Authors: Iris Murdoch
The Green Knight (16 page)
âSome sort of mutual penitence perhaps.'
âI don't think I can bear it alone. I feel so terribly sorry for that man.'
âSo we should meet at intervals to chat about it?'
âNo, no â and of course I
can
bear it, I mean I won't ever speak of this to any other person ever in my life, you know that I shall keep my mouth shut â '
can
bear it, I mean I won't ever speak of this to any other person ever in my life, you know that I shall keep my mouth shut â '
âYou will be wise to do so.'
âBut â oh let me speak
now
â I want us to be more connected â we have changed each other, I know I hurt you, I must have done, not just by existing but in other ways â I do so wish that out of this evil some good might come which we could make to come about together â this is what I meant that you owed me â '
now
â I want us to be more connected â we have changed each other, I know I hurt you, I must have done, not just by existing but in other ways â I do so wish that out of this evil some good might come which we could make to come about together â this is what I meant that you owed me â '
âI owe you nothing. You're still alive. You asked me to swear not to kill you in the future and I have sworn. I hope you believe me.'
âYes, yes. But you
would
have killed me.'
would
have killed me.'
âIt didn't happen
. Who knows â I might have changed my mind. An angel might have stayed my hand. By the way, let me return this to you.'
. Who knows â I might have changed my mind. An angel might have stayed my hand. By the way, let me return this to you.'
Clement came forward. Lucas, still seated, handed him something across the desk.
âWhat â ? Why, it's my wallet! I lost it somewhere that night â '
âI removed it from your pocket in the car.'
âWhy on earth â oh I see â to make it look like a theft â oh Luc â '
There was silence in the room. The rain, carried now by a gust of east wind, was tapping on the window. Clement put the wallet away. He felt his knees weaken as if he was about to kneel and then lie prostrate face downward. He was overcome by a sudden wave of intense misery, a blackness of soul.
âBut that man died â I caused his death â I mean you caused his death â I feel we should do
something
â '
something
â '
âWhat can we do?
Leave it alone
. Clement, please just go away now. I don't want to see you.'
Leave it alone
. Clement, please just go away now. I don't want to see you.'
âYou mean you don't ever want to see me again?'
âNothing so dramatic. Our paths have been diverging for some time. Now they will diverge more. We have had our talk and have nothing more to say to each other.
Go away
.'
Go away
.'
Clement moved away from the desk. The rain was stopping. For one moment only a random shaft of sunlight fell upon the garden. Green leaves, washed with rain, glistened out there. The rain was lighter. He was appalled to find himself feeling so guilty, so touched by
evil
. He wanted from Lucas some reassurance, some liberation, some absolution. But what for? Of course for being so unkind to Lucas when they were little children. He must have been unkind. Of course he had been unkind for existing, for arriving, an outsider, an intruder, a spoiler, a wrecker, in that world of pure undivided love in which Lucas had first emerged in consciousness.
What had happened
had made him feel this wound. He must make sense of it
all
. He couldn't just drift away. Now everything had become tragically desperately important. Had he uttered the word âevil'? He could not remember.
evil
. He wanted from Lucas some reassurance, some liberation, some absolution. But what for? Of course for being so unkind to Lucas when they were little children. He must have been unkind. Of course he had been unkind for existing, for arriving, an outsider, an intruder, a spoiler, a wrecker, in that world of pure undivided love in which Lucas had first emerged in consciousness.
What had happened
had made him feel this wound. He must make sense of it
all
. He couldn't just drift away. Now everything had become tragically desperately important. Had he uttered the word âevil'? He could not remember.
At that moment the front doorbell rang twice. There was something peremptory in the quickly repeated ring. Lucas scowled and uttered a sound of disgust. âWho the hell's that? It's one of
them
. Tell whoever it is to go away.'
them
. Tell whoever it is to go away.'
The bell rang again, this time a long ring.
Clement ran out of the room and along the dark corridor leading to the front door. He thought, yes it'll be one of the family, perhaps Louise. The idea was unpleasant. He opened the door.
A man, just folding his green umbrella, was standing on the doorstep. He was a tall man wearing a trilby hat. Clement recognised him. He was the man he had twice seen near his house, seemingly
waiting
for something.
waiting
for something.
The man, peering at Clement, said with a slight accent which Clement could not identify. âDoes Professor Graffe live here?'
âYes â '
âI would like to see him.'
Clement said at once, âI'm so sorry, he is busy and cannot see anyone.'
âI think he will see me. I shall certainly be glad to see him.'
Clement, feeling a strong distrust of the man, said, âI'm very sorry, it is not convenient.' He began to close the door, but there was an impediment. The man had stepped forward and put his large booted foot in the doorway. He said, âExcuse me, I must enter.'
Lucas's voice at the end of the corridor could be heard saying, âWho is it?' Before Clement could stop him the man had pushed past and was hurrying toward the open door ahead. He entered the drawing-room where Lucas was still sitting in the light of the lamp. Lucas leaned forward peering into the obscurity at the far end of the room. âWho â ?' Then he said to Clement, âPut on the light, would you?'
Clement switched on the bright centre light. The man advanced to the centre of the room. He took off his hat.
At that moment Clement, still at the door, was staring at Lucas. An extraordinary expression had distorted his face. Lucas became not exactly pale, but yellower. His mouth opened, his lips drew back revealing his long teeth. After a moment he rose to his feet and said in a low but steady voice. âSo you are not dead, after all.'
The man, who had now folded up his umbrella and laid it together with his trilby hat upon a chair, came further forward, he said in an almost apologetic tone, âWell, I
was
dead, you know, but they revived me.' He turned to Clement. He said, âI think you were there too. Weren't you the third man?' He held out his hand. In a daze Clement nodded and moved forward. They shook hands.
was
dead, you know, but they revived me.' He turned to Clement. He said, âI think you were there too. Weren't you the third man?' He held out his hand. In a daze Clement nodded and moved forward. They shook hands.
My dear son,
Please excuse a brief reply to your long letter. You say your reading in critical historical books which are outside our faith gives you the impression that Christ is being âstripped'. You should not be appalled by this image, but should rather embrace it. Christ is indeed âstripped', stripped for the cross, and it is for us to follow Him into that ultimate place of our faith. The blank space you speak of
is
God,
is
Christ. This could be a theme for prayer and meditation. I think you would indeed be wise to clarify your ideas, and put your more ambitious plans, if I may put it so,
on ice.
You ask if the âmystical Christ' is âenough'. The mystical vision is the reward of a long ascetic pilgrimage and not to be compared with the emotional experiences to which you refer. The full reality of the acceptance of Christ is hard and plain, it is bread and water, the way is a way of brokenness. Your âyearning for holiness' and âgiving up the world' are still, I fear, mere expressions of feeling, fancies which give you a âthrill'. You think of the dedicated life as a form of death, but you will be alive and crying. The false god punishes, the true God slays. Sins must not be kept as stimulants, one must attempt to kill the evil in oneself, not simply punish and torment it. (I indicate a form of masochism to which many well-intentioned people are addicted!) You do not tell me whether you are attending Mass and availing yourself of the sacrament of confession. Your letters to me are not a substitute. It is not clear to me how you are spending your time. You should certainly find some
regular work
in the service of others; keeping in mind the possibility that this may, in the end, prove to be your whole true way of serving Christ. Do not sit all day reading Eckhart! Later you may meditate upon what he means when he says seek God only in your own soul. Please perceive the love which prompts all these, as they may seem discouraging, words! Sorry this in haste, yours in
Christo
,
is
God,
is
Christ. This could be a theme for prayer and meditation. I think you would indeed be wise to clarify your ideas, and put your more ambitious plans, if I may put it so,
on ice.
You ask if the âmystical Christ' is âenough'. The mystical vision is the reward of a long ascetic pilgrimage and not to be compared with the emotional experiences to which you refer. The full reality of the acceptance of Christ is hard and plain, it is bread and water, the way is a way of brokenness. Your âyearning for holiness' and âgiving up the world' are still, I fear, mere expressions of feeling, fancies which give you a âthrill'. You think of the dedicated life as a form of death, but you will be alive and crying. The false god punishes, the true God slays. Sins must not be kept as stimulants, one must attempt to kill the evil in oneself, not simply punish and torment it. (I indicate a form of masochism to which many well-intentioned people are addicted!) You do not tell me whether you are attending Mass and availing yourself of the sacrament of confession. Your letters to me are not a substitute. It is not clear to me how you are spending your time. You should certainly find some
regular work
in the service of others; keeping in mind the possibility that this may, in the end, prove to be your whole true way of serving Christ. Do not sit all day reading Eckhart! Later you may meditate upon what he means when he says seek God only in your own soul. Please perceive the love which prompts all these, as they may seem discouraging, words! Sorry this in haste, yours in
Christo
,
Fr Damien
P.S. The âdescent into hell' signifies the universal nature of Christ's love and mercy.
Â
My dear Father Damien,
Thank you for your enlightening and loving letter. I have been to Mass and will go to confession. I recall your advice of some time ago that it is often better to find a confessor at random, than to ask for a recommendation or (worse still perhaps!) go to a friend. The priest speaks not as an individual but as the voice of God. (Sorry, this is not well put.) I also note what you say about Eckhart. You spoke earlier of my troubles with Our Lady, and how I shouldn't worry, and I don't. I know that innumerable sinners, unable (in the words of Claudel) to endure the stern gaze of God, run to fall at the feet of His Mother. (
Se blottir
was the French term, so expressive! Thank you for introducing me to Claudel.) I have no such instinctive wish. I certainly understand an unwillingness to face that stern gaze! But is it not enough to run to the incarnate Son? (I still cannot really understand the Trinity.) I keep using that word âenough' as if I grudged the complete giving up of myself â well of course I do â but must hope, etc. May I in this context ask a question which I have hesitated to frame hitherto? What about angels? Does not the Orthodox Church represent the Trinity as three angels? Must that not have a deep meaning? If one is thinking of âmediators' other than Christ (and Our Lady) may not these beings also be invoked to aid our stumbling steps? You spoke earlier of pure and holy things which are lights and guides. Are not angels everywhere in Holy Writ acting effectively as such guides and inspirations? I once had a remarkable dream in which an angel stood at the foot of my bed. I'm not saying that angels are to be worshipped, the Angel at the end of Revelations positively forbids St John to worship him, but can't they be thought of as it were as supportive elder brothers? (Does the Bible say somewhere that angels once consorted with the daughters of men? I hope
that
didn't happen!) Of course one cannot help being influenced by our great European painters: angels at the Annunciation, at the birth of Christ, at His death, at His resurrection, at the Last Judgment,
embracing
sinners in that heavenly picture of Botticelli. I myself feel an especial affinity with St Michael, blessed Michael Archangel. (Perhaps when I say angels I mean archangels?) I know that he can be rather ferocious, but are not his military characteristics meant for us as a spiritual lesson? I must admit I also love and venerate those old Byzantine images of the beardless Christ holding a sword and looking so wonderfully like a young soldier! Is not the soldier an icon of our human pilgrimage? Soldiers are rightly admired. âWho would not sleep with the brave.' Excuse these spontaneous thoughts, of course I am not thinking of any form of idolatry. I understand what you say about regular work and am investigating this. By the way, is it true that Eckhart's excommunication was only revoked in 1980? I will, if I may, write to you again soon. I feel myself to be in the dark, yet moving, stumbling. I bow before you and send you my love, your infinitely grateful,
Se blottir
was the French term, so expressive! Thank you for introducing me to Claudel.) I have no such instinctive wish. I certainly understand an unwillingness to face that stern gaze! But is it not enough to run to the incarnate Son? (I still cannot really understand the Trinity.) I keep using that word âenough' as if I grudged the complete giving up of myself â well of course I do â but must hope, etc. May I in this context ask a question which I have hesitated to frame hitherto? What about angels? Does not the Orthodox Church represent the Trinity as three angels? Must that not have a deep meaning? If one is thinking of âmediators' other than Christ (and Our Lady) may not these beings also be invoked to aid our stumbling steps? You spoke earlier of pure and holy things which are lights and guides. Are not angels everywhere in Holy Writ acting effectively as such guides and inspirations? I once had a remarkable dream in which an angel stood at the foot of my bed. I'm not saying that angels are to be worshipped, the Angel at the end of Revelations positively forbids St John to worship him, but can't they be thought of as it were as supportive elder brothers? (Does the Bible say somewhere that angels once consorted with the daughters of men? I hope
that
didn't happen!) Of course one cannot help being influenced by our great European painters: angels at the Annunciation, at the birth of Christ, at His death, at His resurrection, at the Last Judgment,
embracing
sinners in that heavenly picture of Botticelli. I myself feel an especial affinity with St Michael, blessed Michael Archangel. (Perhaps when I say angels I mean archangels?) I know that he can be rather ferocious, but are not his military characteristics meant for us as a spiritual lesson? I must admit I also love and venerate those old Byzantine images of the beardless Christ holding a sword and looking so wonderfully like a young soldier! Is not the soldier an icon of our human pilgrimage? Soldiers are rightly admired. âWho would not sleep with the brave.' Excuse these spontaneous thoughts, of course I am not thinking of any form of idolatry. I understand what you say about regular work and am investigating this. By the way, is it true that Eckhart's excommunication was only revoked in 1980? I will, if I may, write to you again soon. I feel myself to be in the dark, yet moving, stumbling. I bow before you and send you my love, your infinitely grateful,
Bellamy
P.S. Is it true that Galatians 3.20 is the âgreat text' mentioned in Robert Browning's poem? I can't see anything wrong with it.
Bellamy put down his pen. It was a dark morning. It was raining. He had pulled the curtains. He turned off the little lamp by which he had been writing. Through the space in the ragged curtains he could now see the rain coursing down the window-pane. It was clear and grey, seeming both still and in motion, accompanied by a soft humming sound caused no doubt by innumerable drops which were striking the pavement. Bellamy relaxed his hand and left it lying inert upon the page. He looked at it. He relaxed his lips and listened to his breath, he slowed his breath. When writing to Father Damien he always felt excited, he flushed, the words crowded onto the page faster than his thought, he had to prevent himself from abbreviating them into an illegible shorthand. He had been told not to write too often, he obeyed this command. Sometimes when he finished writing he felt a sick contingent sensation as if he had suddenly shrunk into something very small, a beetle, a piece of crumpled paper, a little dry lump of mud. He had once written to Father Damien about this state, calling it his dark night of the soul. Father Damien had replied that he could have no conception of that dark night, and should be humble enough to recognise ordinary boredom. At other times he could, as he released his pen, feel serenely tired and calm, sitting quiet for a while with his hands folded in a usual pose of meditation. Then there might come what he took to be the opposite sensation, the silent breeding of an enormous space, a chasm faintly lit, silently fermenting. In fact this experience now came to him quite often at times when he was sitting still. On more rare occasions he was gifted with tears. Time passed. He found himself thinking about how Father Damien had hinted, not for the first time, that Bellamy might in the end find his vocation in returning to social work. So what was going on
now
would seem like a holiday, perhaps later a dream. He thought I can't be content with that, I have come so far, I must have more,
more
. Surely I have felt it, I have seen it, it has
captured
me. Surely it is
true
. Before him he had sensed, and with his other eyes seen, the vast extension of his soul wherein God seethed and bubbled like a vast lightless underground spring. Now, as he moved uneasily, remembering the priest's âdiscouraging words', something within him said, it's all imaginary, it isn't exactly false, it's just a sort of waking dream. Then he thought, that angel that stood at the bottom of my bed, he was a dream all right. But who was he and what did he say? Now the wind was driving the rain against the window. Something touched him, perhaps the delayed tears. He thought, Eckhart was deemed a heretic, he was lucky not to be burnt. He moved, turning, thrusting his chair away, attempting to stand up. As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, oh God. My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God. He took a step, then knelt upon the floor, then fell face down upon the dusty threadbare carpet.
now
would seem like a holiday, perhaps later a dream. He thought I can't be content with that, I have come so far, I must have more,
more
. Surely I have felt it, I have seen it, it has
captured
me. Surely it is
true
. Before him he had sensed, and with his other eyes seen, the vast extension of his soul wherein God seethed and bubbled like a vast lightless underground spring. Now, as he moved uneasily, remembering the priest's âdiscouraging words', something within him said, it's all imaginary, it isn't exactly false, it's just a sort of waking dream. Then he thought, that angel that stood at the bottom of my bed, he was a dream all right. But who was he and what did he say? Now the wind was driving the rain against the window. Something touched him, perhaps the delayed tears. He thought, Eckhart was deemed a heretic, he was lucky not to be burnt. He moved, turning, thrusting his chair away, attempting to stand up. As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, oh God. My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God. He took a step, then knelt upon the floor, then fell face down upon the dusty threadbare carpet.
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