christians, will be - and for some already is - the
Holy Ghost. The Blessed Trinity, which
Christianity in its wisdom and foresight has bequeathed to us, isn't strictly a
simultaneous phenomenon but, rather, a successive one. It was initiated by Christianity because, as
the middle development in Western man's evolution, Christianity was in an
historical position to both look back towards the earliest stage of man's
religious evolution as well as forward towards the future stage of it - the
stage which we, in the West, have already entered upon, though not officially
or with unanimous consent, during the course of the past 100-150 years, and
most especially in the latter-half of the twentieth century. In effect, we in the post-industrialized West
live in the age of the Holy Ghost, and, if the human kind is to survive any
subsequent apocalyptic upheaval, we'll progressively continue to do so, to grow
ever more attached to the superconscious as opposed to the ego."
Edwin Ford was completely taken-aback by
this barrage of evolutionary theology from the comparative stranger in front of
him. What was all this nonsense about
the superconscious, age of the Holy Ghost, middle development in Western man's
evolution, etc? He hadn't read anything
about such things during the course of his studies at Cambridge! Was this philosophy, too? He looked at Pauline as though for support,
confirmation that he was dealing with a madman or at least a fool. But she merely stared back at him, as if to
say: 'Well, what d'you find strange about all that?' Even Philip Grace, who had disengaged himself
from the other group and come over to join them, showed no signs of being
outraged, baffled, or amused. Quite the
contrary, he merely requested Andrew, in a voice which bespoke genuine
curiosity, to make some effort to explain, in greater detail, what he meant by
'the superconscious as opposed to the ego', together with certain other related
aspects of his philosophy.
"Yes," Pauline seconded,
deferring to her brother. "Enlighten us accordingly!"
Only too willing to oblige, Andrew cleared
his throat before proceeding to deliver the broad outlines of his philosophy
concerning the progress of human evolution from the subconscious to the
superconscious. It was something which,
to varying extents, affected men everywhere, though the example of Europe,
particularly Western Europe, was most apt because relevant to everyone
present. "Beginning in the
subconscious, in subservience to sensuous nature," he began, "man's
consciousness was relatively dark - the darker the more sensuous the type of
nature man found himself surrounded and, to a large extent, dominated by. One might argue that his ego, or conscious
mind, was composed of approximately three-quarters subconscious and one-quarter
superconscious, making it decidedly lopsided on the side of the former. Consequently fear predominated over hope,
hate over love, sadness over happiness, pain over pleasure, evil over good, and
illusion over truth, so that a religious sense reflecting this negative
imbalance necessitated a religion in which God, as 'Creator', was dark and
cruel, requiring regular propitiation.
For this act of propitiation blood sacrifices, also dark and cruel, were
deemed appropriate - the more prized and important, from a human standpoint,
the greater was thought their prospect of success. Witness the story of Abraham and Isaac from
the Old Testament, the record of first-stage man in the Middle East. Witness the example of the Aztecs in South
America. Think of the Druids in ancient
Britain, who are more relevant to us.
Wherever man has been under subconscious domination in subservience to
nature, a similar pattern of blood sacrifice, founded on fear of God, has
followed suit. For the subconscious is
dark, and it's to 'the dark gods' - which, incidentally, D.H. Lawrence seems to
have found so attractive - that it inevitably leads. One might say that, at this stage of
evolution, God is essentially hateful, a power to be feared and, if possible,
won over to one's side. The sacrifice
follows as a matter of course.
"But, fortunately, man doesn't come to
a halt, like the beasts, but continues to evolve," Andrew went on,
"and through the progress he makes in the expansion of his settlements or
villages into towns, he manages to push the sensuous influence of nature away
from himself to an extent which makes it possible for him to live in a more
balanced psychological condition, and thus relate to a dualistic rather than a
pre-dualistic religious framework, a framework manifesting itself in the
antithesis between a bad god and a good god which, in Christian terms, is
equivalent to the Devil and Christ - the one representative of the sensual, the
other of the spiritual. It's after the
transcendent example of Christ, of course, that human evolution tends, and
consequently it's the duty of all Christians to live as much as possible in His
light, to fight shy of the Devil's darkness.
For Satan, symbolizing the mundane, would drag one back to pre-Christian
paganism, which would conflict with one's deepest interests in spiritual
salvation. Willy-nilly, with the
Church's guidance, one must follow the example of Christ, the man-god whom
allegiance to the psychic balance between the subconscious and superconscious
minds had made possible, since that balance constitutes the highpoint of the
ego and accordingly entails an anthropomorphic projection perfectly relative to
one's self-centredness as man in his prime as man.
"But Christianity, being dualistic,
doesn't stop at the dichotomy between Satan and Christ," Andrew continued,
warming to his thesis, "but also, and in another context, divides the
Saviour Himself into two tendencies, the evil and the good, so that to some
extent - though to a lesser extent than in the pre-Christian context of a god
of hate - one must fear Him as well, and thus, by living in His light, avoid
the consequences of His wrath at the Last Judgement. For wrath, on whatever grounds, appertains to
the realm of hate, the transmission of negative vibrations through anger, and
hate, as we all know, is evil. But it
isn't, however, the same kind of evil as generally manifested in and
represented by the Devil, being a spiritual rather than purely sensual evil,
and therefore is of less consequence, in the Christian schemata, than the
latter. For the essential dichotomy of
Christianity is between the sensual and the spiritual, not between hate and
love. Thus the essence of Christ is His
opposition to Satan, and this is what makes Him the spiritual leader of all
true Christians.
"But man, as I've already said,
doesn't remain static but continues to evolve," Andrew went on, warming
still further to his subject, "and thus his towns gradually expand into
cities or, at any rate, some of them do, so that the sensuous influence of nature
is at a still-further remove from him and, in accordance with the artificial
dictates of his predominantly urban environment, he begins to forsake the
balance between the subconscious and superconscious minds in favour of the
latter. Hence the ego, reflecting that
former balance, goes into decline as more and more of the light of
superconscious allegiance makes its mark on his psychology, and he begins to
transcend dualism. Yes, now one might
argue that he's approximately one-quarter subconscious and three-quarters
superconscious, decidedly biased in favour of the latter and therefore not in a
psychic position to relate to the Christian dichotomy between Devil and God,
sensual and spiritual, hate and love, Christ the Banisher and Christ the
Redeemer - in short, to anthropomorphism.
No, it's at this third stage of his evolution that he turns, in response
to his predominating spirituality in a superconsciously biased psyche, to the
creation of a god of love, a god who doesn't require to be propitiated with
blood sacrifices or confessions or prayers or charitable deeds, a god who
doesn't judge and condemn to eternal torment those who haven't followed his
example on earth, a god who doesn't take the form of man, a god who isn't
opposed by an evil god of sensuous predilection but, rather, a god who is
wholly transcendent, and thus completely beyond the realm of nature. This god will be the Holy Ghost, the third
and highest so-called 'Person' of the Blessed Trinity - though, should you wish
to avoid Christian terminology, with its anthropomorphic limitations, you might
prefer to follow Teilhard de Chardin's lead and refer to Him or, rather, it as
the Omega Point, and thus transcend purely Trinitarian connotations. The essential thing to remember, however, is
that this god, reflecting our growing allegiance to the superconscious, is a
god of love and that, because it's non-human, because the projection of human
traits, whether physical or psychical, is irrelevant, one doesn't pray to it,
as a Christian would pray to Christ, but simply experiences what is potentially
it ... as the essential self within the psyche, an intimation of the Infinite
which man, in consequence of his superconscious mind, is enabled to experience,
a condition of higher awareness wherein all distinctions of good and evil, love
and hate, are transcended in an all-embracing peace - the peace that 'surpasses
all understanding' and, hence, intellectual ego."
"Yes, it's essentially the age of the
Holy Ghost," Andrew pressed on, oblivious of all but his immediate
audience, "the age when man turns away from his former dualism towards the
realm of peace, and so draws one stage closer to the culmination of his
evolution in transcendent bliss, which is, of course, the condition of Heaven. Christianity has pointed him towards this
culmination for centuries, it has held up to him the dual image of Hell and
Heaven, symbolizing the beginnings and endings of evolution, and placed Christ
in the middle of this development. One
might say that it is a terribly long journey from the tortuous writhing of the
Damned in Hell to the blissful passivity of the Saved in Heaven! The juxtaposition of the two states in
painterly depictions of the Last Judgement doesn't so much signify a
simultaneous occurrence - contrary to what one might at first suppose - as the
furthest possible remove from such simultaneity. Strictly speaking, the Saved are no longer
human but godly, just as the Damned are not yet human but beastly. And in-between lies man who, in the long
journey from the beastly to the godly, is now closer, when not either dualistic
or pre-dualistic, whether on 'neo' or 'classical' terms, to the latter than
ever before, more transcendental, and hence spiritual, than ever before, and
thus closer to that salvation which resides in the post-human, not to say
humanist, Beyond. An ever-increasing
number of us are no longer, from a species point of view, in our prime as
men, but are growing progressively lopsided on the side of the godly, ever
more spiritual as the decades pass. This
is certainly something to be grateful for, since it indicates that the promise
of Christianity is being fulfilled and that it is we, in this post-Christian
age, who are the ones actively engaged in fulfilling it. As far as the more spiritually evolved of us
are concerned, the example of Christ has served its day ..."
"Antichrist!" a voice suddenly
erupted from an area of the room to Andrew's left. It belonged, as the writer quickly and
somewhat disconcertingly discovered, to Mr Grace who, together with Robert
Harding and Carol Jackson, had also been listening to the impromptu sermon he
had delivered to the three young people in front of him. He blushed perceptibly as the realization of
this fact dawned upon him, and turned a rather startled face towards his
accuser. "How dare you come into my
house and preach this kind of nonsense to a man who is a Christian and has
endeavoured to educate his children accordingly!" Mr Grace protested. "Who-the-devil d'you think you
are?"
His nerves violently on-edge, Andrew
retorted: "If I'm he whom you accuse me of being, then I don't see that
you should necessarily regard me with hate and suspicion, as though I were some
dangerously evil man set upon destroying the spiritual life and reducing humanity
to the level of beasts. On the contrary,
if I express views to the effect that Christianity is no longer relevant to the
age in which we live, it isn't because I regard it as a source of goodness
which I, ostensibly an evil man, wish to oppose and, if possible, make a
contribution towards crushing. Rather,
it's because, as a man very much on the side of goodness, light, truth, the
fulfilment of the Christian prophecy, etc., I recognize, in response to the
nature of the age, that it is being transcended anyway, and that this is
perfectly just, since strictly in accordance with the progress of human
evolution towards a higher spirituality founded on the superconscious. I don't turn against Christ because I am
evil, as you, in your antiquated traditionalism, would seem to suppose, but
simply because I'm evidently more enlightened than you, a person who is
apparently at home with anthropomorphism and the consequent ego-projection of
human traits, some of them rather nasty, onto the god you serve."
"More enlightened than me?" Mr
Grace vigorously demurred. "How
dare you say such a thing! Don't you
know that I'm a world-famous critic, a man who deserves respect and deference
on account of his status, age, wealth, class, not to mention his role as your
host? Who are you to judge whether
you're more enlightened than me?"
It was evident, by this pathetically egocentric outburst, that Henry
Grace had lost all sense of restraint, of dignified perseverance, and would have
been capable of sinking to almost any level of abusive fury.
There was a titter of laughter from Edwin
Ford, and Andrew noticed that Harding was glaring at him. But the other people in the room showed no
particular emotion at this point, being content merely to await whatever
response he should decide upon with a reserved demeanour.
"I wasn't specifically intending to
flatter myself or to criticize you when I spoke like that," the writer at
length responded in a pacificatory tone-of-voice. "I was simply endeavouring to state a fact
which would seem to be borne-out by your professed allegiance to Christianity
and consequent adherence to dualism rather than to transcendentalism. In actuality, however, I would wager anything
that, like a majority of your kind, you aren't really a Christian at all but
more of a Christian transcendentalist, being midway between Christ and the Holy
Ghost."
Mr Grace, however, wasn't to be mollified
by such a wager. "I am a
Christian," he asserted, as though to defend himself from some unsavoury
accusation. "I attend church once a
week, believe in Christ, and look forward to meeting the Saviour face-to-face
in the Afterlife."
Andrew vaguely nodded his head, as though
in weary anticipation of some such admission.
"But do you sincerely believe that Christ is all there is to
Western man's concept of God, that Christ is the be-all-and-end-all of human
evolution? Deep down, do you really
think one cannot evolve beyond Christ?"
"Yes, I do," Mr Grace averred,
though, perhaps understandably, without much conviction. He hesitated a moment, then continued:
"Of course, I accept the Holy Ghost as the Third Person of the Blessed
Trinity, but ..."
"Ah, so you do
acknowledge the fact that there's something above Christ," Andrew
interposed, with an expression of triumph on his lean face. "You are prepared
to admit to the validity of the Holy Ghost?"
"By all means," Mr Grace
confirmed. "But I don't see what
that has to do with it. After all, I
believe in Christ, the Son of God Who ..."
"Oh, of course you do!" Andrew
interposed again, growing slightly impatient with his host's theological
conservatism, the product, no doubt, of a sheep-like acquiescence in what he
had been taught many years before and had not bothered to question in the
meantime. "Yet that doesn't mean to
say you can't have transcendental sympathies, or that Christianity is the final
stage of man's religious evolution.
Quite the reverse, there are a lot of people these days who, just
because they attend church once a week and pay lip service to Christ, imagine they're
genuine Christians when, if the truth were known, they're incapable of a
genuinely Christian faith and attitude to life because closer in reality to
being transcendentalists. They're caught
between two worlds, two stages of man's religious evolution, and are
consequently less Christian than they may think."
Mr Grace frowned sullenly, doubtless to
distance himself from being implicated in any such ambiguity, but Andrew
prevented him from saying anything by raising his hand in mild rebuff and
continuing: "Now don't think I'm condemning them for that, since it's only
to be expected at this transitional juncture in time that a lot of consciously
Christian people should be unconsciously less Christian than they may think,
given the fact that they're subject, like most other people, to the
anti-natural influence of the artificial environments of our big cities, and
therefore aren't quite as finely balanced between the subconscious and the
superconscious as a genuine Christian, living in the heyday of Christianity,
would be. And if, for that reason,
they're less Christian, well then, they can only be more transcendental, which
is a good thing. For just as a
transcendentalist-proper is on a higher level of spiritual evolution than a
Christian transcendentalist, so, in a paradoxical sort of way, the latter is on
a higher spiritual level than a Christian-proper. In point of fact, most latter-day Protestant
sects are effectively Christian transcendentalist, in contrast to the Catholic
Church, which puts more emphasis on the feminine, viz. the Virgin Mary, and on
propitiation, viz. confession, and is thereby closer, in essence, to paganism,
to what preceded Christianity, even when one discounts the sublimated
cannibalism of the Mass, wherein the body and blood of Christ are sacramentally
consumed. One might say that the
fundamental difference between Catholicism and Protestantism is to do with a
distinction between early Christianity and late Christianity, as between Christianity-proper
which, with its beingful deference to the Virgin Mary, is somewhat Buddhist in
its accommodation of sentience to the world, and Christian transcendentalism
which, with its existential crucifix, transcends the world to some extent, if
only materialistically so and, hence, with effect to the intellect
primarily. Thus if you're a Roman
Catholic ..."
"My family and I am Baptist!"
declared Henry Grace with solemnity.
"Well then, you're certainly more
transcendental," Andrew rejoined, offering his adversary a confirmatory
smile. "You don't set much store by
the Blessed Virgin, and you don't make a point of regularly confessing your
sins to a priest. You have, it seems to
me, a more optimistic concept of God, which is exemplified by the fact that you
don't go in any great fear of Him. Why,
He might almost be a god of love, the way you trust Him not to punish you for
being opposed to confession. But not
quite because, being partly Christian, you still contrive to anthropomorphize
God and thus relate, in varying degrees, to Christ. You still acknowledge a dualistic framework
to some extent, though obviously to a lesser extent than the genuine Christian
- assuming, for the sake of argument, that there are in fact
any such people around these days. For
it goes without saying that if the modern age, with its large-scale
industrialization and widespread urbanization, isn't particularly friendly
towards Protestantism, it's even less friendly towards Catholicism, which
initially flourished in a much-less urban environment - indeed, in a predominantly
rural one, and was accordingly more naturalistic. But all this is slightly beside-the-point, a
point I trust I made sufficiently clear to you when I said that our evolution
is leading us towards a higher spirituality founded upon the superconscious,
and it's therefore right and proper that Christianity, of whatever description,
should be left behind as a matter of course.
Thus if you see me as an antichrist, Mr Grace, I'm not in the least
ashamed of it, nor in any way conscious that I'm holding back evolutionary
progress. On the contrary, I'm only
anti-Christian to the extent that I'm pro-transcendental. I'm not a Christian but a transcendentalist,
a man of the Holy Ghost, as I hope to have made conclusively evident by
now."
Mr Grace refused to comment, but Edwin
Ford, who during the course of Andrew's explication had retained a discreet if
resentful silence, suddenly reverted to his earlier concern with Marxism and
the correlative assertion that a socialist society should be atheistic. He saw no future, he said, for the type of
person Andrew seemed to be so keen on defending, and flatly proclaimed himself
in favour of atheistic socialism - not, it might be noted, to the overall
pleasure of Henry Grace and Robert Harding who, at this unhappy juncture,
simultaneously expressed an implicit disapproval of the subject by reverting to
a discussion of their own - one, needless to say, on art. "The fact is that modern man,"
Edwin continued, ignoring the disturbance to his right, "is outgrowing the
illusions of the past and evolving, in consequence, towards a secular society
in which God, however you conceive of Him, has absolutely no place. Salvation is in our own hands, not in those
of an illusory deity, and will only come about when we attain to the communist
millennium, having, in the meantime, abolished competitiveness and established
a classless society founded on co-operation."
"Oh, I entirely agree," said
Andrew, in enthusiastic response to the latter part of the student's
argument. "It is important
to mankind's future welfare that the co-operative ideals of socialism should
flourish. For just as religion passes
through three distinct stages, so, too, does politics - beginning with
royalism, evolving to liberalism, and culminating in socialism."
Both Edwin and Philip looked puzzled. "How d'you mean?" the latter asked.
"I mean," Andrew confidently
replied, "that politics, like religion, corresponds to the nature of the
environment in which a given people happen to find themselves, corresponds, if
you prefer, to their psychic disposition in relation to it, so that a people
predominantly existing in the subconscious will have a different political bias
from a people for whom the superconscious has come to play a greater role. Now if subservience to the subconscious
results in royalism, genuine royalism, that is, not the neo-royalism and/or
fascism we have seen so much of in recent decades but a pre-democratic
authoritarianism which emphasizes differences of rank, wealth, race,
intelligence, etc., and is distinctly competitive, then the converse situation
... of allegiance to the superconscious ... results in socialism, in a politics
which strives to establish equality, abolishing differences of rank, wealth,
race, intelligence, etc., and encouraging co-operation. Well, just as our spiritual evolution from
the beastly to the godly embraces a compromise position in-between paganism and
transcendentalism en route which, as Christianity, reflects man in
his prime as man, so our material evolution likewise embraces a
compromise position in-between royalism and socialism en route which, as
liberalism, also reflects man in his dualistic prime. Now just as Christianity reaches its peak
while the dualistic tension is strongest and man is most finely balanced
between the subconscious and the superconscious in his ego, so liberalism
reaches a peak while the tension between competitiveness and co-operativeness,
democratic royalism and democratic socialism, is greatest, and the political
battle accordingly most finely balanced.
"It has been claimed, incidentally,
that liberalism is incapable of producing great leaders - a view, if I may say
so, which is really quite mistaken," Andrew continued, taking his
exposition to a new level. "For
it's certainly capable of producing them while in the ascendant or at its peak,
as witness men like Gladstone and Shaftsbury.
But as soon as it begins to decline, the odds are stacked against its
doing so. Now the further it declines,
the more liberalism parts company, in other words, with its former dualistic
balance and becomes progressively lopsided on the side of the Left, the less
chance there is that it will produce great leaders, since they only appear, as
a rule, when the battle between the Right and the Left is at its height, not
when one doesn't have to exert oneself overmuch because the balance has been
tipped so far in one's favour that the sailing, if I may use a sporting
analogue, is smoothest. Political
leadership always requires a strong opposition if it's to distinguish
itself."
"Yes, but what does all this have to
do with Marxism?" Edwin wanted to know, showing signs of impatience with
Andrew's contention. "I don't doubt
that socialism evolves out of liberalism.
What I'm interested in establishing with you is the fact that 'God is
dead' and the drive towards the communist millennium accordingly under
way."
Andrew Doyle felt somewhat annoyed with
this cocky young Cambridge undergraduate for not having given ground to any
appreciable extent on his misguided conviction that socialism and
transcendentalism were incompatible, even after all the efforts he had put
himself through to describe the three principal stages of religious evolution
and to align them, so far as possible, with corresponding political stages. No doubt, young Ford was of such a distinctly
political persuasion as not to be able to abide the thought of religion, or the
prospect of spiritual aspirations, still figuring in people's lives. Like Marx, he put all or most of his eggs in
the basket of socialism and left them there.
But was he wrong? Yes and no.
Yes, because politics weren't everything and couldn't be expected to
bring one to spiritual salvation in transcendent bliss. No, because he was to a significant extent
the victim of his temperament, his physiological type, possibly even his race,
and couldn't be expected to properly relate to those of a dissimilar
constitution. The world had need of men
who would dedicate most of their energies to politics, who saw salvation
largely if not wholly in material terms, if only to ensure that politics
weren't ignored. Likewise, it had need
of the opposite kind of men, men who, for a variety of reasons, not least of
all temperamental, would dedicate themselves primarily to the cause of spiritual
advancement. Yet it also had need of men
like Andrew, who, being more temperamentally balanced between the material and
the spiritual, realized that, strictly speaking, the one couldn't exist without
the other, and that it was a rash presumption on the part of the
temperamentally lopsided to suppose the contrary - namely that only their individual
concerns mattered, not those of their opponents. Taken to extremes, this would lead to mass
purges of people who, for a variety of personal reasons, couldn't be expected
to share one's views, to abandon their transcendentalism, shall we say, in the
name of Marxism, and thus subscribe to a society based solely on politics
and/or economics. Rather than being
accepted on their own temperamental standing as a legitimate contribution to
the overall welfare of society or, at any rate, to a quite considerable section
of it, such people would probably be regarded as fools, if not class enemies,
and be liquidated for the good of Marxism.
Which of course would be partly true, since it would be for the
good of Marxism. But not for the good of
human progress! Not as a contributory
factor to the culmination of evolution in the subsequent post-human millennium! It would suit only one section of humanity -
people whose mundane temperaments permitted them to regard material concerns as
the be-all-and-end-all of mankind's salvation, who conceived of the Millennium
solely in terms of economic co-operation, decent wages, council estates,
equality of opportunity, freedom from want, etc., with never a thought for the
deepest and most important needs of mankind - those of the spirit. Man, apparently, was to be reduced to a beast
who simply required to be well-housed and well-fed, provided with a decent
kennel and regular meat. But could man
be so reduced? Was it likely that
progress demanded of man that he became less spiritual than of old, that
progress signified a regression to pagan criteria - nay, even a complete
elimination of man's spiritual potential?
It seemed unlikely! If anything, progress could only mean a
refinement on and improvement of his spiritual potential, a better and more
sensible way of satisfying it, of encouraging it to develop, according to the
capacities of the individual. Man was
not to regress to a level scarcely above the beasts, with never a thought for
anything beyond his material well-being and future survival. On the contrary, he had to progress one stage
closer to the godlike. After all, even
2000 years ago it was acknowledged that man did not live by bread alone. How much more so was it the case now! How much more so would it be the case in
future!
No, the Marxist claim certainly had a point
so far as outgrowing the Christian god was concerned. But it was decidedly mistaken if it thought that
men should outgrow the concept of spiritual salvation altogether! If God was dead, it
should not be taken to imply that God per se, or the Holy Ghost, was
dead (since, in Andrew's view, this God didn't as yet properly exist), but only
the Christian way of conceiving of God - the anthropomorphic, relativistic
concept of God as Jesus Christ, based on the ego projections of dualistic man,
or man balanced between the subconscious and the superconscious during that
time he lived in a compromise position between nature and civilization in what
has been termed, by philosophers of history like Spengler, a Culture. But if Western Culture was in decline, as
Spengler contended, then modern man was arguably on the rise, up beyond the
cultural phase of evolution towards the transcendental phase, in which the
superconscious considerably predominated over the subconscious, and the ego, at
its height while the dualistic balance still prevailed, declines in proportion
to the imbalance in favour of the superconscious. Thus there is progressively less motivation
for anthropomorphic projections, and consequently the Christian god is
transcended.
But not the Holy Ghost, Ultimate Reality,
the Omega Point, or whatever one would like to call the true concept of God
which takes Christ's place. There can be
no question of one's discarding that!
For it is only through progressive allegiance to that part of the psyche
which presages the Infinite that man will eventually attain to his spiritual
salvation in transcendent bliss, and thus enter the post-human millennium, that
heaven-on-earth where only peace will reign.
The Christian prophecy of salvation will indeed be fulfilled, though not
in strictly Christian or symbolical terms, but in post-Christian and hence literal
terms, such as are readily acceptable to an age in which truth must
increasingly prevail over illusion and ultimately, at the climax to our
evolution, completely triumph over the illusory - to whatever pertains, in
short, to the subconscious mind, the sensual, and the worldly. It was closer and closer to the godly that we
were heading, not closer to the beastly!
And because of this, the true concept of God was superior to anything
which had preceded it. (Note that one
can have a true concept of God without believing in the existence of God, i.e.
through refusing to confuse what is potentially this God, in the higher reaches
of the superconscious, with what will truly become divine at the climax of
evolution, following spiritual transcendence.
One can thus be an atheist and an upholder of
God-in-the-process-of-formation at the same time!)
Yet while the confusions resulting from and
attendant upon the transition from one concept or stage of God to another
continued to exist, as they would doubtless do until such time as the
transition had been officially outgrown, it was understandable, if regrettable,
that purely materialistic sentiments took possession of so many people and
induced them to suppose that religion was a closed issue. The fact of Edwin Ford's believing that
politics, and politics alone, would suffice to take care of mankind's future
welfare ... was by no means an uncommon assumption, since one effectively
shared by thousands, if not millions, of fundamentally well-intentioned, though
essentially deluded, people who took the gospel of Marx and kindred Socialists
too seriously. Whether or not he liked
it, socialism would eventually have to serve transcendentalism, the Commissar,
in Koestlerian parlance, would have to subordinate himself to the Yogi, so
that, thanks to co-operative well-being on the material plane, man would be in
the best possible position to develop his spiritual potential and thereby
prepare himself for that long-awaited transformation from the human to the
godlike, from man to superman, which would constitute the post-human millennium
and, hence, salvation-on-earth. Such a
joyous climax to the long struggle humanity had waged through the ages in the
name of progress would not be brought about, however, by the Commissars
striving to eliminate the Yogis. As
Koestler suggested, the predominantly political temperaments and their
religious counterparts would have to work together for the common good, not
battle one another after the fashion of adversaries! The co-operative society really had to be
co-operative, unwilling to tolerate or sanction those divisive dualities out of
which, thank goodness, man was slowly evolving.
There could be no question of people abusing one another, like Catholics
and Protestants, democratic royalists and democratic socialists, in the
transcendental society. For physical
passivity, not conflict, is the key to salvation - a salvation which, as
deliverance from dualism, we were now closer to than at any previous time in
the history of our race.
So it was that Andrew strove to impress
upon Edwin the limitations of his materialistic viewpoint, agreeing with him
where agreement was possible, but strongly repudiating any claims to the effect
that socialism should be regarded as an end-in-itself, without recourse to
religion. Clearly, materialistic Marxism
had to be superseded, in due course, by a socialist philosophy not hostile to
transcendentalism ... if what Andrew liked to think of as third-stage life, the
life of post-Christian man, was to get properly off the ground and reasonably
integrated (otherwise humanity would arrive at a dead-end in which the spirit
suffocated beneath the oppressive consistency of materialistic considerations,
cut-off from that higher destiny which alone constituted true salvation). That this was unlikely to happen in the near
future seemed only too obvious. But
eventually, once the world had rid itself of a number of existing conflicts,
there could be no reasonable alternative to the establishment of a new
socialism, one based not on hostility to Christianity, but on an acceptance of
and allegiance to transcendentalism. The
struggle towards the creation of the Holy Ghost, the Holy Grail of religious
striving, would have to be acknowledged - else politics was defeating its own
ends.
"Well," said Edwin at the
conclusion to Andrew's latest speech, part of which he found attractive and
even strangely credible, "what you say may well be true, but I'm damned if
I'll submit to any meditation routine in the meantime. I'd rather stick to my Marxism and
concentrate on damning Christianity or, more specifically, bourgeois
liberalism, with its parliamentary presumptions."
"You're perfectly welcome to,"
Andrew responded, a faint smile of knowing resignation in accompaniment,
"since no-one is asking you to wear a coat which doesn't fit. But I'd be grateful, all the same, if you
didn't make the mistake of damning transcendentalism in the process!"
"Yes, so would I," seconded
Philip Grace, breaking the respectful silence he had maintained, in company
with his sister, while Andrew was delivering his lengthy and, at times,
perplexing harangue.
"Bah!" ejaculated the Cambridge
undergraduate, with a certain cynical relish.
"You can keep your heads in the clouds of idealistic illusion, for
all I care!"
But before he or anyone could say anything
else, Mrs Grace appeared on the scene, to announce that tea was ready. The time had again arrived for them to take
care of the body!
CHAPTER SIX
"I do
hope you weren't too offended by some of the opinions my next-door neighbour
permitted himself before tea," Harding apologetically and almost
rhetorically inquired of the figure seated beside him on one of the four
available back-garden benches. "I
hadn't realized he harboured such radical sentiments."
Henry Grace appeared momentarily upset,
then, remembering his self-appointed role, burst into a dismissive smile, as
though to say he had already forgotten about the affair and didn't consider it
worth his while to recall anything.
"After all, people are entitled to their views, even if we can't
approve of or relate to them," he averred, as a kind of afterthought. "I hadn't realized you'd brought an
antichrist with you."
"Neither had I," Harding
confessed, averting his eyes from the critic's vaguely reproachful gaze and
instinctively turning them towards Carol Jackson, who sat directly
opposite. "In point of fact, I knew
very little about him, not having known him all that long. Had I not recently executed his portrait, it
wouldn't have occurred to me to invite him along with us."
"Oh, don't worry yourself about
it!" Mr Grace advised him, adopting an almost fatherly tone. "A new voice in our midst every now and
then is by no means a bad thing, particularly if it only serves to strengthen us
in our convictions. I assure you that
I'm not opposed to free speech, no matter how much I may disagree with or
disapprove of what's being said. We must
be tolerant, mustn't we? Although I must
confess to not having been able to tolerate everything he said, as, for
example, when he considered himself my spiritual superior. That sounded too presumptuous by half!"
Harding sighed faintly in commiserating
response to this blunt reminder of Mr Grace's former outrage. Obviously the man had been offended to some
considerable extent, though politeness or tactfulness now restrained him from
making a point of it.
"He was just following-up the logic
that transcendentalism is on a higher spiritual plane than Christianity,"
Carol opined, somewhat to both men's surprise, "and that a
transcendentalist is therefore spiritually superior to a Christian, since less
dualistic, less given to the sensual, and consequently indisposed to
anthropomorphic projections relative to an egocentric humanism. I find that an admirably objective viewpoint,
actually."
Harding wasn't at all pleased with his
girlfriend's defence of Andrew Doyle's logic, nor with her uncharacteristic
sophistication, and would have cautioned her with a look of reproof, had she
not been focusing her attention exclusively on the shocked face of their host.
"Admirable or not, it was still
presumptuous of him to say what he did," Mr Grace responded testily. "How does he know how
good or bad I am? Can he read my
soul?"
"I can't answer that," Carol
replied. "But he evidently assumes
that a man who's at home with Christianity, like you, is less spiritually
advanced than one who finds it beneath him.
Perhaps, on the other hand, you're not as much of a Christian as you
tend to imagine, and simply did yourself an unconscious injustice by defending
Christianity the way you did."
"Carol!" protested Harding
sharply, becoming embarrassed on Mr Grace's account. But the critic seemed not to be offended, or
at least to show it if he was.
"That may be true," he conceded. "Though it's hardly for him to say what
I am. Common decency should
forbid."
"Ah, but you did accuse him of being
an antichrist," Carol insisted, ignoring her boyfriend's disapproval.
"Well, that's what he is, isn't
he?" Mr Grace retorted with impatience.
"And, to my mind, anyone who's against Christ is for the
Devil. That much I have always
maintained! But he doubtless wouldn't
agree, being a transcendentalist or whatever he calls himself." He attempted a dismissive chuckle. Then, evidently disappointed that it didn't
sound as dismissive as he would have liked, rhetorically added: "Have you
ever heard such nonsense?" to the man beside him.
Harding automatically allowed himself the
luxury of a conspiratorial smile.
"Perhaps I ought to have painted a dove above his head when I did
his portrait the other week," he murmured, by way of verbally siding with
their host. "But I hadn't realized,
at the time, that he harboured such an allegiance. He was remarkably secretive with me. Didn't even let-on about his socialist
sympathies, though I guessed from the start that he must have had some....
Could tell by his reaction to certain of my statements. Yet because he was my new neighbour and
something of an artist in his own right, I was doing my level best to establish
a friendly relationship, to remain polite and optimistic, as the situation
seemingly warranted. Unfortunately, life
too often has a way of obliging one to attempt friendship with people who are really
anything but kindred spirits, yet whom circumstances have thrust upon one with
the implicit stipulation that one makes a determined effort to treat them as if
they were! It has often happened to me
in the past, and sometimes with quite disastrous results! On one occasion, for instance, I found myself
befriending a communist without in the least being aware of the fact until a
number of weeks had elapsed, and I discovered a letter, which he'd evidently
mislaid, from the Communist Party. I
immediately severed relations with the jerk and ceased to befriend him there
and then! You can imagine how surprised
he was by my sudden volte-face. But,
fortunately to say, most of my social incompatibilities haven't been with
men." He avoided Carol's eyes but
was perfectly aware, from the tone of the ironic a-hem she faintly emitted,
that she assumed he was primarily alluding to her. The incompatibility in her case, though
hitherto of a less radical nature than a majority of the incompatibilities he
had known with women, appeared to have acquired a new emphasis and slightly
extended itself beyond its previous bounds; though he couldn't quite fathom the
reason or reasons for this change in her - even given the fact that she was
evidently sympathetic towards Andrew Doyle.
No, this modification in her attitude towards him, although for the most
part artfully concealed, had stealthily insinuated itself into her some time
before Doyle had elected to deliver an extempore lecture on religion and
politics. But why and how? This he hadn't been able to ascertain, even
after he had inquired of her if something was amiss.
Breaking the oppressive silence which
threatened to drive a psychological wedge between him and his two principal
guests, Mr Grace said: "Well, I think that you and I can at least be
assured, Robert, of an acceptable degree of temperamental and social
compatibility, regardless of any superficial differences which may exist
between us. I liked you from the start,
and I continue to do so ... whatever your new neighbour's views might be. As far as art, politics, and religion are
concerned, we're fundamentally two of a kind, brothers in a common cause - the
cause, namely, of liberal decency and tradition. We have enemies everywhere, that goes without
saying. But we also have friends, and
it's our moral duty to aid them wherever and whenever we can. For I'll aid you, Rob, you needn't be in any
doubt about that! Your technical
abilities as an artist greatly impress me, not least of all in the
aesthetically gratifying example recently made available to me in the form of a
highly competent and elegant portrait, which I assure you I shall always
treasure. The other two in the lounge -
the one of me as a young man of approximately your own age, painted by Gareth
Stephens, and the one of my late cousin, Reginald, done by the artist himself -
are decidedly overshadowed by your work, believe me, and I flatter myself to
think that you may be prepared to execute other such portraits of me and my
family in due course."
Hardly able to believe his ears, Harding
was overcome with a mixture of gratitude and relief at the sound of these
generous words which, all along, it had been his pet ambition to hear. "I most certainly am!" he
exuberantly averred, blushing profusely.
"The prospect of executing additional commissions from you gives me
immense satisfaction, I can assure you, Mr Grace. I'm deeply honoured."
"No more than your talent
deserves," Henry Grace nonchalantly assured him, taking the opportunity to
extend an encouraging hand to the artist's nearest shoulder. "It's the least I can do, to offer you
further opportunities of expressing it.
Otherwise you may feel obliged to waste precious time on the production
of works you're not temperamentally suited to - if, indeed, one can term such
productions as those to which I'm alluding 'works' at all!"
Harding smiled knowingly and nodded in
eager complicity. He knew exactly to
which kinds of productions the critic was alluding and was only too grateful
for this further confirmation of the latter's professional confidence in him,
this new indication of their mutual distaste for and opposition to modern art,
with its non-representational bias. Now
there could be no doubt that Mr Grace was firmly on his side, he felt confident
he could establish a firm reputation for himself as a champion of the
representational tradition and an enemy of abstraction, in any and all of its
modes. The art world would come to
appreciate his cause in due time, tired, as it was, of the insipid productions
of the painterly avant-garde and hungering for something with real substance,
hungering, in fact, for art itself. Yes,
the art world had been deprived of genuine creativity for too long, it was
spiritually famished. But it would be
fed, and Harding knew how to feed it!
And not only with portraits, nutritious though they undoubtedly were,
but with landscapes, depictions of great events, interpretations of classical
myth, and illustrations from world literature.
He would pour fresh blood into its moribund veins, re-animate it with all
the vigour of his soul, and create a veritable revolution in taste. Representational art would acquire a new
lease-of-life, and thus be restored to full bodily strength.
Such was how Harding mused as, oblivious of
Carol, he sat in Henry Grace's verdant garden, that fair evening in late July,
and pondered his future world-saving destiny, no more than a foot or two from
the man who would help him to realize it.
But even as he basked in the smug complicity of their mutual conspiracy,
a dark cloud passed across his soul at the recollection of what Doyle had said,
during tea, about his preference for progressive abstract art and conviction
that, if it hadn't already done so, such art would soon reach its painterly
consummation and thereupon die out - a remark made in response to a question
put to him by young Edwin Ford which, at the time, neither artist nor critic
chose to comment on, but which nonetheless caused a certain heightening of
tension at table. Even Carol had shown
signs of being visibly affected by it, though not in a way he would have
expected. Indeed, her half-humorous
response suggested more than an inkling of sympathy for Andrew Doyle's
viewpoint - one that could only have been tied-up with his socialism and
transcendentalism!
But Harding refused to be impressed by this
sombre recollection and quickly made an effort to dispel it by launching-out on
an impassioned vilification of Abstract Expressionism, Post-Painterly
Abstraction, Tachism, and kindred extremist movements in modern art, all for
the benefit of the elderly critic, who would doubtless concur.
"Yes, it's a wonder to me that such
phenomena get taken for art at all," Mr Grace agreed, nodding his
patrician head in persevering affirmation.
"And it's a still greater wonder that people expect me, an
experienced eye, to appreciate them! Of
course, there are times when I have to make an effort at doing so, times when I
even have to simulate appreciation to pass muster as an informed and informative
critic.... Not that I go out of my way to do so, or make a regular habit of
betraying my deepest responses, my true feelings. But I'm not always able to speak my mind,
believe me! I sometimes find myself
being obliged to refer to a certain work as art when, in reality, it's anti-art
or some artless daub. Not a very
flattering situation, by any means!
Simply one forced upon me by the degenerate nature of the age. Alas, I'm unable to entirely transcend
it! I must make an effort at
toeing-the-critical-line, even when it's crooked and no longer easy to see,
else give up criticism altogether.
However, since that's something I'm not in a position to do, I
persevere. But I'm partly compensated by
Modern Realism, which I prefer to concentrate on whenever possible. A much better and more acceptable branch of
contemporary art, even given the threat and, in some sense, technical victory
of photography. At any rate, one of the
few painterly developments, this century, to which I can unreservedly
subscribe, albeit without that degree of enthusiasm I ordinarily reserve for
more traditional forms of realism. It's
really the best of a bad job, so to speak."
"Or the worst of a good one,"
Harding facetiously suggested, in an attempt to defer to his host's
banality. "It has the merit,
anyway, of solid form and dependable technique, which is more than can be said
for most latter-day abstract art. Any
fool can paint a modern abstract, but rare is the man who can reproduce
external reality with an almost photographic exactitude, like, say, Andrew
Wyeth. It is certainly a task requiring
the utmost technical mastery if it's to materialize in anything approaching a
convincing way. Like trompe-l'oeil,
for which, as you know, I have a great admiration, having experimented quite
extensively in the genre."
"Indeed you have," Mr Grace
confirmed, suddenly reminded of the vexing examples of this long-standing mode
of painterly reproduction which he had recently encountered in the artist's
Richmond house. "From what I've
seen of your trompe-l'oeils, I'd rank you second only to Martin
Battersby," he went on. "You
create an illusion of presence which is capable of deceiving even the most
sceptical eye, particularly from a distance of several yards. That vase of assorted flowers in a darkened
niche is one of your most credible deceptions, in my opinion. I was momentarily fooled by it when I first
set foot in the room in which you've painted it. But the play of light from the large front window
duly gave the game away. The vase
suddenly became part of a skilfully contrived mural, and I was prevented from
making an ass of myself by attempting to smell its illusory contents!"
"Robert would have been more flattered
by his achievement had you in fact actually attempted to do so," Carol
opined, abandoning the torpor into which she had protectively immersed herself
while the attack on modern art prevailed.
"A few people have already distinguished themselves in that
respect, haven't they, darling?"
The artist felt obliged to admit as much,
though he had no specific recollection of the fact. In all probability, Carol was simply
endeavouring to mock him, to emphasize the impossibility of anyone with any
degree of intelligence and a relatively unimpaired vision possibly being
deceived by the trompe-l'oeil in question, never mind the other and more
blatantly ineffectual examples which adorned his house! No doubt, Henry Grace was being a shade
over-generous in his estimation of it from a sense of humour, not stupidity, as
she probably suspected.
"And which side of Rob's art do you
particularly admire?" the critic was asking her.
"A bit of all sides but all of no
particular one," Carol ambiguously confessed, somewhat to Harding's
embarrassment. "I tend to be fairly
eclectic in my tastes."
"Like my wife, who doesn't know enough
about art to have any specific prejudices," Mr Grace commented, smiling
ruefully. "She changes her tastes
like a chameleon its colours, preferring now this, now that, but never staying
on any given tack for very long. She'd
be incapable of taking a stand on moral or philosophical grounds against any
particular branch of modern art. Too
eclectic by-half!"
"So it is with women generally,"
Harding averred, slightly amused.
"It's only a comparatively small minority of them who cherish
strong aesthetic or moral prejudices, or perhaps I should say principles? Most women are quite indifferent to such
matters as right or wrong, good or bad, progress or regress, in art. After all, matters like that don't strictly
concern them as women, do they?"
"Perhaps not," Mr Grace replied,
not without a slight feeling of uneasiness in the presence of Carol
Jackson. "Though they must
certainly concern us, Rob, else our cause is lost and the philistines of
modernity will have it all their own damn way!
Still, we know on which side we must make our stand, don't we,
Rob?"
The latter nodded and smiled in eager
confirmation.
"Sodding good for you!" exclaimed
Carol under her breath, patently contemptuous of them.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was with
a slightly apprehensive feeling that Andrew accepted an invitation from
Pauline, following their return from the local pub later that evening, to take
a peek at her book collection and listen to a private recital of some of her
poems. Having spent the greater part of
the evening in heated conversation with Philip and Edwin, he was not in the
best of moods to respond to such an invitation, since somewhat tired of
intellectual matters and desirous of some privacy. Besides, he half-feared that she would revert
to her conversation on writing and exasperate him with a fresh barrage of
ingenuous opinions and/or questions. But
more because it was impossible to refuse than from any heartfelt desire to
witness her culture, he found himself accompanying Mr Grace's daughter up the
well-carpeted stairs, having abandoned the two tipsy students in the lounge to
their dialectical and even post-dialectical ruminations. What, if anything, they would think he was up
to with her, he didn't know. But it was
not improbable that he was simply going to bed, and that Pauline had merely
elected to escort him to his room.... Which, to all appearances, was exactly
what she was doing, save for the fact that her room happened to be conveniently
situated en route, and contained a quantity of books which she felt sure
would be of some interest to the writer - books she had begun collecting at the
tender age of ten and had continued to amass, at regular intervals, right up to
the present.
Extending two-thirds of the way along the
length of one wall and upwards to a height of approximately six feet, her books
rested on several shelves of brightly varnished pine and presented their
variously coloured spines to Andrew's wary eye.
Of the total number housed in this way, which must have been somewhere
in the region of two thousand, a goodly number were Penguin paperbacks, their
orange or grey spines betraying varying degrees of wear, some of them very
creased, the spines curved inwards and looking as though they might collapse or
disintegrate at the slightest provocation, others scarcely creased at all,
either because they were less old or hadn't been re-read. It was evident, from a cursory inspection of
the collection, that Pauline was no stranger to books but must have spent the
greater part of her free time thumbing through one paperback after another,
with the occasional hardback thrown-in for good measure - presumably when
favourable financial circumstances had enabled her to obtain one, or as a
Christmas and/or birthday gift.
However, much as he was a confirmed
bookworm himself, the spectacle of so many worn, dilapidated paperbacks packed
together on the shelves, like canned sardines, had a distinctly depressing
effect on Andrew, who had sometime previously disposed of a large number of
worn paperbacks, stemming from the days of his own youthful and therefore more
economical collecting, and replaced such of them as he especially admired with
hardbacks, so that his current library, comprising merely some five-hundred
books, was largely composed of the latter.
Pauline, to his mind, had evidently not yet reached that revolution in
one's sense of values which made the acquisition of hardbacks a must for any
discriminating collector but was still a victim of financial constraint and, in
all probability, the accompanying ignorance with regard to the body/head
distinction which the softback/hardback dichotomy signified to Andrew and thus,
by implication, stood as a matter of incontrovertible fact. No doubt, she would come to realize, in due
time, that the great literary masters were better served on fine paper with
larger and clearer print between stronger covers ... than ever they were by the
coarse paper and tiny, not to say faint, print so often resorted to by the
manufacturers of cheap paperbacks.
Admittedly, paperbacks were of immense social value, inasmuch as they
enabled people who couldn't afford hardbacks to read the classics (if, indeed,
classic literature was what appealed to them) at a relatively economic
cost. But for anyone with any
discrimination in such matters and, needless to say, the means to sustain it,
there was quite a difference between reading a novel like, say, Aldous Huxley's
Point Counter Point in paperback and reading it
in hardback. Only the latter, with its
finer paper and stronger print, could really do justice to the intellectual
dignity of the work, making one conscious that one had a precious literary
treasure in one's hands which it was worth keeping and, when the fancy took
one, re-reading. After all, did one
collect books for the mere sake of collecting?
Well, on deeper reflection, Andrew had to
admit to himself that some people did.
There were undoubtedly bibliomaniacs and bibliophiliacs of one
persuasion or another to be found in the world - people whose principal reason
for buying books was the sheer pleasure of collecting, or witnessing the
materialistic expansion of their library.
Understandably, such people would not take too kindly to the phrase
'mere sake of collecting'. But for
Andrew Doyle - who, incidentally, wasn't entirely immune to such pleasures
himself - the thought of keeping a book one wasn't likely to re-read found
little support with him, primarily because he regarded books from a cultural
rather than a material angle, and this in spite of his penchant for
hardbacks. If a book didn't particularly
appeal to him, he made little or no effort to include it in his library. For, comparatively small though his current
library was, it represented books for which he had a special fondness or weakness
- not books he had simply collected.
Thus if - as was indeed the case - he had
all eleven of Aldous Huxley's published novels there, it wasn't simply because
he had, at one time or another, bought them all but, more significantly,
because he had a distinct predilection for Huxley's novels, any one of which he
would have been capable of re-reading from time to time. Indeed, he would have been capable of
re-reading virtually anything by Huxley, the early poems notwithstanding, but
that's essentially beside-the-point.
Suffice it to say that there was nothing in his library which was there
just because he had happened to buy it.
If he didn't like a particular book he would dispose of it, no matter
how much it had cost him. But he was
such a careful, thoughtful, reserved, and discriminating collector ... that he
very rarely found himself being obliged to resort to such a drastic
tactic. Then, too, he made judicious use
of the local library, experimenting with authors he would probably have avoided
had circumstances obliged him to buy their works, and thereby extending his
literary horizons comparatively free-of-charge.
Only when he had borrowed a book he particularly liked would he consider
the possibility of expanding his small private collection by actually buying the work
from a city book-seller, in order to be able to re-read it at leisure in years
to come. In this fashion, by first
'sounding out' a work through the public library and then - assuming it had
made an especially favourable impression on him - buying it for private
reference, he had acquired such profound works as Thomas Mann's Dr Faustus,
Hermann Hesse's The Glass Bead Game, Raymond Roussel's Locus Solus,
and J.K. Huysmans' Against the Grain.
Such novels, he believed, were worthy of the shelves of any
discriminating collector!
But novels like that were not, alas, to be
found on young Pauline's shelves, as the writer, having supposed as much
anyway, now had his suppositions confirmed by the depressing spectacle arrayed
in front of him. Only average classics
reposed there, though this was really more a credit to her than a disgrace, in
that she conformed, by and large, to the dictates of her sex, age, education,
class, financial circumstances, and cheerful temperament. One could hardly expect to have found Les Chants
de Maldoror, Tropic of Cancer, or Steppenwolf on
such an innocent young Englishwoman's shelves, even if the presence there of Notes
from Underground and Women in Love was somewhat surprising.... Though
the spine of the Dostoyevsky was somewhat less creased than that of the D.H.
Lawrence, suggesting the likelihood that its contents had received only the
most cursory attention.
But whatever the actual case - and Andrew
had no desire to inquire too deeply into her literary predilections - it was
evident that the greater part of Pauline's collection wasn't such as would
appeal to a mature taste, since decidedly juvenile in character. Comprised, in the main, of romances, with a
sprinkling of adventure, crime, thriller, and sci-fi novels thrown-in for good
measure, her library suggested an easy-going and rather haphazard approach to
collecting which radically conflicted with the writer's own overly fastidious
and discriminating one. Had she not been
so young, he would have dismissed her collection with a contemptuous
indifference. But the fact of her
youthful inexperience, coupled to an eclecticism he had encountered not once
but a number of times in the past with females, prevented him from taking a
condescending line and induced him, instead, to proffer a few friendly remarks
concerning the breadth and extent of her reading. In short, by not taking her too seriously, he
was able to avoid treating her condescendingly, and thus replace any criticisms
he might otherwise have levelled at her tastes by a half-humorous curiosity.
It was interesting for him to note, too,
that she prided herself more on the size of her collection - which she
evidently considered large - than on its quality, and that the acquisition of
additional books was to her what the achievement of additional honours would be
to a conventional writer - an indication of growing prestige. Evidently the more books one had on show, the
better-read and the more highly-educated one would appear to other people, even
if, unbeknown to oneself, the individual quality or literary value of a
majority of those books wasn't guaranteed to confirm or in any degree
substantiate it!
Such, at any rate, was the impression
Andrew was now receiving from Pauline, as he casually scanned the tightly
packed contents of her shelves and continued to comment favourably where he saw
fit, noting, all the while, the ineffable pleasure it evidently gave her to
have a writer witnessing her dedication to books! No doubt, she would have felt less proud had
a musician or an artist been scanning them instead, even if closely. The thought of inviting Harding into her
bedroom-cum-library probably wouldn't even have crossed her mind. Like it or not, the prerogative for
estimating her culture devolved upon Andrew, and it was up to him to justify it
to the extent he could, that's to say, to the extent his tact would permit
him. Otherwise poor young Pauline would
risk becoming severely disillusioned with him and unable to regard him as quite
the literary hero he had formerly seemed, when his presence in their house, as
one of her father's guests, had suddenly confronted her with a degree of
pleasure she had not in the least anticipated.
He had, in short, no option but to live-up to the reputation she had
inflicted upon him, if only on her account.... Which was precisely what he was
endeavouring to do, as he stood in front of the shelves and surveyed their
dilapidated contents with the air of a literary connoisseur, albeit a rather
partial one. He had an act to pull off
and, as far as Pauline's gratified responses now indicated, he was pulling it
off convincingly enough, justifying the special confidence she had placed in
him when, from a pressing desire to be recognized as a kindred spirit, she had
invited him to step 'on stage', a short while previously, to flatter her
intellectual vanity.
But such vanity wasn't to be flattered
solely by his knowledgeable presence in front of her library. For now that he had pompously contemplated
the battered spines for several minutes and proffered a few discerning, not to
say flattering, remarks concerning her taste, it was time for her to switch to
the poems and read aloud from a number of her most recent compositions, in the
hope that he would find them no less meritorious - a thing which, under the
circumstances of his charitable desire to please, seemed not unlikely. Thus, after the title of the last paperback
on the top shelf had been assimilated in due connoisseurial fashion, Andrew,
who was now invited to sit on the edge of her bed, found himself listening to
the graceful flow of her voice as she read, not without a hint of
self-consciousness, certain examples of her lyric poetry, some of which, at
other times, would have been enough to set his teeth on edge. Take, for example, the following, entitled
'The Lovers' Scheme':-
Let us leave
for peaceful places,
Far
away from city smoke.
Let
us seek the distant races,
Lands,
and climes which grant us scope.
Discontent
contracts our minds
As
the days slip out-of-sight.
Where
will we be if our finds
Change
the darkness into light?
What
constraint is good advice
If
boredom be the means?
What
true man would sacrifice
His
spirit for some beans?
If,
in time, we leave together,
Traipsing
through the hay;
If,
in truth, we live each other,
Love
will have its day.
Or, again,
the following, entitled 'Unrequited Lover':-
If I were to
flee to some faraway place,
Escape
the town where love was sad,
An
image of you would stay in my head,
Regret
would pollute my grace.
If
I were to sob until, full of shame,
I
slash my wrist and let it bleed,
Or
throw to the dogs all the things of greed,
You'd
still be as free of blame.
If
I, on a quest, were to search for gold,
Recapture
joy in wine and rhyme,
Then
sell for a future my wisdom and time,
Your
love would stay warm while mine grows cold.
What was Andrew Doyle, who hadn't written a
poem in over a decade and scarcely read one during the past five years, to make
of all that? How could he be expected to
relate to the sentiments, romantic or otherwise, of this young poetess, who
obviously wanted him to acknowledge the fact that she possessed a certain
poetic gift, not to say licence, as well?
Naturally, being something of a devotee of culture, he made a brave
effort to enter into the spirit of her poems, to identify with their heroine's
viewpoint. Yet his brave effort was
scarcely sufficient to guarantee him any success in the matter! Quite the contrary, the words seemed to pass
over his head as though they had wings, or were in a foreign language which he
couldn't understand, or had been written by a creature not of this world. The gulf between her poetic idiom and his
prosaic understanding was too wide to be bridged by brave efforts or, indeed,
by anything else. The twelve years which
separated them seemed more like an eternity, so different were their respective
attitudes and approaches to literature.
To be sure, it was as much as Andrew could
do, during the course of Pauline's somewhat self-conscious recitation, to
prevent himself from giggling at the silliness of various of the sentiments
expressed in her poems, the unabashed naiveté of which conflicted so violently
with what experience in love and life had taught him ... that they appeared not
to have any bearing on diurnal reality whatsoever! It was so long since he had attempted any
flights of poetic fancy himself that he couldn't quite reconcile himself to
them, though he could remember well enough why he had abandoned poetry and
concentrated on prose instead: simply to earn a living. To do something, moreover, that necessitated
more work and kept the pen and/or typewriter in fairly constant motion. The thought of calling a short lyric poem 'a
work' struck his fundamentally hard-working imagination as being too ridiculous
for words. A poem seemed to him too
trivial a thing to take any pride in as a work of art. It had only served his purposes when a youth
and, like most literary-minded youths, he had lacked the courage or patience,
not to mention know-how, to tackle anything better. As an introduction to writing, poetry was not
without its merits. But as a vehicle for
expressing one's thoughts throughout adulthood, as a form to which one remained
faithful for the rest of one's life, that was quite another matter, and few
indeed were those who did so, even among the aesthetes! In a sense, mature poets were the Peter Pans
of literature, the adult children who had never grown out of their youthful
infatuation with verse. There seemed to
Andrew something intrinsically childish, not to say foolish, about a grown man
continuing to produce little verses, like a sixteen-year-old, and actually
taking a pride in it. 'Ah,' one was
tempted to sneer, 'how touching, how pretty his little poesies are!'
Indeed, it was an ironic commentary on
poets and poems in general that the poet whom Andrew had most admired as a
youth, viz. Yeats, should be among the writers whom he most despised as an
adult, and largely on account of the fact that W.B. had continued to write
poems right up until his death in 1939.
Not so Rimbaud, who outgrew or, at any rate, abandoned his youthful
poetry at the tender age of nineteen.
And not so with a host of other youthful poets either who, if they
didn't abandon poetry altogether, at least modified it towards something more
manly as the decades passed - as in the cases of Ezra Pound and, to a lesser
extent, James Joyce, whose Gas from a Burner was remembered by Andrew
as one of the best poems he had ever read.
But for an eighteen-year-old like Pauline, the recitation of pretty
little verses was still in order and therefore quite acceptable to Andrew, if a
shade insipid. After all, it wasn't
really all that long ago that he had been in a similar position, having wanted
to read examples of his verse - representative of a cross, he liked to flatter
himself, between Baudelaire and Oscar Wilde - to whatever sympathetic ear he
could find. It was a phase through which
most of the more creatively gifted literary youths of each generation passed
before they attained to a deeper, more realistic outlook on life and, in a
majority of cases, abandoned poetry altogether.
Again, it was a credit to Pauline that she was also of this
elect-of-spirit who thrived on poetic creation.
Whether she would continue to thrive on it at university, however,
remained to be seen; though the odds were definitely stacked against her
continuing to do so after she left it, with or without a graduation
certificate. If literature was to be her
calling, her vocation, then the novel would certainly prove more to her
advantage, even if the vast number of people writing them these days tended to
reduce one's prospects of earning a living from it. Better, in Andrew's view, to be a fool with
prose than a fool with poetry, and so be someone who gave the world more truth
or, at any rate, knowledge than illusion!
Yes, better by far, insofar as human evolution was gradually tending
away from illusion into truth, away from the subconscious mind into the
superconscious one, and thus towards Ultimate Truth.
However, fictional literature in an age of
incipient transcendentalism hardly struck Andrew as the most progressive of
pursuits, either! On the contrary, it
was essentially outmoded, passé, aligned with the ego and all that the
ego represented. With the gradual
decline of the ego throughout the nineteenth century, following the expansion
of urbanization and the consequent shift in egocentric balance between the
subconscious and superconscious minds in favour of superconscious extremism, it
stood to reason that literature, which like other branches of the arts depended
on the subconscious for its essential illusion or fictitiousness, would also be
in decline as traditionally conceived.
The rise, on the other hand, of philosophical literature in the
twentieth century was but a reflection of our ongoing evolution towards greater
degrees of truth, as germane to the superconscious, and a disinclination, in
consequence, to abide by the canons of traditional literature, which required a
good deal more illusion than the most evolved writers were now prepared to
provide. And even philosophical
literature was destined, in Andrew's estimation, to be completely transcended,
as we progressed so far into the superconscious that the element of
fictitiousness in it became unacceptable to us and therefore no longer
practicable. In the meantime, however, a
degree of fiction was still possible, those best qualified to produce it generally
being among the less sophisticated writers of the age.
Thus, as far as Pauline's literary
ambitions were concerned, there was certainly a chance that circumstances would
favour her and enable her to write something approximating to traditional
literature, in which illusion still got the better of truth, and the fictional
element was accordingly uppermost. But
great literature it would never be, and not only because, as a rule, young
women like Pauline weren't qualified, neither temperamentally nor
intellectually, to produce such a thing but, more particularly, because great
literature could hardly be produced in an age essentially inimical to it, only
in one which encouraged it - an age in which the illusory was not regarded with
suspicion and disdain.
Nowadays, however, no-one with any
relationship to the leading intellectual/spiritual developments of the age
could possibly allow themselves to champion dualism, and thereby produce
traditional literature, in which conflict and differentiation prevailed over
the passivity of transcendental unity.
At worst, they would compromise to the extent of producing philosophical
literature, where passivity, in the form of discussion and/or reflection, got
the better of activity, and truth accordingly prevailed over illusion. That was what, following in Aldous Huxley's
estimable footsteps, Andrew was doing anyway, and it was what he intended to
continue doing as long as necessary, extending the domain of the philosophical
over the fictional with each successive work - a policy which probably wouldn't
endear him to the general public, but one which nonetheless reflected the
degree of his allegiance to the superconscious and, hence, to a hankering after
spiritual leadership, to his budding status as one of the more evolved writers
of his time.
No doubt, this status would be more clearly
defined with the assistance of essays and/or aphorisms, which he also liked to
write as a complementary mode of intellectual creativity to his philosophical
literature, thereby adding his name to the ranks of such compromise writers as
Huxley, Hesse, Henry Miller, Koestler, Sartre, Norman Mailer, and Camus, who
stood half-way, it seemed to him, between the sage and the artist. Better, of course, to be a pure philosopher
than a hybrid, and thus pursue truth to a much greater extent. But if, for various reasons, that wasn't
possible, well then, better to be a hybrid, an artist/writer in Barthe's
paradoxical phrase, than simply an artist, and thus side more with truth. For fiction was ever illusory, no matter how
naturalistic or realistic its author endeavoured to make it, and therefore
contrary to the domain of truth.
A society which no longer produces or reads
fiction would be unquestionably superior, in Andrew's view, to one which does,
being closer to the post-human millennium - that coming time in which
literature ceases to have even the slightest influence or applicability. Yet a society which no longer produces or
reads philosophy but, with the aid of Transcendental Meditation, simply
experiences truth, would be superior again - the closest of all to the
post-human millennium in terms of godly bliss.
Alas, Western society hadn't yet outgrown
its fictions, being the producer and consumer of the greatest amount of
commercial literature the world had ever known!
But (if this was any consolation) it was certainly doing so, and would
doubtless continue to do so, as we progressed further and further into the
superconscious and thereby gradually freed ourselves from the illusory shackles
of the past. The assault on traditional
literature from the vantage-point of anti-literature and/or philosophical
literature would have to exhaust itself in due course, as we increasingly
confined ourselves to the production and assimilation of truth. In the meantime, however, they were the only
modes of creativity acceptable to anyone with the faintest glimmer of spiritual
leadership. Those who weren't for the
literary avant-garde, in its various manifestations, were simply mediocrities
and simpletons for whom the egocentric tradition had more substance, and to
whom traditional criteria of art were accordingly of more relevance. One couldn't very well congratulate them on
their conservatism, born of ignorance and stupidity, as though it signified the
most honourable and perspicacious stance possible! If they persisted in reading or writing
something approximating to egocentric literature, too fucking bad! For it wouldn't win them the approbation of
those who had gone beyond such habits and accordingly made it their business to
forge a higher one. In the time-honoured
battle between 'the quick' and 'the slow', 'the slow' were in for a
roasting! Illusion might be at home in
Hell, but it could have no bearing whatsoever on Heaven. It was only by writing post-egocentric
literature that one could hope to justify, if only temporarily, the procedure
of writing literature at all. In due
course, even that would prove unnecessary.
But, until then, one had to persist or, as some would say, persevere
with the degree of literary evolution compatible with modern society. One had to be an avant-gardist.
Yes, a post-egocentric avant-gardist was
precisely what Andrew considered himself to be, he whose first two novels had
broken with traditional conventions of plot, characterization, description,
action, fiction, grammar, etc., in the interests of a greater degree of
philosophical integrity. If Huxley to
some extent progressively dispensed with the traditional conventions of
literature, endowing his finest novels with a preponderance of discussion over
action, passivity over conflict, truth over illusion, goodness over evil,
transcendentalism over dualism, then Andrew Doyle intended to go one stage
better and tip the imbalance in favour of philosophy, truth, light, etc., even
further than Huxley had done, thereby building on that master's example and
extending the progress of truth in literature a stage further along the road to
our future spiritual salvation, creating, in the process, an abstract idealism.
For a disciple who didn't build on his
master's example was unworthy of ever becoming a master himself, since a
traitor to evolution. If he didn't build
on it he could only stand still or turn against it, and the latter, leading
back to more illusion, conflict, dualism and action ... in deference, most
probably, to cinematic barbarism ... was hardly guaranteed to assist in the
cause of human progress or help bring about the long-awaited post-human
millennium! Reaction, clearly, was
unthinkable, unworthy of any true discipleship.
If one didn't take literature further off the 'gold standard' of
illusion, one might as well give-up writing altogether. For one wouldn't be assisting the cause of
enlightenment or moral progress, but simply be holding the reader back,
dragging him down to a level wholly incompatible with transcendental
strivings. If we have to be weaned away
from a dependence on the arts, it won't be done via the production of works
corresponding to traditional art but, rather, via works which, in turning
against such art, whether implicitly or explicitly, weaken our taste for it,
thereby making it easier for us to climb onto the higher level, in which
illusion has no place whatsoever. For if
traditional art isn't, in a manner of speaking, rendered contemptible, we shall
find it that much harder to abandon illusion.
Fortunately, the most enlightened modern
art was certainly doing its best to wean us from our dependence on the
illusory! Although we may not entirely
succeed in freeing ourselves from fictions in the foreseeable future,
nonetheless it cannot be denied that we're gradually breaking away from them,
maturing, as it were, into the fullness of a life lived solely for truth. The superconscious beckons us on, no matter
how highly some of us may think of the greatest egocentric achievements of man
in his prime as man. Life, however,
doesn't stand still. It requires
constant change, and anyone who doesn't change with it, who requires of
painting or music or literature that it always remains the same is, if not a
monster, then an enemy of life.
Certainly an enemy of progress!
In his estimation Andrew was neither an
enemy neither of life nor of progress but very much a participator in it, as
his most recent writings - more pro-philosophical than anti-literary -
adequately demonstrated. If he wasn't
yet transcendental enough to be a sage, he was at least insufficiently
dualistic to be an artist in the egocentric narrative tradition, and this was
something on which he secretly prided himself. For in his assumption that the contemplative
man was as inherently superior to the man balanced between action and
contemplation as the latter to the man-of-action, he made no bones about giving
pride of honour in his novels to contemplatives, whether mystical or scholarly,
and directing matters so that conflict and action were reduced to a bare
minimum. In such fashion, he hoped to
discourage his readers from taking men-of-action too seriously, to remind them
that evolution was increasingly tending towards the passive, and that it was
the sacred destiny of mankind to progress towards a stage where the passive
entirely came to supersede the active, and they entered the millennial Beyond
in transcendent bliss. Needless to say,
mankind still had a long way to go before that happened! But the fact that modern life, with its
television culture, bore testimony to the predominance of the passive over the
active ... gave one ample grounds for believing it would eventually come about.
Thus, in loyalty to his spiritual bent,
Andrew did everything he could to stress the superiority of the contemplative
life, fastidiously avoiding literary action as much as possible. If he hadn't yet succeeded in producing a
work to match Huxley's Island for spiritual leadership, he was
nevertheless determined to go beyond that master's most transcendental and
predominantly passive achievement in due course, extending the boundaries of
the philosophical over the fictional until the latter almost completely
disappeared beneath the dictates of spiritual progress. Not for anything would he allow himself to be
dissuaded from such a task by the amount of stupid, irrelevant, and reactionary
criticism which had greeted Huxley's last and, from the avant-garde standpoint,
greatest novel. If certain hidebound
critics found such a radically idealistic work unacceptable or unintelligible,
that was too bad! He wouldn't allow
himself to be intimidated by people whose moribund evaluations of progressive
developments in contemporary literature were largely conditioned by the
philistine nature of their journalistic constraints! That a novel of such unprecedented
philosophical bias should have been judged on conventional literary grounds ...
was indeed a tragedy for its author. But
perhaps, in time, such regrettable misunderstandings would cease to occur, as
people grew to acclimatize themselves to increasingly transcendental criteria
of literary creation, and thereupon attached far less importance to the
production of illusions or to the establishment of an antithetical balance
between, say, action and contemplation.
What authors like Huxley and, for that matter, Arthur Koestler (for The
Call-Girls certainly hadn't escaped our hero's attention) had pioneered at
the risk of literary ostracism, others would increasingly take for granted,
regarding with unmitigated disdain anything which smacked of traditional
literature in the face of revolutionary precedent! Now that such examples had been set, there
could be no excuse for a serious, self-respecting writer failing to take note
of them. Evolution could not be
reversed!
But where, exactly, did Pauline Grace
figure where the death of illusion was concerned? Where, exactly, was she in relation to the
novel? Indeed, was she anywhere at all? No, in a sense she wasn't, having still to
tackle the creation of one. Yet it was
clear, from what Andrew had already gleaned on the subject, that she had
literary ambitions which, following her 'time' at university, she intended to
fulfil, to the extent that circumstances would permit her. A novel, then, was what she planned to
produce, though, in all probability, it would be a rather different kind of
novel from those already produced by Andrew Doyle. Being young, naive, and worldly-minded
moreover, she would doubtless do her best to approximate to egocentric
literature. She would give illusion a
much greater role to play than the more progressive novelists did, and so
produce something they wouldn't particularly care to write, never mind read!
However, even then, there would still be a
comparatively large number of people for whom long passages of illusion between
the covers of a novel were quite acceptable, even desirable, and these
less-evolved or, depending on one's viewpoint, more conservative minds would
probably constitute the backbone of her reading public. Thus she would more than likely make some
professional headway in the world, if only on a relatively modest footing. It was unlikely, anyway, that she would
become another Andrew, much less another Henry Miller or Hermann Hesse, since
young women weren't, as a rule, cut-out for spiritual or literary leadership,
but remained confined to a more modest role in shaping literary values. Her talents might well extend to the romance,
the adventure story, maybe even the thriller.
But it seemed rather doubtful that they would also extend in the
direction of philosophy, whether religious, political, aesthetic, moral, or
whatever, and thereby make her something of an intellectual pace-setter, a
future Simone de Beauvoir or Iris Murdoch, Germaine Greer or Agnes Heller. If her poems were anything to judge by, she
would have to resign herself to a kind of fictional mediocrity.
But what of the young woman
personally? Where, if one endeavoured to
forget all the paradoxically laudable attempts women were making to liberate
themselves these days, did she stand as a woman? Was she, for instance, a virgin? To be sure, this question had occurred to
Andrew while they were out walking together, earlier on, and now that he sat
beside her and, compliments of her poetic preoccupations, was able to regard
her at leisure, the question returned to him, albeit in a slightly different
light. Supposing she was - wouldn't it
be justice, for all the tedium and humiliation he had suffered at her hands, to
take her virginity from her, and thus recompense himself in some measure? After all, she was a very attractive young
person, particularly when dressed, as tonight, in a low-cut nylon blouse, a
gently flounced miniskirt, dark nylon stockings with a seam up the back, and
black velvet high-heels. Even the scent
of her perfume was not without its attractiveness or, at any rate, seductive
allure. On the contrary, it highlighted
the overall attractiveness of her body, endowing it with a focus and clarity it
might otherwise have lacked. There was
nothing repulsive about this sweet scent.
It was specifically intended to attract, to seduce, to conquer. There could be no question of a woman using
such a delightful perfume if she didn't want to make a favourable impression on
one, or had an unduly feminist outlook on men which induced her to keep them at
arm's length, come what may. Obviously,
Pauline had gone to some pains, this evening, to make herself as attractive as
possible, not least of all where the provocative spectacle of her low-cut
blouse and intriguingly shaped breasts were concerned. Finally, to cap it all, she had thrown in a
little culture to boot, which the author should find to his taste.
Well, that hadn't been quite the case,
though he had at least found her appearance to his taste, which was
something! Should he therefore make
haste to reveal this fact, and so gratify in her a number of the romantic
sentiments touchingly expressed in her rather juvenile poems? He had always wanted the privilege of taking
someone's virginity - a privilege, curiously, which fate had denied him. Here, if anywhere, was the best chance of
fulfilling a long-standing ambition and gaining fresh experience in life. It was an opportunity not to be missed!
But what of her parents? What of her brother and the others in the
house? Wasn't it a shade risky,
committing oneself to the pleasures of the sexual senses when other people were
in such close proximity and might - heaven forbid! - overhear and burst-in upon
one at any moment? Yes, definitely! But so what?
Was he to be dictated to by them, particularly by Henry Grace, whom he
personally disliked and professionally despised? No, not if he could help it! After all, making love to Pauline would be as
good a way as any of getting his own back on Mr Grace for the pathetically
negative response the critic had made to his religious theorizing prior to
tea. Not only would he be avenging
himself on Pauline but, more importantly, on her damn father as well, since the
latter would hardly be in favour of Andrew Doyle, of all people, taking his
daughter's virginity - assuming she really was a virgin. No, anyone but him!
Indeed, this thought seemed so amusing to
Andrew that he was unable to prevent a tiny snigger escaping from between his
lips, a snigger which slightly surprised and embarrassed Pauline, who hadn't
been declaiming anything overtly humorous at the time. Yet, much to his relief, she didn't respond
to it in an inquisitive manner, but continued with her poetic recitation as
though nothing had happened. However,
the fact of her poetry was no less wearisome for all that, and his desire to
avenge himself on her no less compelling.
If he was to do something he had better do it soon, and so get it over
and done with before the opportunity was gone!
Otherwise she might continue reciting her insipid and slightly
ridiculous little poems for hours, aggravating his weariness until it was past
tolerating and he felt obliged to take swift leave of her.
No, he didn't want that to happen! Better to take the poems from her hands, draw
oneself closer to her, plant a preliminary kiss on her astonished lips, put
one's arms around her slender waist, probe her lengthily in the mouth with an
adventurous tongue, run a tender hand up and down her thighs a few times,
unbutton her blouse, thumb her nipples, part her legs, cup her crotch, and take
it from there. Yes, there could be no
alternative to that, absolutely none!
CHAPTER EIGHT
"So
where did you get to last night?" Harding asked, as Andrew came down to
the lounge, prior to breakfast, at about 8.30am. "I was looking for you, you know."
"Is that so?" the writer wearily
responded, a slight but perceptible blush in swift accompaniment. "Well, as a matter of fact I was, er,
invited by young Pauline to view her private library and, er, listen to her
reading some poems. I was in her
bedroom."
"Ah, so that's where you were!"
Harding exclaimed with evident relief.
"I had no idea. Thought you
might have gone to bed."
"What, with Pauline?"
Harding had to laugh. "No, with yourself of course! Hey, don't look so aggrieved! I didn't mean to offend you."
"I'm sincerely glad to hear it!" Andrew
declared, feeling somewhat relieved in spite of his determination not to let
on. But he was secretly annoyed with
himself for taking quick offence and jumping to conclusions. He oughtn't to have lost his cool like that!
"So what did you think of her
poems?" Harding wanted to know, latching-on to the most credible straw
available.
"Not a great deal, actually. They were the sort of second-rate things
young females like her often write, if you know what I mean."
"Yes, I think so," Harding
admitted, nodding vaguely. "Rather
maudlin, I expect."
"And tedious," Andrew
affirmed. "Why, I was obliged to
persevere with them until gone twelve, before I could get to bed!" Which wasn't entirely true, though he knew
that better than anyone. For the fact that
he had made love to Pauline from half-eleven till nearly one o'clock was a
matter he would have to keep to himself.
Just as he would have to keep all his feelings about her to himself -
the vertiginous impression her tender sexuality had made on him, the delight in
ravishing a virgin - for she had actually been one - for the first time, the
suspense created by the close proximity of her parents, and so on. If he was bored by her poems, her body had
excited him enormously - a fact which might be said to have more than
adequately compensated him for his previous inconvenience! It was one of the most seductive bodies he
had ever beheld, as fresh and soft as only a young woman's body can be, and he
had drunk of its love-juice until his thirst was quenched, had eaten of its
sex-fruit until his hunger was appeased.
She had become a real feast for him, and he had come away not merely
satisfied by satiated, positively reeling with sex. Realizing the extent of its beauty, he had
spared her body nothing. The virgin
stronghold had been breached and the citadel of her womb taken by peremptory
storm. Her labia had been prized apart,
like the succulent segments of a luscious tangerine, and his tongue had
lasciviously partaken of the most delicious flesh it had ever known. She had struck him as intensely desirable,
more desirable than poems could ever hope to express, and he had wasted no
time, once he got her undressed, in letting her know it! No woman could look so attractive and fail to
reap the harvest her body so richly deserved!
"Well, now that you've heard them, at
least you won't have to persevere with her poems again," Harding was
saying, as though to himself.
"No, I suppose not," Andrew
agreed, blushing slightly. "By the
way, what time are we leaving here today?"
"Some time this afternoon, I should
imagine," Harding replied.
"Why, do you have to be back home by any specific hour?"
"No, not really; though I'd like to be
back in good time for my customary Sunday-evening bath and hair wash, if you
don't mind." It was a flimsy
excuse, but better than nothing.
Harding smiled benignly. "I think we can arrange that," he
stated in a faintly condescending tone-of-voice. "Incidentally, you may be interested to
learn that I've been commissioned by our generous host to paint portraits of
his family, both separately and collectively, during the coming weeks. So I'll be seeing a lot more of the
Graces."
"Congratulations!" Andrew
exclaimed, extending a friendly hand to the artist's left arm. "I wish you every success."
"Thanks," responded Harding, who
appeared visibly flattered by his neighbour's gesture. "I could certainly do with it. However, now that I have a chance to speak to
you while we're alone together, I'd be grateful if you avoided the temptation
to get yourself re-involved in the kind of controversial discussion you were
having yesterday with young Edwin Ford in Mr Grace's presence. He wasn't particularly impressed by it, as
I'm sure you're fully aware, and, frankly, it's altogether doubtful he would
take kindly to anything bordering on a repeat performance today."
Andrew felt momentarily taken-aback by this
prohibitive utterance, which struck him as singularly impertinent. But, to save argument, he agreed to steer
clear of deep water, if only for his neighbour's sake. He realized, of course, that Harding was only
out for his own professional ends and didn't want anyone to upset Henry Grace
and thereby jeopardize his prospects of commercial success. However, since Edwin Ford would have returned
to his parents' house in the meantime, there seemed little chance that a
recrudescence of political and religious theorizing, incompatible with their
host's own rather more conservative beliefs and loyalties, would occur, there
being no-one else in the house likely to incite Andrew to his former polemical
eloquence. Providing Mr Grace didn't
challenge him to defend his views, it looked as though the writer would have to
be content with saying very little - a fact which Harding could hardly fail to
endorse!
"Well, now that I've said my
piece," the painter rejoined, "I feel a lot better towards you than
was the case yesterday evening, when your argumentative outburst caused me so
much embarrassment. I know you didn't
mean to upset anyone, but the fact that you have such different views on a
variety of issues than me is something which, at least in the presence of Mr
Grace, I'd rather you kept to yourself, if you don't mind. That way least harm can be done."
"I'll try my best," Andrew
promised, feeling, in spite of his show of calm, a passionate contempt for this
arrogant bastard who dared tell him how to behave, as if he were a child who
needed to be kept in check! My God, to
what craven lengths some people could stoop to further their vainglorious ambitions! How low they could get! How petty and eaten-up by their own insolent
pride! Indeed, it was as much as Andrew
could do to prevent himself from giving this opportunistic social climber a
vigorous tongue-lashing and thereby reducing him in size to something more
compatible with his fundamental baseness.
But as though in anticipation of the fact he was about to do so, Mrs
Grace suddenly entered the room and announced to the two men facing each other
there that breakfast was ready. He would
just have to postpone the airing of his grievances until a more propitious
opportunity!
During breakfast, the occupants of the
table remained on fairly cordial terms with one another, Henry Grace and Robert
Harding continuing their conversation on art from approximately where they had
left off the previous night, whilst everyone else, including Andrew and
Pauline, maintained a respectful if slightly resentful silence - the general
feeling being that two or three separate conversations running simultaneously
across the table would not have been appreciated by Mr Grace who, as master of
the house, preferred attention to be focused on himself, and thus on matters
closer to hand. This, at any rate, was
the case as far as Carol, Pauline, and Mrs Grace were concerned; though Andrew
felt in no mood to enter into conversation with anyone at all, particularly
with the host and his chief guest, whom he now felt obliged to regard with
unmitigated disdain. Nevertheless, the
attractive face of young Pauline Grace opposite him could hardly be ignored,
least of all when she looked at him with a vaguely conspiratorial expression on
it, as she did on more than one occasion during breakfast, as if to say: 'Don't
let them bother you. Let's just
remember how much pleasure we got from each other last night!'
Yes, there was something decidedly charming
about the presence of Mr Grace's daughter at table that morning, a presence
which, for Andrew, had the not unpredictable effect of lifting his spirits a
little. At least he had no cause to
regard her as an enemy; no more cause, for that matter,
than to regard Philip as one, even though he sat in-between Harding and himself
and occasionally said a word or two, across the conversation raging between the
champions of representational art, on behalf of Transcendental Meditation and
athletics - two seemingly incompatible devotions to which he somehow managed to
reconcile himself. But that was the way
of Pauline's brother who, to the writer's covert disapproval, regarded
meditation as a means to improving his bodily powers, and had not yet learnt to
differentiate between spirit and matter.
He was too young, in short, to be particularly spiritual, and too
well-built, moreover, to be anything but athletic. Whether he would eventually sort himself out
and change for what Andrew would have regarded as the better, remained to be
seen; though it seemed unlikely that he would abandon his athletic commitments
for some time to-come. The man of action
in competition with others was uppermost in his lifestyle, and it was to this
somewhat unspiritual man that he gave most of his attention. Clearly, Transcendental Meditation was a
discipline which young students often encountered and superficially endorsed,
if only for appearance's sake. There was
no real depth of commitment in them though, no real understanding of what it
really implied. The urge of youth to
action and rebellion against the social status quo, quite apart from the
exigent demands of study and college obligations generally, was too strong to
be eradicated or underestimated in the vast majority of cases. It was a phenomenon which had to be lived
through before one was in a position to take a better, more objective look at
spiritual values and, if one so desired, proceed to direct one's life along
less physically active and possibly more passive lines, following in Andrew's
own ideal footsteps. In the meantime,
competitive sport would doubtless take the place of honour in the lives of
people like Philip, who had no impending or imperative desire to 'go spiritual'
when they were under pressure to compete on a variety of levels. Besides, people came in so many different
shapes and sizes that what was good for one type of person could be bad for
another. Spirituality was all right for
some persons, but definitely not for everyone!
To be sure, there was undoubtedly an
element of truth in that contention, albeit, Andrew had to admit, rather
relatively. For it was of the utmost
importance to mankind's future development that an increasing number of people
turned spiritual and accordingly dedicated the greater part of their lives to
contemplative concerns. It was necessary
that predominantly active types should eventually be superseded by their
predominantly passive counterparts, so that mankind would be morally qualified
to enter the millennial Beyond at the culmination of human evolution, and
thereupon become wholly divine - filled with the bliss and peace of pure
spirit. Otherwise Heaven would remain no
more than a pipe dream, a distant possibility never actually realized, except
perhaps in the grave, and man would forever continue to be torn between the
active and the passive, Hell and Heaven, in a dualistic twilight of Christian
relativity. But that could not be! For man had evolved out of a predominantly
dark state of pre-Christian hellish activity to the Christian compromise
between the dark and the light, sensuality and spirituality, and he was now
evolving beyond that towards a state of being which favoured the light, a state
commensurate with greater physical passivity.
History could not be refuted, since the trend of human evolution towards
the enhanced spirituality of the Holy Ghost was made manifest through it and
could be discerned more clearly in recent decades, in spite of all the existing
horrors of modern life, including the threat of nuclear or biological
obliteration. Even the tendency of
modern architects to endow their buildings with more window space, to fashion
office blocks or high-rise flats in such a way that glass or plastic
predominated over concrete and steel, was a clear indication, so far as Andrew
was concerned, of our growing allegiance to the spirit - as, of course, was the
widespread and regular use of artificial lighting. Like it or not, the spread of urbanization
was a blessing unprecedented in the entire history of Western man, speeding-up
his evolution from a being torn, in the ego, between the sensual subconscious
and the spiritual superconscious during virtually the whole of the Christian
era, to one who, within the space of a mere century, had become biased on the
side of the latter, freed, as never before, from the sensuous influence of
nature, and enabled to direct his spiritual development along lines which,
eventually, could only bring him to the consummation of his evolution in
heavenly bliss!
Yes, a remarkable fact, but there it
was! Our isolation from nature was a
means to our spiritual salvation, and this salvation could and would be brought
about, provided we survived the catastrophic consequences of future wars and
continued to develop, according to the dictates of our urban environments, in
an increasingly artificial direction.
All credit to the tall buildings which were mostly fabricated from
synthetics! Well did they reflect our
ongoing allegiance to the superconscious and consequent break with a balanced
dualism. The sooner those buildings
which had more concrete than glass in them were superseded by buildings of a
more spiritual order, the better! Away
with all the old dualities as soon as it was convenient and proper to do away
with them!
Let us have more spirit, in accordance with
our yearning for eternity. Let us
remember that life continues to evolve and that the world is slowly but surely
becoming a better place. Let us not be
deceived by the short-term horrors it besets us with into assuming the
contrary. Our short-sightedness, in this
respect, will not detract from the facts of evolution! Socialism and transcendentalism, suitably
modified in a sort of Social Transcendental synthesis, will carry the world
before them, no matter how much some people may persist in presuming
otherwise! The only serious cause for
regret, concerning this transitional stage of man's evolution, is the fact that
these developments should still have such a deplorably long way to go before we
arrived at our ultimate destination in heavenly peace, and thus entirely
transcended the human condition!
To bring the average man up to a higher
moral level, a level where he can share in the fruits of the spiritual life -
what an immense task, and how long it will take to affect a genuine
equalitarianism of the spirit! One
shudders at the thought of how far evolution still has to go before
inequalities cease to exist, and the vast majority of people share in a common
aspiration towards spiritual fulfilment!
Yes, one positively shudders at the immensity of the task ahead, the
task of affecting an overall higher standard of life. Yet it is one which has got to be knuckled
down to, no matter how difficult things may now seem. There is no alternative to going forwards,
upwards, and inwards - absolutely none!
We have no option but to persist in the equalitarian and co-operative
policies which progress is demanding of us, for there is no other way to the
post-human millennium. As the decades
pass, we shall doubtless succeed in improving the quality of the race, so that
an ever-growing number of people will become spiritually earnest, and thus
given to devotions like Transcendental Meditation. But the difficulty of the task before us
cannot be underestimated, if we are not to seriously delude ourselves regarding
the entire process of human evolution.
It is our duty to progress, and progress we shall, even if only by small
steps, one after the other. As yet, we
are still too close to the ego, that old dualistic balance, for comfort, and
cannot afford to become complacent over the extent of evolution to-date. We may indeed have come a long way from the
caveman, grovelling in the moral darkness of subservience to the subconscious,
but we are by no means at our journey's end in unequivocal identification with
the superconscious. On the contrary, we
are only just beginning to recognize it for what it is - namely, the essence of
salvation.
As usual, however, there are 'the quick'
and 'the slow', the former spearheading transcendentalism's advance, the latter
not having disentangled themselves from the old dualities to an extent which
makes it possible for them to regard such dualities as phenomena out of which
we are slowly evolving. No, 'the slow'
are still at home with these dualities, still given to political confrontation,
religious anthropomorphism, competitive/cooperative economics, sexual
discrimination, noble and plebeian class divisions, distinctions of rich and poor,
and so on, as though such dualities constituted the very essence of reality
against which it was senseless to rebel.
Well, 'the slow' might think so, but 'the quick' don't agree! They find such a viewpoint totally
unacceptable, having gone well beyond it in their knowledge of and commitment
to evolutionary progress. 'The quick',
now as before, are in the vanguard of mankind's advance towards the post-human
millennium, and while they may not be completely beyond dualism themselves,
they are sufficiently biased on the side of the spirit to see through the
illusion of regarding dualism as an end-in-itself, instead of merely a stage on
the road to a higher end. Yes, they are
sufficiently advanced along the road to salvation to see through this, the greatest
of all contemporary illusions, and are consequently that much closer to
ultimate truth!
But, unfortunately, 'the quick' still
aren't in the majority - at least not everywhere. It is to be hoped, however, that one day they
will be. For that is true progress, that
is the task! In the meantime, we can
only persevere with our efforts, not to mention enemies - as, indeed, Andrew
was obliged to do during breakfast, while Mr Grace and Harding continued with a
conversation centred around representational art, to the detriment of the
transcendent. Oh, how he would have
liked to interpose himself between them by pointing out the fallacies in their
view of taking traditional representational art for the only legitimate art-form
and of considering it in the interests of Western man's well-being that a
return to such art should officially be made as soon as possible! How he would have liked to impress upon them
the fact that such a reversion to form and substance in art would have
constituted a regression on a par with reverting to gas lamps or candle light;
that, contrary to their reactionary assumptions, it would have been
diametrically opposed to his well-being; that, instead of
constituting a moral example to society, such art would have set a thoroughly
bad example, leading people to attach more importance to the concrete, the
representational, the apparent, than was desirable, and so on - a whole host of
valid objections to their crackbrained and thoroughly obsolete values! Yes, he most certainly would!
But partly out of consideration for
Pauline, whom he genuinely liked, and partly in response to Harding's request
for reserve, earlier that morning, Andrew refrained from interposing,
restrained the impulse to speak out on behalf of the very tendencies in art, as
in life, which these two reactionary bastards were attacking, whether directly,
as in their opposition to abstraction, or indirectly, through their advocacy of
more traditional approaches to art.
Besides, had he done so, and thus given vent to the very genuine
temptation to air his views in front of them, nothing more would have come of
it than another nasty scene, like the one he had been obliged to endure in the
lounge, when Henry Grace had lost what little precarious cool he ordinarily
possessed. Needless to say, there wasn't
much sense in that - not, anyway, if one had transcendental rather than
dualistic or humanistic sympathies at stake!
Better to keep one's views to oneself, under the circumstances. For there was scant hope of changing those of
the opposition! Quite the contrary, one
would simply be banging one's head against a dense wall of adamant
imperviousness - the imperviousness germane to a different species of man.
Breakfast passed, then, without any
recrudescence of the ideological tension which had sprung-up, the day before,
between Mr Grace and Harding on the one side, and Andrew and Carol on the
other; though, thanks in some measure to Philip's ingenuousness, a few comments
were voiced which caused a certain disquiet to flourish in the minds of the
opponents of artistic progress, and at no time more evidently so than when he
referred to something Andrew had said about Christian transcendentalism on the
day in question. But the writer judiciously
refrained from expanding on it, and so enabled the traditionalists to continue
their conversation on aesthetics with a modicum of equanimity.
As, however, for Pauline, no allusions were
made to her sexual experiences of the night before ... other than in the way
she occasionally regarded Andrew, as he sat seemingly engrossed in his
breakfast, with a certain coy admiration born, no doubt, of her gratitude to
him for having extended his appreciation of her poems beyond the purely
theoretical level! Now she was no longer
a virgin, it struck him that she might even refrain from writing poetry in
future, and so give herself exclusively to literature instead. If so, he hoped, anyway, that he wouldn't be
obliged to read it. For he had little
taste for illusion, his only real ambition being to kill it off to the extent
he could, and thereby encourage his readers away from the old dualistic respect
for fictions, which had characterized the era of egocentric culture, towards a
preoccupation with truth, more characteristic of the coming era of superconscious
transcendentalism. Anything else would
have been unthinkable! But until a
majority of people had been raised-up, through the combined efforts of a
modified socialism and transcendentalism, to a higher level of consciousness,
the popular novel, in all its heathen permutations, vicious as well as inane,
would doubtless continue to find a willing audience, mainly composed of people
who could only stomach knowledge and truth in small doses or in a diluted
guise, and whose respect for strength or beauty was still the overriding
determinant in the composition of their tastes.
Clearly, evolution still had a long way to go - particularly with regard
to consumers of the popular novel. The
post-human millennium couldn't be brought about overnight!
Having taken his leave of the table, Andrew
contrived to avoid further contact with Pauline by electing to take a stroll
round the spacious back garden, which particularly appealed to him at this
juncture on account of the early-morning sunshine which lit it up in a dazzle
of assorted colours - reds, greens, yellows, pinks, purples, blues, browns, and
golds, each colour seemingly vying with the others to claim his attention and
win his approval. At the far end of the
garden, just a yard or two short of the wooden fence which divided Mr Grace's
land from that of the nearest farmer, a large goldfish pond sparkled in the
mid-morning sunlight, and it was towards this brilliant cynosure of optical
allure that Andrew now directed his steps, crossing the closely-cropped lawn
between the various flowerbeds and pressing on down the gently sloping incline
towards the enticing sparkle of light beyond.
What a relief it was to be free of the oppressive proximity of his
ideological enemies! How he delighted in
the sanctuary afforded him by this pond, isolated at a safe distance from the
house and partly obscured, on one side, by a few small shrubs and trees, their
overhanging branches sharply reflected in the clear water. And there, in the pond itself, how refreshing
to behold the many goldfish swimming about after their individual fashions -
some quickly, some slowly, others scarcely moving at all, but each one of them,
no matter what their direction, completely isolated from human concerns and
struggles, shut off from the conflicting realities of modern life in a world of
aquatic seclusion.
Yes, it was almost possible to envy these
tiny creatures their watery isolation, their complete indifference to politics,
religion, economics, science - everything, in short, that mattered to man. There were indeed times when, had
circumstances permitted, one would gladly have changed places with any of the
more complacent-looking inhabitants of such a pond, and thus abandoned the
human world altogether. Times, indeed,
when to swim about like that, free from the arduous responsibilities of earning
a living or the tedious necessity of defending a radical viewpoint from
hidebound opponents, would have struck one as constituting a charmed existence,
a privilege of the elect, a kind of luxurious abandon. But, of course, goldfish remained fish and
human beings human, even if sometimes rather unwillingly so! Their worlds could never be exchanged. Willy-nilly, the burden of religion,
politics, science, art, etc., would have to be borne for as long as one lived -
borne in the face of every adversity or, for that matter, adversary.
It wasn't long, however, before Andrew was
startled out of these sombre reflections by the sight of a woman's face
reflected in the still water beside him and, turning round to behold it in the
flesh, he recognized Carol Jackson staring down at him with a gentle smile on
her lips. He almost lost his grip on the
small rocks against which he was leaning and toppled backwards into the pond,
so completely did her presence take him by surprise!
"I do hope I haven't disturbed
you," she murmured, somewhat gratuitously in the circumstances.
"No, not at all!" he
automatically responded, as one usually does in such a delicate situation. "I was simply admiring the goldfish."
She smiled her acknowledgement of this
obvious confession and, with a "May I?", to which Andrew offered a
prompt and affirmative response, sat down beside him on one of the larger and
cleaner-looking rocks by the edge of the pond.
After a brief inspection of its aquatic contents, she smiled anew and
cast him a penetrative look from her dark-brown eyes - one specifically
designed to cut through any pretence or reserve which might have come between
them at this juncture. "I take it
you had a pleasant time with Pauline Grace yesterday evening?" she at
length commented.
A sudden uprush of embarrassment
overpowered Andrew with these words. For
the tone of Carol's voice, coupled to the knowing look in her lively eyes,
suggested, all too clearly, that more was known of his nocturnal activities on
the evening in question than he would have been prepared to admit. "Yes," he blushingly
confessed. "Quite pleasant."
"Only 'quite'?" queried Carol
with the air of a tease about her.
"Were you worried that someone like her father would overhear you,
then?"
Andrew's embarrassment took a sharp turn
for the worse. He didn't know how to
reply, not knowing exactly where he stood with her. But Carol came to his rescue.
"Or perhaps you were disappointed
because she wasn't more responsive and didn't have much experience behind
her?" Carol shamelessly conjectured.
Now it was completely out in the open. There could be no question of pretence
here. "No, not really," he
confessed, his blood seeming hotter than usual. And then, all of a sudden, as though the lid
of his shame had just been removed and the pressure released from his
embarrassing predicament, he burst into an impulsive giggle, which was
followed, much to Carol's satisfaction, by a lengthy smile of cathartic
relief. "How did you know?" he
asked, as soon as it had run its pleasurable course.
"Simply by listening outside her
bedroom door for a few minutes before retiring to my room," Carol
revealed. "Not that either of you
were making much noise about it! On the
contrary, I had to strain my ears, since you seemed rather reserved in your
pleasures."
"We had to be," Andrew admitted,
automatically deferring to Carol's partial impression. "Otherwise the game would have been
given away."
"As it was in any case - at least as
far as I was concerned."
Andrew experienced a slight qualm at this
point. "What about Robert?" he
asked.
"Not to my knowledge," Carol
replied. "I didn't mention it to
him and he hasn't mentioned anything to me.
So I can only presume he doesn't know." She smiled reassuringly and then added:
"We slept in separate rooms, by the way."
"Is that so?" Andrew responded,
not a little surprised at this turn of events.
"Well, I sincerely hope I can trust you to keep a secret,
Carol. I don't think Mr Grace would
particularly approve of what I've been up to with his daughter, would he?"
"Most probably not; though I don't
think you would particularly approve of what he's up to with Robert," the
model averred.
Andrew felt somewhat puzzled and looked
it. "How d'you mean?" he
asked, surprised to find himself becoming slightly concerned on Harding's
behalf.
Carol smiled vaguely and proceeded to cast
a few tiny pebbles into the pond, momentarily disturbing the apparent
equanimity of its tiny inhabitants.
"Well, as yet, I've nothing definite to go on; though, from what
I've learnt from an acquaintance of mine, it's somewhat doubtful that Henry
Grace's motives for inviting Robert here are exclusively professional,"
she remarked. "In point of fact, I
incline to believe such motives don't really enter into it at all."
The writer became even more puzzled. "I don't think I quite follow you,"
he not unreasonably confessed.
"You wouldn't happen to know a
photographer by name of Donald Prescott, by any chance?"
He shook his head.
"Well, as you do know, I'm a model,
and my profession often takes me to Prescott's house in Hampstead, where I pose
for his camera," Carol resumed.
"Now from what I gleaned from him, the last time I was there, Henry
Grace is by no means as influential in the world of art or art criticism as
Robert seems to imagine, since he's at least two decades out-of-date."
"I could have told you that!"
Andrew retorted. "In fact, he's
almost a century out-of-date, so far as I'm concerned."
Carol had to smile, in spite of the
seriousness of the matter. "I'm
glad you think so," she said.
"However Prescott, who used to know Mr Grace personally, assured me
that the critic wasn't the type of man to put himself out for anybody, to use
what little influence he has specifically on anybody's professional
behalf."
"You mean, Robert's being deceived by
him?" Andrew conjectured.
"That seems the most logical
inference," Carol agreed.
"But why? Why would he go to all the trouble to invite Robert
here and play the charming host, if he wasn't intending to befriend
him?" Andrew objected. "After all, they've talked of little
else but art ever since we arrived!"
"As I well know," Carol admitted
over a faint but earnest sigh. "Yet
that strikes me as no more than a cover for his real motives, a trap to lure
Robert into danger. If you want to know
my honest opinion, I believe Henry Grace has taken a fancy to my boyfriend and
hopes to seduce him."
Andrew could scarcely believe his
ears. "You're kidding!" he
ejaculated.
"Not a bit," Carol assured him,
her face deadly serious. "I gleaned
as much from what Prescott told me the other week, both from what was said and
by the way he responded to some of my comments.
He was harbouring a little secret, and I bet you anything it had to do
with Mr Grace's sexuality - namely, the fact of his being bisexual."
"Bisexual?" Andrew repeated,
still distinctly sceptical about the revelation Carol had opted to inflict upon
him. "Maybe that explains the
strange silence and withdrawn disposition of his wife over the weekend, her
disinclination to enter into conversation with him in Robert's presence, much
as though she knew full-well what was going on and what was expected of her in
consequence. Maybe even a private grudge
against him and jealousy that he should prefer someone else to her? After all, she didn't come with us on that
cross-country stroll yesterday afternoon, did she?"
"Probably more because she wasn't
invited to than from any overt grievance against her husband," Carol
opined. "We were led to believe
that she had to stay behind to look after the house and attend to any new
guests who might arrive during our absence.
But were there any?"
Andrew pondered, a moment, what was
evidently a rhetorical question, and then said: "Not if you discount
Philip's friend, Edwin."
"Quite! And one can hardly consider him a guest, much
less a personal friend of Henry Grace!" declared Carol sternly. "No, as far as I'm concerned, that was
just a ruse to keep her out of the way while her husband chatted-up my
boyfriend to the extent he could.
Besides, you were on the walk and he didn't talk very much to you, did
he?"
"Perhaps that's just as well!"
the writer ironically averred, showing signs of amusement. "It would also have detracted from my
conversation with Pauline or even prevented it from taking place. Curious, now I come to think about it, how my
preoccupation with her didn't appear to arouse any interest or concern on his
part, much as though he had better things to think about than the safety of his
daughter in the dubious company of a handsome male stranger."
"Evidently he had," Carol
affirmed. "And primarily in terms
of the success of his strategy to seduce Robert."
"But is he bisexual, too?"
"Not to my knowledge. At least, he has never made mention of a
penchant for men to me, nor have I ever seen him in anything approximating to
sexual contact with them during the six months of our intimacy. Of course, prior to then I'm not able to
say. But from what he told me about his
previous relationships, all of them with women, it would seem highly improbable
that he has ever gone out of his way to establish bisexual relations with
anyone. Quite the contrary, he strikes
me as a born heterosexual."
"Well, if that's how it is - and I can
well believe it in view of his overly realistic approach to painting - then we
needn't fear for his safety or, rather, morals, need we?" Andrew
deduced. "Henry Grace is simply
wasting his time."
Carol firmly shook her head. "I rather doubt it," she
retorted. "For Robert has so much
confidence in Mr Grace's ability to influence his career for the better ...
that he might well succumb to his sexual demands on the spur of the moment, if
only to further his aims."
"You mean he'd allow Grace to sexually
violate him on the assumption that such a procedure would be to his
professional advantage?" Andrew blurted out, quite beside himself with
astonishment.
"Shush, keep your voice down!"
Carol hissed, pressing the proverbial forefinger against her lips.
They cast an apprehensive glance around the
garden, but there was nobody to be seen.
The house stood bathed in sunlight some eighty-odd yards away, its
windows blank. Only the harmless sounds
of sparrows and thrushes could be heard.
"But that's preposterous!" Andrew
exclaimed with renewed confidence.
"Who-on-earth would allow another man to violate him for the sake
of his career?"
"Particularly when, unbeknownst to
himself, he wouldn't stand to gain anything much by it," Carol
confirmed. "But you don't know
Robert Harding. At least you wouldn't
know the extent of his ambitions to become universally recognized as a great
painter."
"I've an inkling of it!" Andrew
admitted, simultaneously recalling the experience of Harding's concern over his
freedom of speech earlier that morning.
If that was part of the painter's ambition to gain universal
recognition, then he was certainly doing everything he could to stay in Henry
Grace's good books. No doubt, he could
be induced to do a bit more, if circumstances required! But how absurd that his ambitions should be
so important to him that he could be depended upon to lean over backwards to
achieve them - and evidently in more than a merely metaphorical sense.
"An inkling is all very well,"
Carol sharply rejoined, succumbing to a degree of self-pity. "But I have to live with a great deal
more than that, including the fact of his desire to become the leading English
portrait-painter of his day."
Andrew felt obliged to laugh, and did so
with a sarcastic relish quite untypical of him.
Really, it was too funny for words!
How could Harding become the foremost anything? Wasn't it simply his intention to become the
most reactionary painter of his day, to make war on all forms of modernity, not
excepting the contemporary treatment of portraiture? But Carol wasn't particularly amused by
Andrew's flippant response. It was all
right for him to laugh, he didn't have to live with the guy. She did, though not legally. Indeed, she could have broken with Harding
that very day, had she really wanted to.
But, deep down, she was still rather fond of him, unwilling, at present,
to be the source of a break-up. Besides,
if the truth were known, she would have to admit that he was the best lover she
had ever had - far more adventurous, vigorous, and responsive than any of the
previous men in her life. And one who
took longer with his pleasures, moreover.
It wouldn't have been to her sexual advantage to risk having to settle
for anything less, least of all over such a relatively trifling issue as his
professional ambitions!
"By the way, I ought to tell you that
I happened to overhear part of a conversation between Robert and Mr Grace
whilst he was working on the latter's portrait one day," Andrew revealed,
once he had cooled down again. "You
weren't there, but I could see that your boyfriend was doing his level best to
make as good an impression on his sitter as possible, straining every damn
nerve and muscle on his face to make it appear as though he were deeply
engrossed in concentration, and agreeing with just about everything the latter
said. It didn't take long before my
suspicions were confirmed concerning his reactionary attitude towards modern
art, his dislike of everything abstract."
"Yes, that must have been on one of
the days I was at Prescott's," Carol commented. "But the irony of it all is that, if
what I assume about Mr Grace is true, Robert needn't have gone to such trouble
to make a good impression, since that old faggot only commissioned his portrait
because he'd already taken a fancy to him and thereby hoped to seduce him. Robert's concern with being on his best
behaviour was accordingly quite superfluous."
"And probably still is," Andrew
conjectured, smiling.
"Yes, I incline to think so,"
Carol agreed. "Especially when I
recall the ease with which Mr Grace dismissed Robert's concern over your
differences of opinion, earlier in the day, while the three of us were sitting
outside on those old back-garden seats yesterday evening."
Andrew automatically cast a suspicious
glance in the direction of the seats in question, as though to assure himself
that they were now empty. "Oh, was
Robert somewhat upset then?" he asked.
"You bet he was!" Carol
exclaimed. "And quite apologetic,
to boot. But he needn't have been, since
Henry Grace didn't harbour any grievances against him as a result of your
philosophical outspokenness. On the
contrary, he was only too keen to reassure us - and Robert in particular - that
he could still be a charming host."
"I bet the old sod was!" Andrew
cried, unable, once again, to prevent a gasp of amusement escaping from between
his parted lips. "But I doubt if he
really felt as charming as he made himself out to be, especially where I was
concerned."
"Indeed not!" Carol confirmed,
smiling ironically. "Although I did
my best to stand-up for you, in spite of opposition from my boyfriend. Unlike him, however, I saw no reason why not
to, since I agree with your theories concerning the difference between Christians
and transcendentalists. It stands to
reason that a dualist is less spiritually evolved. But Mr Grace didn't see it like that, being
too set in his bourgeois ways and too vain, moreover, to concede one the truth
of the matter. For all we know, he might
have had a guilty conscience about his intention to seduce Robert and couldn't
restrain the impulse to defend him against you, when you spoke of the moral
superiority of transcendentalists yesterday afternoon. But, whatever the case, he was certainly not
put off Robert by my subsequent defence of your views. Quite the contrary, he began to speak of
their temperamental compatibility and reaffirmed his liking for him - a liking
which seemed to corroborate all my suspicions regarding his real motives for
having invited Robert all the way up here in the first place. Yet when he went on to speak of their being
'two of a kind', brothers in the cause of 'liberal decency and tradition', I
nearly burst out laughing, so ironic did it sound to me! Doubtless the word 'kind' possessed more
significance for Henry Grace than ever it did for his naive dupe!"
"So it would seem," Andrew
murmured through an accompanying snigger.
"Yet brothers in the cause of liberal, or representational,
tradition in the arts they most certainly are, as I was made more than
adequately aware by my eavesdropping on the other side of Robert's fence that
day. Naturally, I had suspected he was
in revolt against all forms of abstraction in art, shortly after we first
became acquainted. But it wasn't until I
heard the pair of them together that my suspicions were confirmed. Instead of moving with the times and
furthering the admirable cause of transcendental abstraction, these two
bastards are determined to reverse things by reaffirming the primacy, as they
see it, of form and substance, thereby returning art to an outmoded
sensual/spiritual dualism compatible with bourgeois ethics. I don't know exactly how you feel about this,
Carol, but I can tell you I'm very much against it! If they think that by advocating a more
representational approach to art they'll be affecting its salvation, then
they're sadly mistaken! They would
simply be resurrecting the past, and that isn't much good to the present, still
less the future. For figurative art has
had its day, and nothing they could do now would really alter matters to any
appreciable extent. At worst, I expect
they'd merely succeed in causing a certain amount of mental confusion among the
less-integrated devotees of modern art, affecting a vague nostalgia for
dualistic criteria among the bourgeoisie, and slightly undermining the progress
of transcendentalism in art, including various types of light art, in the
process. But nothing significant,
nothing guaranteed to cause a major regression in our tastes. Fortunately for all true lovers of cultural
progress, theirs is a lost cause, so we needn't become unduly concerned about
it. However, the fact they do think in
terms of a return to outmoded values in art makes them extremely disagreeable
to me - enemies, if you like, whom it's my duty to denigrate. It isn't for me to encourage them in their
anachronistic intentions."
Carol appeared momentarily grieved,
primarily because her lover was being attacked by Andrew and made to appear a
fool, but also because, deep down, she sympathized with the cause of modern
art, at least in its more progressive manifestations, and was rather ashamed of
the fact that Robert didn't. And then
what Prescott had said to her about the consequences of his associating with Mr
Grace more or less corresponded, in essence if not exactly in detail, to the
sentiments expressed by Andrew, and presented her with additional reasons for
believing that Harding's was a lost cause.
Yes, however much she remained loyal to her lover as a person, she
couldn't pretend that his professional ambitions were worthy of respect. Accordingly, she had no option but to side
with the writer. "It would serve
him right," she remarked eventually, "if Mr Grace manages to seduce
him on the pretext of furthering his career, without actually doing so! It might teach him a valuable lesson."
"True, though I doubt if it would
prevent him from continuing with his reactionary creative policies,"
Andrew solemnly opined. "He seems
to be perfectly at one with them."
"Yes, that has to be admitted,"
Carol agreed. "A born
reactionary."
However, the sight of Mrs Grace emerging
from the house to put some washing out decided Carol against continuing their
conversation and, with a parting smile, she left the writer to his reflections,
both private and public. He was in no
hurry to return to the others himself, not even for Pauline's sake.
CHAPTER NINE
It was
around 7.00pm that same day when young Philip Grace called on Edwin, who had
spent the greater part of the afternoon in his room with a book. As usual, it was Edwin's mother who answered
the front door. Aside from the obliging
young women who came to visit her son during vacations, Philip was the most
regular caller - almost a member of the family.
But, as ever, he couldn't be induced to say very much to Mrs Ford, whom
he found slightly intimidating on account of her matronly build and deep
voice. It was accordingly straight up to
his fellow-student's room that he went.
"Ah, so you've finally broken away
from your father's guests!" Edwin observed, as soon as Philip had
proffered his customary "Hi!" in a terse, high-pitched tone of voice.
"Yes, fortunately! They left just under an hour ago." He helped himself to a wooden chair and sat
down on it with a sigh of relief, more from habit than fatigue. It was often his way to sigh at contact with
chairs, even when he hadn't run the 400-odd yards which separated their
parents' houses, as on this occasion. To
him, a chair signified less a support than a letting go of oneself, a general
collapse of the physical organism, an abdication of moral high-standing, which
he ordinarily strove to maintain on as athletic a plane as possible.
"Were you glad to see the back of
them?" Edwin asked, politely putting his book to one side and sitting up a
little on his bed, where he had been sprawled-out in luxurious abandon.
"Yes and no," Philip ambivalently
replied. "I didn't much like the
painter, who struck me as rather pompous and effeminate in a middle-class kind
of way. But I quite liked the other two,
especially Miss Jackson. She was
certainly pretty!"
Edwin smiled broadly in conspiratorial
acknowledgement of his friend's assessment of Carol. "A good fucking lay, what?" he
facetiously speculated.
"I bet!" Philip enthusiastically
responded. "Too good for that
painter jerk, so far as I'm concerned.
I'd like to have tried something on her."
"But you evidently didn't?" Edwin
deduced.
"I hardly had time! Nonetheless I'm quite convinced, from the way
Pauline was behaving this morning, that the other guy tried something on her last
night, after leaving us in the lounge."
"Oh, what makes you think
that?" Edwin seemed concerned,
almost worriedly so.
"I couldn't help noticing the way she
was staring at him during breakfast - kind of intimately," Philip
revealed, fidgeting slightly in his chair.
"Even mother was aware of something, or at least of a change in
her. And the way she was dressed too, in
her best and most seductive minidress, like she wanted to show off and please
someone. I bet you anything she was
dolled-up specifically to please him."
"So you think he got off with her last
night?" Edwin conjectured nervously.
"I shouldn't be at all
surprised!" Philip averred. "After
all, she didn't come back downstairs after she'd disappeared with him at around
eleven o'clock, did she?"
"She might have gone straight to bed
after having shown him to his room," Edwin speculated, shifting uneasily
on his bed.
"She might," Philip conceded,
giving his friend the benefit of the doubt.
"But, knowing my sister, I incline to think otherwise, since she
doesn't usually go to bed till after twelve on Saturdays. No, I bet you anything he had his way with
her."
Edwin appeared even more concerned than
before. He hadn't quite realized, until
now, that he was virtually in love with Pauline or, at any rate, fonder of her
than he had hitherto imagined. But
Philip's sister had never shown any real romantic interest in him - nothing
comparable to the interest she had evidently shown in Andrew Doyle. Her attitude towards him, on the contrary,
had always been rather cool. However
that may be, it wasn't for him to make a blabbering fool of himself in front of
Philip! "Oh well, if that
writer-bastard got on intimate terms with her, good fucking luck to him!"
he at length exclaimed, trying to sound as flippantly impartial as
possible. "We needn't begrudge him
such modest pleasures! I guess he
deserved something after all the trouble we put him through, encouraging him to
expound his religious views to us in your father's lounge. Had I not been so stoned, when we arrived
back at your place yesterday, I doubt that I'd have launched out so frigging
vehemently in defence of Marxism in front of your distinctly conservative
father, and thereby precipitated the impromptu lecture from Doyle which was
destined to lead to a show-down between the Christian camp on the one hand and
the transcendentalist camp, or whatever, on the other. To tell you the truth, I'm still pretty
confused about this Social Transcendental compromise between modified forms of
socialism and transcendentalism which he was advocating. But, really, I can't say I've ever seen your
dad look more aggrieved or sound more offended than when he let rip at the guy
for having dismissed Christianity as outmoded.
Too frigging terrible!"
Philip had to agree. "It quite poisoned the atmosphere for
the rest of the weekend, and not only so far as their attitude
to each other was concerned," he declared.
"You ought to have felt the strain at breakfast, what with Andrew
on my left and Robert on my right. I
could almost feel the needles of antipathy passing through me from the one to
the other! And Andrew hardly spoke a
word all the time, not even when I attempted to start a conversation with
him."
"I don't really blame him," Edwin
remarked, grinning ironically. "If
I had been in his shoes, I wouldn't have said very much either. But I could never be in his shoes, since I've
no use for transcendentalism."
"Not even after what he said on the
subject yesterday afternoon?" Philip queried.
"No, absolutely not! I'm still a Marxist and don't desire to
meditate. I'll remain loyal to my type,
even if it's only one amongst others and not necessarily the most
important. You can keep your
Krishnamurti, Radhakrishnan, Sri Chinmoy, Prabhupada, Sri Rajhneesh, and all
the rest of them, if that's what you bloody-well want. But leave me my Marx, Engles, Trotsky,
Kropotkin, etc., who suit me better.
Alright, he may be correct in claiming Marxism isn't everything. But that's no reason for me to suppose I
ought necessarily to abandon it and embrace meditation instead! If I'm of a predominantly materialistic
disposition, well then, I shall just have to live in accordance with its
dictates and attend to matters as they stand in relation to it. For me, politics is more important than
religion."
"And for me it's the other way around,
my temperamental disposition being somewhat different," Philip
confessed. "But you must admit
you've slightly changed your position, due to what Andrew was saying. For you were previously inclined to dismiss
religion altogether, and not concede that meditation had any place whatsoever
in the march of history. You hadn't
learnt to differentiate between Christianity and transcendentalism, Jesus
Christ and the Holy Ghost, and therefore weren't prepared to accept that the
latter might have more relevance to a post-Christian socialist society than you
supposed. To you, all religious people,
no matter how they conceived of God, were equally detrimental to socialism, and
hence to a world based on the claims of materialism. You would have wanted them all done away
with, so that atheistic Marxism could flourish unimpeded by religion, which to
you was nothing more than a system of glorified superstitions, and thus bring
the world to the millennium as you conceived of it, that's to say, a socialist
millennium in which only material things mattered - everyone being well-fed,
well-housed, well-sexed, etc., and thereby reduced to the level of contented
cabbages. But such a millennium would be
an absurdity, as I'm sure you must now realize, in which men simply vegetated,
in accordance with their new-found ease, and degenerated to a level on a par with,
if not actually way below, the beasts.
They would be stuck in front of their television sets night after dreary
night, with never an ambition in their starry-eyed heads beyond the
materialistic desire to indefinitely maintain the status quo and thereby reduce
human sufferings to a bare minimum. But
is that salvation? Is that
the climax to our long and difficult evolution? No, you know as well as me that such a
lamentable state-of-affairs, already manifest in all-too-many-cases, would eventually
prove intolerable, the source of ineffable boredom. If we didn't go mad or turn psychopathic,
we'd simply sink into our bodies, like abject clods, and die of humiliation and
shame! No, it's obvious there must be
more to the coming millennium than that, something which lifts us above
material survival and makes it possible for us to experience spiritual
bliss. And what is that something if not
Transcendental Meditation and an identification, in consequence, with the
Godhead, an identification, through the superconscious mind, with holy
spirit."
"Don't frigging-well preach to
me!" Edwin objected, becoming resentful.
"I don't want your salvation.
I may have slightly modified my attitude to transcendentalism, but I'm
still a Marxist, still predominantly political."
"Oh, I'm not preaching to you!"
Philip corrected. "I know only too
well by now that any kind or degree of transcendentalist preaching would be
wasted on your damn ears, since they're not attuned to it. 'I'm not the mouth for those ears,' as
Nietzsche would say. No, I'm merely
pointing out the absurdity in conceiving of the Millennium in purely
materialist terms, as though it were nothing more than a glorified consumer
society bereft of the spirit. Let's not
degrade ourselves to that level!"
"Alright, alright, have it your own
frigging way!" Edwin countered, with an air of weariness. "To some extent I accept what you say -
at least to the extent of distinguishing between Christianity and transcendentalism,
and thereby acknowledging that there's probably more to the Millennium, in the
ideological sense, than material well-being."
"And you still consider yourself a
Marxist?"
"Yes, in a manner of speaking! At least I'm still dedicated to politics, not
religion. I'm still atheistic as far as
the Christian god is concerned. Still an
enemy of the Church!"
"But not of the Holy Spirit or of
Transcendental Meditation?" Philip pressed him, scenting victory.
There was a strained silence during which
the Cambridge undergraduate wearily shrugged his shoulders and sighed faintly,
torn between allegiance to Marxism and the overwhelming logic in support of the
claims put forward by his fellow-student.
No, he wasn't going to admit defeat.
"I'll content myself with the policies of socialism," he
defiantly averred. "At least
they're tangible. I'll be the Commissar
and you can be the Yogi. You do your
thing to help the individual and I'll do mine to help the collectivity. But don't expect me to get down on my knees
or rump or whatever before the Godhead.
That's not my responsibility."
"I didn't for one moment expect it to
be!" Philip remarked. "But at
least you now know or are prepared to admit that the superconscious has a
legitimate role to play in shaping our future salvation, and therefore can't be
dismissed as an illusion or a fancy. If
anything should be dismissed as such, it's the belief that the ego - as
representative, at its height, of a balanced fusion between subconscious and
superconscious elements - should indefinitely continue to dominate us, and
every criterion of truth, progress, goodness, etc., be referred back to it as a
matter of logical course. As Andrew was
only too keen to point out yesterday, the ego is on the decline and will doubtless
continue to decline, or 'wither away', for as long as it takes us to attain to
the goal of human evolution in spiritual bliss.
Eventually we'll overcome it altogether, and so break free of the
subconscious. Then, once we've broken
free of that, we'll be in the Millennium, the post-human millennium, as Andrew
Doyle wisely calls it. So let's not
subscribe to the popular psychological fallacy, so dear to bourgeois
intellectuals, that the mind is only divisible into subconscious and conscious,
and that the conscious mind, or ego, will reign for ever. Fortunately, that would appear to be anything
but the case!"
"Indeed, here I'll have to agree with
you," Edwin confessed, breaking into a gratified smile at last. "For that aspect of the writer's logical
acumen has a certain relevance to the development of co-operative economics,
suggesting a break with the ego-bound competitive/cooperative system of the
bourgeoisie in deference to the self-transcending dictates of the
superconscious. Yes, there's evidently
something in what he said about religion and politics hanging together on a
common framework of evolutionary development!
At least, I can see the political and economic side of his
argument. But, in case you're interested
in emphasizing fallacies, illusions, superstitions, and the like, this is the
book you ought to be reading right now.
It's by a certain Philip Ward, and it's about fallacies of one kind or
another."
It was the book he had been reading when
his friend first entered the room, one that had kept him engrossed like few others,
and he now proceeded to flick through its pages by way of refreshing his memory
about various of its contents. Fallacies
listed, he duly informed his fellow-undergraduate, included biogenesis, the
Arthurius Society, astrology, Atlantis, inheritance of acquired
characteristics, divination, flying saucers, ghosts, giants, homeopathy, I
Ching, the immortality of the soul, the infallibility of the Pope, karma,
Lawsonomy, Lysenkoism, metoposcopy, naturopathy, orgonomy, osteopathy, ouija
boards, poltergeists, psychometry, reincarnation, scientology, scrying, tarot,
telegony, and theosophy - each fallacy being described in relevant detail with
careful reference to existing knowledge on the subject. Not since he read Voltaire's Philosophical
Dictionary, during his first year at college, had Edwin Ford encountered a
more perspicacious or enlightening book, the logical acumen of its author
cutting through the welter of superstitions that clouded our age with a
clear-sightedness worthy of Voltaire himself!
No-one who was interested in the progress of truth over illusion could
possibly fail to be impressed by such a book.
It was an invaluable safeguard against so many of the intellectual or
spiritual tricks-and-traps which beset us on all sides, rendering us the
victims of other men's delusions. It
cleared the ground, so to speak, of thousands of books to which one might
otherwise, in one's comparative ignorance, have fallen victim, giving one a
healthy scepticism concerning the ostensible incontestability of so many trendy
'truths'. After reading such a book one
felt mentally purged, delivered from the pernicious influence of contemporary
illusion. It was a kind of cleansing
agent of the psyche.
"Well, as long as it doesn't say
anything against the value of Transcendental Meditation and the reality of the
superconscious," said Philip, "I think I'd like to read it - assuming
you're willing to part with it, that is?"
He looked inquiringly at his friend.
"Sure, take it home with you later
this evening!" Edwin gladly proposed, handing the voluminous hardback
across to him. "I don't think
you'll be disappointed. Although it does
contain an entry dealing with the fallacy of believing that, with the
Millennium, the Messiah will return."
"Which, in any case, isn't something I
really believe," Philip hastened to assure his mocking companion. "Like Andrew, I believe that the
Millennium will signify the triumph of the spiritual principle, not the literal
return of the theological symbol, viz. Jesus Christ, standing for that
principle. The difference, if you like,
between taking the Last Judgement literally and taking it figuratively, if you
see what I mean."
Edwin shook his head. "I'm not altogether sure I do," he
confessed, "but I'm prepared to believe that what you say is probably
nearer the truth than what has generally been accepted for it, over the
centuries. I'll concede you the benefit
of the agnostic doubt!"
"I'm glad to hear it," Philip
declared, smiling ironically. "I'd
always thought you were less of a Marxist than you made yourself out to
be."
"Frigging nonsense!" the other
defiantly concluded.
CHAPTER TEN
It was not
long after his return from Berkshire that Andrew received an invitation from Carol
to accompany her on one of her professional visits to Donald Prescott's
house. The prospect of meeting the
eccentric photographer in the flesh quite appealed to him, and so he had no
hesitation in accepting it. Besides, he
rather liked her company. For she was
certainly more of a kind with himself than Harding or, for that matter, anyone
else he had met in recent weeks, including Pauline.
However, it was principally with a view to meeting the photographer that he set off with Miss Jackson, the following Wednesday morning, to their South Hampstead destination. When they arrived there, at around 10.30, Prescott had only just got up, having overslept by an hour, and was not yet washed or dressed. His dressing gown - bright green and of a fine silk texture which suggested affluence - was his only defence against a possible accusation of indecency, but he had taken the precaution to wrap and tie it around his tall, slender body in a manner by no means unconventional. Indeed, much to Andrew's surprise, there was nothing about the physical appearance of the man to suggest a penchant for eccentricity; though if his face looked perfectly unassuming, it had to be admitted that the entrance hall of his imposing house reflected a degree of e
