Scandalous Risks (24 page)

VIII

I had already tortured myself with the notion that Aysgarth’s silence on the subject of Dido might indicate he still retained a trace of asexual affection for her, but the possibility that now assailed me was infinitely more pulverising. Later, sleep proved impossible. I was quite unable to forget Christian, able to indulge in a chaste romantic friendship with Marina because his sexual appetite was satisfied by his wife. Their triangle now seemed uncomplicated; I felt I could understand not only Katie’s serenity and Christian’s restraint but the ambivalence towards men which made Marina no threat to either of them at the profoundest level of their relationship.

But my own triangle, previously so straightforward, was now distorted by doubt.

I tried to pull myself together. No matter what Christian was doing with Katie, it was unthinkable that my Mr Dean might still be having sex with Dido.

So why was I thinking the unthinkable?

At two o’clock I went downstairs and mixed myself a whisky and-soda, a drink I normally avoided because it had a soporific effect on me, but twenty minutes later my eyelids showed no inclination to droop. I began to pace around the drawing-room.

If I refused to believe that my Mr Dean was continuing to have sexual intercourse with his wife, what were the implications? I tried to survey the facts with detachment. Of course our grand passion was as yet at an early stage, but I could not deny I had been puzzled by his failure to express his feelings more hotly in the car-park of Starbury Ring. But perhaps he had been shy. I had not forgotten his unexpected shyness on Lady Mary when we had met after the Orgy. On the other hand, he had appeared to be unafflicted by shyness in the car-park. So if he wasn’t having sex with his wife and if he wasn’t overwhelmed by his inhibitions, what was the explanation for the marked absence of passion which had left me feeling bewildered and dissatisfied?

I toyed with the appalling possibility of impotence, but discarded it. It was true that Aysgarth was sixty-one but plenty of men skipped around at that age and he had often boasted he had the constitution of an ox. Certainly I could never remember him being ill. While eavesdropping long ago on a conversation of Arabella’s I had gleaned the information that impotence could be caused by indulging too heavily in alcohol, but surely an ox-like constitution could absorb generous doses of alcohol without disastrous side-effects? And anyway, Aysgarth had always seemed to have this risky pastime well in control.

I applied myself afresh to the mystery. Then suddenly I realised I had quite overlooked the fact that he had powerful moral reasons for restraining himself with me. I hadn’t exactly forgotten that he was a clergyman, but I had been so carried away by my desire for a strong physical response from him that I had reacted like an ignorant layman and underestimated the spiritual force of his beliefs. The most obvious solution to the mystery of his non-passionate behaviour, as I now realised, was that he was being compulsively high-minded and noble.

It was also time I remembered that clergymen had no choice but to be high-minded and noble; that was what was expected of them and if they frolicked around committing adultery they were defrocked – although that, of course, only applied if they committed the ultimate sin of being found out. How often did clergymen stray from the moral path? It was bound to happen occasionally, since they were human beings and not robots, but I doubted that it happened often, and I found it hard to believe it happened to anyone who got beyond the rank of vicar. A clergyman able enough to progress to the upper reaches of his profession would be able enough to know how to ensure his survival. Aysgarth had evidently worked out (with the aid of Bishop Robinson) that he could allow himself a warm, flirtatious friendship with me, but his moral beliefs, which I had no doubt were strong, and his instinct for survival, which I had no doubt was well developed, would ensure he carried the affair no further.

That all made sense. And that indeed was the situation I had been prepared to accept after the Orgy when, riding high on a tidal wave of euphoria, I had decided it would be greedy to want more than a chaste romantic friendship. But no matter how valid these rational deductions were, they didn’t tell me what I was to do now that greed had triumphed – and they didn’t tell me either what Aysgarth was currently doing about sex. According to Arabella, men had to have sexual intercourse of some kind regularly (unless, I assumed, they were like Perry Palmer — and no one knew for sure about Perry anyway) but I had apparently argued myself into believing Aysgarth was at present a complete sexual abstainer. Was this abstinence possible? Was it likely? Arabella would without doubt have answered no to both questions, but Arabella had never been mixed up with a high-minded clergyman. I thought abstinence was possible but I had a terrible feeling it was not very likely — and if Aysgarth was keeping me at a chaste distance, there was only one other woman to whom he was likely to turn for sexual satisfaction.

I had a second whisky-and-soda.

I then tried to tell myself that I didn’t care what he was doing about sex so long as he loved me, but I knew this assertion bore no relation to reality. I did care. I cared passionately. I didn’t want to share him with anyone. I wanted him all to myself. In fact, as I could now acknowledge, recklessly embracing my mounting greed, I wanted to be his mistress. Marriage, unfortunately, was out of the question, since I could never ruin his career by involving him in a divorce, but I was sure that a consummated grand passion would at least give me peace of mind; never again did I want to swill whisky and pace the floor in the early hours of the morning while I tormented myself with revolting thoughts about his relationship with that appalling woman.

Of course it was impossible that he should still be sleeping with her. But I could see I had to make it more than impossible; I had to make it inconceivable.

Then alongside me in the world of allegory, the demure little serpent, gliding along on his leash, slipped his collar at last and slithered away beyond my control into the garden.

FOUR

‘[Bishop Robinson’s] attempt to be honest to God is so dishonest to the God of for example, Athanasius or the fourth century Cappadocian writers or of Thomas Aquinas, let alone Augustine, or again, to the God of the author of the
Cloud of Unknowing
or, say, to the God who is worshipped in and through the shape of the Orthodox Liturgy, that it is clearly high time that we were confronted b
^y
an explosive reminder of the need to "get our theism right."‘

DAVID JENKINS

The Honest to God Debate

ed. DAVID L. EDWARDS

I

‘Let me tell you what I plan to do,’ said the Bishop, resplendent in his old-fashioned uniform, his episcopal ring glinting in the light as he toyed with his pectoral cross.

It was Monday, the first day of my new job, and we were closeted together in the South Canonry’s morning-room which had been turned into an office for me. My hired IBM Electric typewriter gleamed on its table by the window. I myself was arranged nearby in the classic secretarial position, one leg crossed over the other and my shorthand notebook resting on my uppermost knee. I wore an austere white blouse and a black skirt and looked (I hoped) vaguely religious, as befitted an office serf in attendance on a prelate. My horrible hair, now growing wildly towards a Pre-Raphaelite length after its tiresome ‘in-between’ stage, was scraped off my face and stuffed into a sort of net which I had speared with another interesting metal object from Boots. I could feel the hair weighing on the nape of my neck like an enormous doughnut as I held my pencil lightly above the blank page.

‘First of all,’ said the Bishop, lounging elegantly against the chimney-piece, ‘I shall simply be dictating random observations. These may seem quite disconnected. Then after I’ve studied these opening remarks on paper I shall arrange them under various headings so that they form an outline of the book. It’s possible that I might keep Robinson’s structure of God, Christ, worship, ethics and so on, but his writing is so emotional, his theology so vapid and his conclusions so wild that I fear any attempt to mimic his structure can only have unfortunate results. However, we shall see. Now Venetia, do stop me if I go too fast. When I’m in full theological spate I tend to get carried away.’

‘Yes, Bishop.’ I felt as if I were attending some famous general who was surveying the battlefield before a world-shattering military engagement.

‘Very well, off we go. Number one: the Bishop of Woolwich, whose fame hitherto has rested on his New Testament scholarship, has with great courage ventured into fresh woods and pastures new. Unfortunately he has chosen to plunge into the woods of doctrine and the pastures of ethics. Since it is clear that his grounding in both is slender — to put it kindly — his brave little book cannot in truth be described as a work of scholarly importance. It would be more accurate, I think, as well as more charitable to classify this latest addition to the Robinson
oeuvre —
that’s O-E-U —’

‘
Oeuvre.
I’ve got it, Bishop.’

‘— latest addition to the Robinson
oeuvre as
a devotional work. Dr Robinson is clearly devoted to God, to Jesus Christ and to the Christian religion. This is admirable. The only trouble is that his God is not the Christian God, his Jesus is not, as the doctrine of the Church upholds, God incarnate, and his Christian religion is merely an exotic amalgamation of various Christian heresies which have long since been discredited. End of paragraph. Can you read that back to me, please?’

I read it back.

‘By Jove, you’re good!’ said the Bishop. ‘Well done. All right, on we go. Number two: Dr Robinson is zealous in proclaiming that the metaphor of height, so long used in descriptions of God can no longer be meaningful to – quote – modern man – unquote. He insists that we can abolish the metaphor by speaking of God as something which exists "deep down" in every individual, and he validates this proposition by declaring that it will be more easily understood by "modern man" because of his familiarity with the concept of depth psychology. However, since all talk of God can only be in terms of symbols, depth is just as much a metaphor as height. In the name of depth psychology – which is probably only fully understood by a very small number of so-called modern men – Dr Robinson has fatally limited the doctrine of God by abolishing the concept of transcendence. Note: I shall deal later with his wholly inadequate attempt to give transcendence a new definition.

‘New paragraph. Number three: the Bishop appears to have fallen wildly in love with the writings of three German theologians: Rudolf Bultmann, Dietrich Bonhoeffer and Paul Tillich. The latter has described God as "the Ground of our being", an appellation which the Bishop seems to find peculiarly intoxicating. Wrenching this phrase from the context of Tillich’s interesting though questionable existentialist theology, Dr Robinson expands his depth metaphor to declare that since God is the Ground of our being we can find Him, regardless of whether we go to church or not, by gazing down into our inmost depths. This, of course, as any student of the Early Church will know, was the attitude of the philosopher Valentinus in the second century – see my book
Valentinus, Scourge
of Orthodoxy,
published by Cambridge University Press in 1954. In other words,’ said the Bishop with a gleam in his eye, ‘what we have here is a brand new version of the heresy of the Christian Gnostics who nearly destroyed the Church in the first centuries after Christ. Venetia, Gnostic is spelt –’

‘G–N–O–S–T–I–C.’

‘This is wonderful!’ said the Bishop. ‘You’re the first secretary I’ve met who could spell Gnostic! But I mustn’t forget, must I, that I’m writing for lesser laymen who won’t know what that word means, so I think I’d better now dictate a paragraph on the Gnostics – or shall I leave it till later? No, let’s strike while the iron’s hot. Before I go on to enquire why Robinson, in his passion for the work of German theologians, has chosen to fall in love with Bultmann, Bonhoeffer and Tillich instead of with Barth and Niebuhr, I shall just pause to demolish the heresy of Christian Gnosticism.’

Dr Ashworth was enjoying himself hugely. Feeling quite overwhelmed by the devastating confidence of his scholarly authority I began to feel far more confused than I had ever anticipated.

II

When I arrived back at the Chantry for a sandwich lunch I found a letter had arrived for me by the second post. ‘My darling,’ I read, ‘I must see you – can’t wait till Wednesday to find out what went on at the South Canonry during your first encounter with the dream-machine! Lady Mary post-evensong Monday? Hope this catches you before you move into the Archdeacon’s lap. In great haste, all love, N.’

This was very satisfactory, and I phoned Primrose at the diocesan office to postpone our house-warming drink. Then I gathered up my possessions, said a genuinely fond farewell to Marina and bucketed away in my MG to my new flat overlooking Butchers’ Alley.

III

About half a dozen tourists were wandering around the cloisters as I took possession of Lady Mary, but there was no sign of any member of the Cathedral staff. It was a clouded evening and after a wet morning Lady Mary was somewhat damp. Adjusting my raincoat carefully under my bottom I resigned myself to rheumatism and waited.

‘Phew!’ said Aysgarth, hurrying up to me five minutes later.

‘Sorry about the delay but I got mixed up with one of the vergers who reports a sinister smell emanating from St Anselm’s chapel — there’s been a recurring drainage problem there ever since my predecessor Dean Carter built a lavatory on the cheap at the back of the sacristy. What a life! But my darling, don’t keep me in suspense — what happened at the South Canonry?’

‘The Bishop demolished the Gnostic heresy.’

‘Oh good heavens, not that old rubbish again!’

‘You may laugh, but it was pretty powerful stuff! Is there any possibility he might wind up Archbishop of Canterbury?’

‘No, he wasted too much time turning down those earlier bishoprics in order to write about Church history — and talking of Church history, what on earth’s the Gnostic heresy got to go with poor old John Robinson?’

‘Well, apparently there was a Christian Gnostic called Valentinus —’

‘Never heard of him. No, wait a minute —’

‘The Bishop — Ashworth not Robinson — wrote a book —’

‘So he did, yes, I do dimly remember skimming through a review years ago, but what’s the point in raking up people like Valentinus who lived in a completely different world and whose thought-forms in consequence are wholly irrelevant to the 1960s?’

‘Dr Ashworth seems to operate on the theory that the more things change the more they remain the same. He thinks that when Robinson substitutes the depth metaphor for the height metaphor he’s just as much a heretic as Valentinus was.’

‘What utter nonsense! To say that God is the Ground of our being and that we can find him by looking deep into our consciousness is entirely consonant with the Bible. Think of the quotation: "The kingdom of God is within you!"‘

‘Ah yes, of course. Yes, I see. But how amazingly complicated theology becomes once you scratch below the surface —’

‘That’s exactly why it has to be kept simple for laymen and expressed in fresh up-to-date terms which are instantly meaningful to them. God is within the world and God is love; therefore God is to be found in one’s deepest, most loving relationships. That’s how one translates the technical term "the immanence of God" for modern man.’

‘Yes, I see. Gosh, thanks for reasserting Robinson’s thesis for me — I was beginning to feel quite —’ I broke off as I saw that drip Maurice Tait trickling down the colonnade towards our corner of the lawn.

‘Oh hullo, Mr Dean — hullo, Venetia —’

‘Hullo, Maurice!’ said Aysgarth. ‘I caught Venetia meditating here and we’ve somehow wound up discussing heresy. Am I seeing you at the Deanery for dinner tonight?’

‘No, that’s tomorrow. Tonight Primrose and I have our Bible study group.’

‘Ah yes, of course. I remember now.’ He waited till Tait had trickled away before adding under his breath, ‘We really mustn’t meet here too often. It’s too public.’

‘Never mind, the day after tomorrow’s Wednesday, and —’

‘— and you can bring me the latest report on the Bishop’s heresy hunt!’ He gave me a sparkling smile. ‘Two o’clock at the Staro Arms?’

‘Can’t wait!’

We parted with a torrid squeeze of the hands.