Eyeless In Gaza (14 page)

‘Cock of the dunghill,' Anthony continued, ignoring the other's protest. ‘He's got to be cock – even if it's only of the tiniest little Fabian dunghill.' He laughed. ‘Poor old Mark! What an agony when he can't get to the top of his dunghill! One's lucky to prefer books.' He patted St Teresa affectionately. ‘Still, I wish you hadn't stood down. It would have made me laugh to see Mark trying to pretend he didn't mind when you'd beaten him. You're reading a paper, aren't you,' he went on, ‘after the voting?'

Relieved by the change of subject, Brian nodded. ‘On Syn . . .' he began.

‘On sin?'

‘Synd-dicalism.'

They both laughed.

‘Odd, when you come to think of it,' said Anthony when their laughter subsided, ‘that the mere notion of talking to socialists about sin should seem so . . . well, so outrageous, really. Sin . . . socialism.' He shook his head. ‘It's like mating a duck with a zebra.'

‘You could t-talk about sin if you st-started from the other end.'

‘Which end?'

‘The s-social end. O-organizing a s-society so well that the i-individual simply c-couldn't commit any sins.'

‘But do you honestly think such a society could exist?'

‘P-perhaps,' said Brian doubtfully, but reflected that social change could hardly abolish those ignoble desires of his, couldn't even legitimate those desires, except within certain conventional limits. He shook his head. ‘N-no, I don't kn-know,' he concluded.

‘I can't see that you could do more than just transfer people's sins from one plane to another. But we've done that already. Take envy and ambition, for example. They used to
express themselves on the plane of physical violence. Now, we've reorganized society in such a way that they have to express themselves for the most part in terms of economic competition.'

‘Which we're g-going to ab-abolish.'

‘And so bring physical violence back into fashion, eh?'

‘Th-that's what you
h-hope
, d-don't you?' said Brian; and laughing, ‘You're awful!' he added.

There was a silence. Absently, Brian picked up
The Way of Perfection
, and, turning over the pages, read a line here, a paragraph there. Then with a sigh he shut the book, put it back in its place and, shaking his head, ‘I c-can't understand,' he said, ‘why you read this sort of st-stuff. S-seeing that you d-don't b-believe in it.'

‘But I do believe,' Anthony insisted. ‘Not in the orthodox explanations, of course. Those are obviously idiotic. But in the facts. And in the fundamental metaphysical theory of mysticism.'

‘You m-mean that you can g-get at t-truth by some s-sort of d-direct union with it?'

Anthony nodded. ‘And the most valuable and important sort of truth only in that way.'

Brian sat for a time in silence, his elbows on his knees, his long face between his hands, staring at the floor. Then, without looking up, ‘It s-seems to me,' he said at last, ‘that you're r-running with the h-hare and h-h-h . . . and h-h . . .'

‘Hunting with the hounds,' Anthony supplied.

The other nodded. ‘Using sc-scepticism against r-religion – ag-against any s-sort of i-idealism, really,' he added, thinking of the barbed mockery with which Anthony loved to puncture any enthusiasm that seemed to him excessive. ‘And using th-this st-stuff' – he pointed to
The Way of Perfection
– ‘a-against s-scientific argument, when it s-suits your b-b-b . . .' ‘book' refused to come: ‘when it s-suits your bee-double-o-kay.'

Anthony relit his pipe before answering. ‘Well, why shouldn't one make the best of both worlds?' he asked, as he threw the spent match into the grate. ‘Of
all
the worlds. Why not?'

‘W-well, c-consistency, s-single-mindedness . . .'

‘But I don't value single-mindedness. I value completeness. I think it's one's duty to develop all one's potentialities –
all
of them. Not stupidly stick to only one. Single-mindedness!' he repeated. ‘But oysters are single-minded. Ants are single-minded.'

‘S-so are s-saints.'

‘Well, that only confirms my determination not to be a saint.'

‘B-but h-how can you d-do anything if you're not s-single-minded? It's the f-first cond-dition of any ach-achievement.'

‘Who tells you I want to achieve anything?' asked Anthony. ‘I don't. I want to
be,
completely. And I want to
know.
And so far as getting to know is doing, I accept the conditions of it, single-mindedly.' With the stem of his pipe he indicated the books on the table.

‘You d-don't accept the c-conditions of
th-that
kind of kn-knowing,' Brian retorted, pointing once more at
The Way of Perfection
. ‘P-praying and f-fasting and all th-that.'

‘Because it isn't knowing; it's a special kind of experience. There's all the difference in the world between knowing and experiencing. Between learning algebra, for example, and going to bed with a woman.'

Brian did not smile. Still staring at the floor, ‘B-but you th-think,' he said, ‘that m-mystical experiences b-brings one into c-contact with t-truth?'

‘And so does going to bed.'

‘D-does it?' Brian forced himself to ask. He disliked this sort of conversation, disliked it more than ever now that he was in love with Joan – in love, and yet (he hated himself for it) desiring her basely, wrongly . . .

‘If it's the right woman,' the other answered with an airy knowingness, as though he had experimented with every kind of female. In fact, though he would have been ashamed to admit it, he was a virgin.

‘S-so you needn't b-bother about the f-fasting,' said Brian, suddenly ironical.

Anthony grinned. ‘I'm quite content with only
knowing
about the way of perfection,' he said.

‘I think I should w-want to experience it too,' said Brian, after a pause.

Anthony shook his head. ‘Not worth the price,' he said. ‘That's the trouble of all single-minded activity; it costs you your liberty. You find yourself driven into a corner. You're a prisoner.'

‘But if you w-want to be f-free, you've g-got to be a p-prisoner. It's the c-condition of freedom – t-true freedom.'

‘True freedom!' Anthony repeated in the parody of a clerical voice. ‘I always love that kind of argument. The contrary of a thing isn't the contrary; oh, dear me, no! It's the thing itself, but as it
truly
is. Ask a diehard what conservatism is; he'll tell you it's
true
socialism. And the brewers' trade papers; they're full of articles about the beauty of True Temperance. Ordinary temperance is just gross refusal to drink; but
true
temperance,
true
temperance is something much more refined. True temperance is a bottle of claret with each meal and three double whiskies after dinner. Personally, I'm all for true temperance, because I hate temperance. But I like being free. So I won't have anything to do with true freedom.'

‘Which doesn't p-prevent it from being t-true freedom,' the other obstinately insisted.

‘What's in a name?' Anthony went on. ‘The answer is, Practically everything, if the name's a good one. Freedom's a marvellous name. That's why you're so anxious to make use of it. You think that, if you call imprisonment true freedom,
people will be attracted to the prison. And the worst of it is you're quite right. The name counts more with most people than the thing. They'll follow the man who repeats it most often and in the loudest voice. And of course “True Freedom” is actually a better name than freedom
tout court.
Truth – it's one of the magical words. Combine it with the magic of “freedom” and the effect's terrific.' After a moment's silence, ‘Curious,' he went on, digressively and in another tone, ‘that people don't talk about true truth. I suppose it sounds too queer. True truth; true truth,' he repeated experimentally. ‘No, it obviously won't do. It's like beri-beri, or Wagga-Wagga. Nigger talk. You couldn't take it seriously. If you want to make the contrary of truth acceptable, you've got to call it spiritual truth, or inner truth, or higher truth, or even . . .'

‘But a m-moment ago you were s-saying that there
w-was
a k-kind of higher truth. S-something you could only g-get at m-mystically. You're c-contradicting yourself.'

Anthony laughed. ‘That's one of the privileges of freedom. Besides,' he added, more seriously, ‘there's that distinction between knowing and experiencing. Known truth isn't the same as experienced truth. There ought to be two distinct words.'

‘You m-manage to wr-wriggle out of e-everything.'

‘Not out of
everything,
' Anthony insisted. ‘There'll always be those.' He pointed again to the books. ‘Always knowledge. The prison of knowledge – because of course knowledge is also a prison. But I shall always be ready to stay in that prison.'

‘A-always?' Brian questioned.

‘Why not?'

‘Too m-much of a l-luxury.'

‘On the contrary. It's a case of scorning delights and living laborious days.'

‘Which are thems-selves del-lightful.'

‘Of course. But mayn't one take pleasure in one's work?'

Brian nodded. ‘It's not exactly th-that,' he said. ‘One doesn't w-want to exp-ploit one's p-privileges.'

‘Mine's only a little one,' said Anthony. ‘About six pounds a week,' he added, specifying the income that had come to him from his mother.

‘P-plus all the r-rest.'

‘Which rest?'

‘The l-luck that you happen to l-like this sort of thing.' He reached out and touched the folio Bayles. ‘And all your g-gifts.'

‘But I can't artificially make myself stupid,' Anthony objected. ‘Nor can you.'

‘N-no, but we can use what we've g-got for s-something else.'

‘Something we're not suited for,' the other suggested sarcastically.

Ignoring the mockery, ‘As a k-kind of th-thank-offering,' Brian went on with a still intenser passion of earnestness.

‘For what?'

‘For all that we've been g-given. M-money, to start with. And then kn-knowledge, t-taste, the power to c-c . . .' He wanted to say ‘create,' but had to be content with ‘to do things.' ‘B-being a scholar or an artist – it's l-like purs-suing your p-personal salvation. But there's also the k-kingdom of G-god. W-waiting to be realized.'

‘By the Fabians?' asked Anthony in a tone of pretended ingenuousness.

‘Am-among others.' There was a long half-minute of silence. ‘Shall I say it?' Brian was wondering. ‘Shall I tell him?' And suddenly, as though a dam had burst, his irresolution was swept away. ‘I've decided,' he said aloud, and the feeling with which he spoke the words was so strong that it lifted him, almost without his knowledge, to his feet and sent him
striding restlessly about the room, ‘I've decided that I shall g-go on with ph-philosophy and I-literature and h-history till I'm thirty. Then it'll be t-time to do something else. S-something more dir-rect.'

‘Direct?' Anthony repeated. ‘In what way?'

‘In getting at p-people. In r-realizing the k-kingdom of G-god . . .' The very intensity of his desire to communicate what he was feeling reduced him to dumbness.

Listening to Brian's words, looking up into the serious and ardent face, Anthony felt himself touched, profoundly, to the quick of his being . . . felt himself touched, and, for that very reason, came at once under a kind of compulsion, as though in self-defence, to react to his own emotion, and his friend's, with a piece of derision. ‘Washing the feet of the poor, for example,' he suggested. ‘And drying them on your hair. It'll be awkward if you go prematurely bald.'

Afterwards, when Brian had gone, he felt ashamed of his ignoble ribaldry – humiliated, at the same time, by the unreflecting automatism with which he had brought it out. Like those pithed frogs that twitch when you apply a drop of acid to their skin. A brainless response.

‘Damn!' he said aloud, then picked up his book.

He was deep once more in
The Way of Perfection
, when there was a thump at the door and a voice, deliberately harshened so as to be like the voice of a drill-sergeant on parade, shouted his name.

‘These bloody stairs of yours!' said Gerry Watchett as he came in. ‘Why the devil do you live in such a filthy hole?'

Gerry Watchett was fair-skinned, with small, unemphatic features and wavy golden-brown hair. A good-looking young man, but good-looking, in spite of his height and powerful build, almost to girlish prettiness. For the casual observer, there was an air about him of Arcadian freshness and innocence, strangely belied, however, upon a closer examination, by the
hard insolence in his blue eyes, by the faint smile of derision and contempt that kept returning to his face, by the startling coarseness of those thick-fingered, short-nailed hands.

Anthony pointed to a chair. But the other shook his head. ‘No, I'm in a hurry. Just rushed in to say you've got to come to dinner tonight.'

‘But I can't.'

Gerry frowned. ‘Why not?'

‘I've got a meeting of the Fabians.'

‘And you call that a reason for not coming to dine with me?'

‘Seeing I've promised to . . .'

‘Then I can expect you at eight?'

‘But really . . .'

‘Don't be a fool! What does it matter? A mothers' meeting?'

‘But what excuse shall I give?'

‘Any bloody thing you like. Tell them you've just had twins.'

‘All right, then,' Anthony agreed at last. ‘I'll come.'

‘Thank you very kindly,' said Gerry, with mock politeness. ‘I'd have broken your neck if you hadn't. Well, so long.' At the door he halted. ‘I'm having Bimbo Abinger, and Ted, and Willie Monmouth, and Scroope. I wanted to get old Gorchakov too: but the fool's gone and got ill at the last moment. That's why I had to ask you,' he added with a quiet matter-of-factness that was far more offensive than any emphasis could have been; then turned, and was gone.