THWARTED
AMBITIONS
Long
Prose
Copyright
©
1980–2012 John O'Loughlin
____________
CONTENTS
Chapters
1–12
____________
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
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-à-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.
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
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?"
"But how d'you know all
this?"
Carol queried, still unwilling to take
"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
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
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
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
"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
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
"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
"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
"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
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
"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
"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
"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
"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
"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
"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
"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
However, it was principally
with a view to
meeting the photographer that he set off with Miss Jackson, the
following
Wednesday morning, to their
Still, it was not for Andrew
Doyle to ogle
them but to extend a hand, necessarily nervous, for Prescott,
apologetic on
account of his uncivil appearance, to dutifully shake.
Evidently the photographer did make some
concessions to the outside world or, at any rate, to social custom!
"So what have you been doing
with
yourself since I last saw you?" he asked, turning back to Carol.
The question afforded a
fairly wide
solution, but the model answered it in a tactfully compressed sort of
way by
informing him that, together with Andrew and Robert, she had been to
Henry
Grace's Berkshire house for the weekend, in response to an invitation
which the
critic had made them.
"Ah, so that's it!"
"No, he returned with us on
Sunday
evening," Carol replied. "He's
currently at work in his studio on a portrait of Philip Grace, Mr
Grace's son,
since he received further commissions from Grace senior to paint the
family,
both separately and, in due course, collectively."
"Oh really?"
The photographer seemed relatively
unconcerned about this, as he led his visitors through to his own
studio at the
rear of the house where, scorning further curiosity, he instructed them
to make
themselves at home whilst he attended to his toilet upstairs. Washing and dressing wouldn't take him long,
he assured them with a departing smile.
With
"It sure is!" she confirmed,
smiling coyly. "If you strain your
eyes hard enough, you might even detect a few photos of me."
"More than a few!" Andrew
declared, glancing around the walls at the different-sized photographs,
some
large and some small, some in black-and-white and others in colour. Altogether there must have been at least five
thousand of them in the room, though he could detect only about twenty
of the
two hundred or so dedicated exclusively to Carol. He
was
partly amused and partly embarrassed,
especially by the ones which showed him all or most of her physical
charms in a
highly erotic light. He hesitated to
look at them, feeling conscious of the young woman's eyes on him as he
scanned
the walls. It had brought him into a
sudden indirect intimacy with her which was somewhat disquieting in its
unexpectedness. Had she purposely
planned this visit in order to seduce him, or was she simply showing
off? He couldn't be sure, but it was
difficult to
equate the physical presence of the attractive female seated in one of
the
studio's armchairs with the garish photographs of her on the walls, and
no less
difficult to equate the person he had spoken to in Henry Grace's
back-garden
with them! No doubt, Carol was more
detached from the spectacle of her professional life and therefore able
to
regard it with a cool objectivity. She
was used to men admiring her body. There
could be no cause for embarrassment about it.
"In case you're wondering
why Don's
photos are also to be found elsewhere in the house, it's because there
isn't
any more room for them here," Carol matter-of-factly remarked, while
Andrew was still busily scanning the walls.
"The ones in the hall, for instance, are part of the studio
overspill, which came into effect some two years ago."
"Is that so?" gasped the
writer,
not a little bewildered. "Doesn't
he ever throw any of them away, then?"
"Not if they're any good, he
doesn't! He's a born miser where they're
concerned. And a born show off, to
boot. He has to have the fruit of his
labours right there before his eyes, even if this does mean that just
about
every damn room in the house is threatened by it. If
he
carries on working in this context much
longer - and it's difficult to imagine him doing anything else - he'll
end-up
pinning photos to doors, ceilings, windows, and furniture!
He might even have to resort to floors
eventually."
"You're kidding!"
Carol smiled in shared
amusement at the ludicrous
nature of her supposition before saying: "Not as much as you may
think. For he's absolutely obsessed by
his work."
"So it would appear,
especially where
young women are concerned," Andrew blushingly observed.
"He must have photographed more nudes
and semi-nudes than I've had hot dinners, if you'll pardon the cliché."
"As well as made love to
more of
them," Carol nonchalantly informed him.
"I told you about his kinky little panties museum upstairs,
didn't
I?"
Andrew pondered this point a
moment, before
nodding affirmatively. "As also
about the 'Rejection Club'," he remarked.
Carol had to smile anew. "You can consider yourself fortunate
you're not a member of it!" she declared.
"Plenty of wankers are or have been. Yet,
for
all his eccentricity, I think you'll
have to concede that Don has genius. His
photography is amongst the best of its kind.
And he has such taste! Just take
another look around you, and tell me where else could you expect to
witness so
many tasteful photos in one place - photos which confirm his
extraordinary
sense of beauty?"
Despite persistent
misgivings at the
spectacle before him, Andrew had to concede that the man had talent. There was scarcely a model on display who
wasn't highly attractive or whose natural attractiveness hadn't been
exploited
to telling effect. Moreover, their
postures weren't generally vulgar or stupid, the way so many
photographs of
nude models tended to be. On the contrary,
they were for the most part very tasteful, if at times a little unusual. "What's this stereo doing here?" he
asked, as his eyes alighted upon an expensive-looking midi system not
far from
where he was standing. "Does Mr
Prescott play music while he, er, works?"
"Yes, quite frequently,
though very
rarely in my presence," Carol confirmed, while directing her attention
towards the large collection of discs and tapes to the left of the
stereo,
"since I don't share his tastes.
I'm something of a soul enthusiast, whereas he prefers classical
music,
and notably twentieth-century British music.
Sometimes he overrules my objections, but mostly he respects
them. He likes to listen to music whilst
he's
developing his prints as well."
Andrew had gone across to
the record
collection and begun to nose through it.
Clearly, there was more to Donald Prescott than first met the
eye! Such recordings as the Berkeley Piano
Concerto, Walton's First Symphony, Rubbra's Seventh
Symphony, Lambert's Rio Grande, Rawsthorne's Symphonic
Studies,
Vaughan Williams' London Symphony, and Tippett's Concerto
for
Orchestra testified to a sense of musical values one wouldn't have
suspected
from a glimpse at the other contents of the room! Frankly,
it
was somewhat difficult to
reconcile the music of Walton's First Symphony with, say, the art of
photographing
nude models. Yet
But if it was Prescott's
policy to mix
business with pleasure, there was certainly no evidential lack of
business in his
studio, as the seven different-coloured silk-screens, neatly folded
together in
the proximity of a full-sized double bed, adequately attested, their
purpose
doubtless being to enable the photographer to transform the studio into
different settings as the situation required, thereby granting him a
variety of
domestic contexts in which to work. As
clearly discernible from a number of the photos on display, however,
not all of
the models had been photographed here - a good many having evidently
permitted him
to enter their homes or utilize hotel rooms, as the occasion or context
warranted. Prescott was evidently not a
man to be confined to any one location, even though he appeared to
prefer his
studio to anywhere else. However, before
Andrew could take up the subject of studio settings with Carol, the
photographer had briskly returned to the scene and thereupon inhibited
deeper
inquiry. He was now more like his true
self, elegantly dressed in a pair of light-grey flannels and a pink
shirt, with
a dark-blue cravat for contrast.
"Well, now that I'm
reasonably
presentable, let's get down to business, shall we?" he requested, with
an
encouraging smile. "You were
saying, Carol, that Robert was busy with Philip Grace's portrait, if I
remember
correctly?"
"That's right," she
confirmed. "He was quite a success
with his patron. Or so it would
appear."
"Well, as a matter of fact
I'm not,
bearing in mind what you told me about Mr Grace the last time we met,"
she
admitted. "You said he wasn't the
kind of person to put himself out for anyone, and that he didn't have
all that
much professional influence."
"True."
"In which case, the fact
that he and
Robert got on so well together leads me to the conclusion that either
you were
wrong or he must have had some ulterior motive for being friendly."
"Assuming you weren't
wrong,"
Carol continued, "it seems probable to Andrew and I that the ulterior
motive may have been sexual, and that Mr Grace was simply flattering
Robert for
his own carnal ends, acquiring power over the man in order to seduce
him at a
later juncture, when he felt confident that the painter would stake his
career
on it. For the more professionally
indebted to him Robert becomes, the harder he'll find it, as a client,
to
refuse the critic his satisfaction when the demand finally comes, and
the more
likely it is that Mr Grace will simply exploit him."
"Ah, so you've arrived at
that
conclusion, have you?"
"Simply by taking note of
what was
going on around us whilst we were at Mr Grace's house," Carol
revealed. "It seems the most
plausible explanation."
There was a short pause in
the dialogue
before
"Though presumably he would
be, where
friend Robert is concerned," Carol surmised, the hint of an ironic
smile
on her heavily rouged lips.
"Most probably ardent,"
"Which leads one to the
assumption
that he prefers to be the lover rather than the lovee," interposed
Andrew
thoughtfully, overcoming his reserve in the photographer's elegant
presence.
"So far as I know, that is
indeed the
case,"
The question wasn't
specifically directed
at anyone and was more than likely rhetorical, though Andrew, having
definite
views on the subject, thought it appropriate to offer an answer
nonetheless. "In actual fact they
only have a kind of half-sex," he nervously averred, directing his
attention at
Denial was the last thing on
"Ah, so you gravitated to a
little
hanky-panky with the homosexual's daughter, did you?"
The author blushed faintly
as he burst into
a gentle if uncharacteristic snigger.
"Absolutely straight," he boasted. "I
broke
her hymen."
"Good for you!" chuckled
"I think she was rather
flattered by
my status as a writer actually," Andrew commented, by way of partly
justifying what had happened. "It
must have been a pet ambition of hers, to be deflowered by the type of
man who,
for reasons best known to herself, most conforms to her ideal of human
greatness. I was evidently something of
a hero for her."
"How amusing!" exclaimed the
photographer. "Or was it
vexing?"
"A bit of both," Andrew
confessed. "Still, I couldn't very
well disappoint the poor girl, could I?
She would never have thought so highly of writers again. I had to play the Byron - one of her
favourite poets apparently. It was the
only way I could prevent her from continuing to bore me with her poems,
which
she insisted on reciting. I don't think
I acted the part particularly well, under the circumstances, but at
that age,
and with no real sexual experience behind her, she can't have been in
the best
of positions to judge, can she?"
"Probably not,"
Andrew couldn't very well
say no, so after a
moment's reflection he said: "Frankly, I think she would.
At least she's very mature for her age. A
good-looking
girl, by any accounts."
"Yes, I'd be prepared to
endorse that
opinion," Carol declared, bringing a little professional judgement to
bear
on the subject. "She might be a
shade shy or self-conscious in front of your camera lens at first, Don,
but I'm
sure she'd lose her inhibitions, not to mention knickers, after a
while." She gave the photographer a
knowing wink, the
significance of which he could hardly fail to appreciate.
"And do you suppose you
might be able
to lure her along here?"
"I suppose it might be
possible,"
Andrew somewhat tentatively replied, "though whether or not she has any
ambitions
to be photographed, I don't honestly know.
But I guess, being young and attractive, she wouldn't decline
her
services if a suitable opportunity were to present itself.
Despite her apparent predilection for
intellectual matters, she's not altogether devoid - with due respect to
Carol -
of feminine vanity. I'm sure she'd
relish being seen in a tasteful magazine."
"Well, if that's the case,
invite her
over here as soon as possible, using such charm and influence as you
evidently
have, to persuade her to keep it to herself," Prescott requested. "When will you be next seeing her?"
Andrew was far from certain,
not having any
definite plans to continue a relationship which had suddenly and quite
unexpectedly sprung-up between them at the weekend.
It was still rather a surprise to him that he
had actually got on intimate terms with her.
Consequently he hadn't quite woken-up to the
reality of what this might now mean - the possibility, for instance,
that
Pauline might wish to see him again before long. Not
having
said very much to her on Sunday,
he had no clear idea exactly where he stood with her at present; though
it was
all too probable that she would be itching for a chance to renew their
intimacy. Her feelings for him would
doubtless be stronger than his were for her, on a number of counts,
including
the fact that he had recently taken her virginity.
If he was to see her again he would have to
face-up to the consequences of his actions, even if he didn't really
want to
encourage further intimacy, given the fact that she was Mr Grace's
daughter and
not exactly on his intellectual or literary wavelength.
If he had made love to Pauline partly in
order to avenge himself on her for all the tedium and humiliation he
had
suffered at the hands of various people that day, it had not been with
a view
to subsequently becoming her victim and being obliged to continue a
relationship which would almost certainly lead to unforeseen
complications. Yet he would have to see
her again in any case, if only on Prescott's behalf, and the most
suitable time
would probably be during her forthcoming visit to Harding's studio, to
have her
portrait painted. In other words, the
following week, after the artist had completed his work on Philip's
portrait. For Pauline was next on his
list, which included one of Mrs Grace.
About this Carol had been in no doubt.
And so it was left for Andrew to provide a provisional date.
"Next week would be fine,"
"All too clearly," Andrew
admitted,
with a faintly ironic smile in accompaniment.
"Though it's rather doubtful, from the opposite viewpoint, that
Mr
Grace would be put out by or displeased with Robert, as Carol and I
learnt to
our cost at the weekend. I'm sure he
wouldn't object to his daughter being photographed by you, Mr Prescott,
if he
realized that his future relations with my next-door neighbour were at
stake."
The photographer cast Carol
a vaguely
conspiratorial glance. "Probably
not," he conceded. "Yet he
wouldn't be too happy if he knew I was involved."
"I'm afraid I don't quite
follow
you," Andrew confessed.
"What isn't so obvious,
however, is
why, in that event, he should have got involved with you in the first
place," Andrew commented, feeling distinctly puzzled.
"After all, you weren't dependent on him
for the realization of your artistic ambitions, were you?"
"No, quite true,"
"I am surprised that anyone
should want
to write a book about him,"
Andrew
declared, a look of
astonishment clearly discernible on his thin face.
"Well, in those days he was
slightly
more of an intellectual celebrity than at present,"
"Henry Grace a poet?"
exclaimed
Andrew, unable to contain his very genuine surprise at the mention of
it. "Perhaps that explains his daughter's
predilection for verse? Curious how she
made no mention of it to me."
"Probably because he stopped
writing
poetry several years ago,"
"A pity he didn't have the
sense to
abandon art criticism as well," Andrew sniggered.
"He could hardly be expected
to do that,
particularly
where
people like Robert are concerned!"
"Unfortunately so!" Andrew
confirmed, offering Carol a profoundly meaningful glance.
"And I realize, moreover, that Robert
Harding could serve Mr Grace as useful ammunition.
For the more reactionary his work becomes,
the better the critic will like it - even with reduced firing power. If they can, between them, cause some
confusion in abstractionist ranks, they'll regard it as almost a
victory, their
chief intention apparently being to disrupt and impede the progress of
transcendentalism in art to the extent they can, in order to prepare
the ground
for a return, via Harding's own work, to representational painting,
with its
dualistic balance between form and content.
Their aims are distinctly retrogressive."
"That may be," Prescott
conceded,
frowning slightly; for he thought the matter a good deal more complex
than
that, even without a proper definition of painterly transcendentalism. "But they won't succeed in getting very
far, believe me. The age won't be
hoodwinked by them. On the contrary,
they'll find themselves exposed to a lot of ridicule.
Granted, some people will encourage them in
their reactionary designs, but not the most enlightened!
Only such as are, like them, dedicated to
thwarting artistic progress."
Andrew sighed in
exasperation. "If only there were
something we could do
to thwart them,
how
gratifying that
would
be!"
he
averred
"Yes, indeed!" Carol
seconded
enthusiastically, anxious to reassure both men that, despite her sexual
attachment to Harding, she was essentially on their side in this matter. "Andrew and I discussed this problem at
the Graces' house on Sunday, and we're determined not to lend them any
support."
"Well, we can't very well
murder them
or prohibit them from doing their thing," the photographer calmly
declared. "And I doubt if preaching to
them would
get us very far, either. We'll just have
to wait and see what comes of their relationship. Besides,
we're
not altogether in favour of
allowing friend Robert to fall into the critic's sexual clutches, are
we?" He directed his attention
specifically at Carol, since she was obviously the person who would be
most
affected by such an eventuality.
"No, I guess not," she
replied
after a moment's hesitation, during which time she directed an
uncertain look
at Andrew. "He ought at least to be
spared that fate! Although it would
serve him bloody-well right and perhaps teach him a thorough lesson if
he did
fall into them, the self-serving prat!"
"Yes, I suppose I'll have to
agree
with you,"
"And foolish," Andrew opined.
"Quite!" concurred the
others
simultaneously.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
All
in
all,
that Wednesday at Prescott's house had been fairly pleasant for Andrew
Doyle, since
the two men had struck up a cordial, not to say understanding,
relationship,
and exchanged views on a variety of topics of mutual interest - the
author
having been provided with a rare opportunity to air his political and
religious
views to a sympathetic ear, while the photographer had been only too
ready, for
his part, to expatiate on art and photography as they affected modern
life. After which, the host had
conducted his latest guest on a tour of the house, not excepting his
unique
'Panties Museum', which the latter duly praised for its exotic novelty,
albeit
declining recourse to nasal verification of the authenticity of their
curator's
claims! And then there had been the
spectacle of
However, if Prescott's
guided tour had
provided Andrew with an unprecedented experience shortly after lunch,
the
high-point of the day came when Carol started to model later that
afternoon,
and the writer, contrary to his expectations, was not sent packing but,
rather,
encouraged to take part in the proceedings himself, if only to the
extent of
assisting Prescott prepare the studio by moving various items of
furniture
about, arranging props, and adjusting the lights. Carol,
of
course, had to take care of
herself, though she followed instructions from the photographer without
demur,
giving Andrew a fresh glimpse of her shapely body - one which, unlike
before,
was concrete rather than abstract.
In fact, as the afternoon
progressed, he
found himself becoming positively hypnotized by her, at times scarcely
able to
conceal his appreciation of her stunning beauty. It
was
as much as he could do to sit
perfectly still in the shadows of the studio and not rush across the
floor to
embrace the model, as she posed in a variety of erotic postures with,
at times,
no more than a flimsy pink G-string protecting her modesty. It was as though he hadn't realized the full
extent of her sexuality until then.
Previously she had been an acquaintance who also modelled. Now she was a model who was also an
acquaintance. He could hardly fail to
appreciate the difference! If it was to
impress him that she was modelling like this, she was certainly going
about it
the right way!
During the following days he
didn't see
anything of her in any sense, though he was only too conscious that a
change
had come over his attitude towards her and that the spell of her
seductions was
beginning to have its effect on him. For
the first time he allowed her image to become a part of his fantasy
life, to
usurp the domain temporarily held by Pauline as an erotic focal-point
of his
imagination. He would recall certain of
the postures in which she had posed for
Indeed, had he not already
won her over
from the painter to some extent, as evidenced by her confidences in him
both at
Henry Grace's house and at Donald Prescott's?
Or perhaps she had won him over ... from Pauline?
Yes, there could be no denying that she had a
significant part to play in shaping his current attitude to her. It remained to be seen whether he could turn
it into concrete action, however.
Yet there was still the
problem of Pauline
to resolve, and Andrew wasn't altogether convinced that his meeting
with her,
the following Monday, had adequately done so.
Having spent the morning in Harding's
However, he did manage to
persuade her to
visit Prescott with him later that same week, giving her to know that
he was
interested in seeing the photographic results of her modelling session
in due
course, and assuring her that the photographer, anxious to develop
latent
talent, would generously remunerate her for all her efforts. Naturally, she had been a shade diffident
about accepting the invitation at first, never having considered the
possibility of modelling for anyone before, and being slightly unsure
of
exactly what to expect. But with due
coaxing from Andrew, who used his sexual powers over her to tactful
advantage,
she eventually discarded her qualms and promised to comply - as also to
keep
the matter a secret. It was accordingly
decided that an excuse would have to be made to Harding, to the effect
that she
had a dental appointment on the Friday afternoon and would therefore
have to
restrict her sitting for him to the morning alone.
That would give her time to make the journey
from
Having disposed of this
obligation to the
photographer, Andrew smuggled Pauline out of the house under cover of
darkness
and set himself the task of forgetting about her until Friday. He had no desire to see her again in the
meantime and principally because he had a strong desire to see Carol
again,
whose company was anything but an inconvenience to him.
Rather, it was her absence that was becoming
inconvenient! Yet this desire had to
wait until Wednesday evening, when she called on him in a tight black
leather
miniskirt and matching high-heels, to find out what had happened
between
Pauline and himself. Mr Prescott would
have his way, she was blandly informed, on Friday - a piece of
information
which caused Carol to smile inwardly, since she knew only too well what
the
photographer liked to get-up to with his new recruits, and lost no time
in
reminding Andrew, who was also amused.
But there were more serious matters to address, the writer's
feelings
for Carol being among them. He wanted
her to know how much she had impressed him that afternoon in Mr
Prescott's
studio, how privileged he had felt to witness her modelling talents at
such
close-quarters and, more importantly, her physical charms.
To be sure, Carol was
flattered by this
confession. She hadn't expected him to
respond to her seductions with such alacrity, knowing something about
his
reputation for coyness. It was almost a
shock to her. Yet, at the same time, she
was relieved, immensely relieved that Andrew hadn't been more
interested in
Pauline and was all for disentangling himself from the little bitch as
quickly
as possible. For she had been at pains
to conceal her jealousy from him at Mr Grace's house and, to some
extent, was
still smarting from the effort. Now,
however, she need be in no uncertainty over him. He
was
not bluffing her. It was all too
obvious that he meant
everything he said, that he wanted to make her his girlfriend, and she,
true to
her essential nature, was only too willing to oblige, to give him the
opportunity of getting his own back on Harding for all the humiliations
of that
Berkshire weekend; to allow him to do the double, as it were, on his
ideological enemies - first through Pauline and now with herself. It was the least she could do to prove her
allegiance to Andrew's transcendentalism at the expense of Harding's
dualism.
Having already adopted a
number of his
philosophical positions as her own, what was there to prevent her from
adopting
his body as well, from linking her allegiance to his mind with an
alliance to
his flesh, and thus bringing her relationship with him to completion? Was it right that she should continue to rebel
against Harding's views on art, politics, religion, etc., while
permitting him
to ravish her body? Surely there was a
dangerous dichotomy involved between the spirit and the senses which
could only
be to her personal disadvantage, reducing her relationship with the
painter to
a predominantly physical thing. And
hadn't he already noticed that something was amiss, that she wasn't
quite the
woman she had been, before Andrew Doyle and Henry Grace came onto the
scene? He could only become more
suspicious of and
dissatisfied with her as the months wore on, just as she would grow
more
dissatisfied with and suspicious of him as Andrew's spirit took greater
possession of her, making her contemptuous of everything Harding stood
for, in
his anachronistic battle against modern art, with particular reference
to
beingful abstraction.
Yes, it was perfectly
obvious that she
could not continue to find her spiritual bearings in the writer and
simultaneously orientate herself to the physicality of the painter. This fact had first occurred to her during
the weekend in Berkshire, shortly after she secretly found herself
siding with
Andrew against the combined opposition of Robert Harding and Mr Grace
on the
subject of transcendentalism, and it had grown more pronounced ever
since. There could accordingly be no
alternative but
to try and win Andrew over to an appreciation of her body, to get him
to
respond to her in the exact opposite way she had responded to him, so
that a
completely integrated relationship became possible.
For she could no longer face-up to the
prospect of being the repository of Harding's semen when she no longer
related
to his mind. Strictly speaking, she had
never related to his mind anyway. But it
had taken Andrew to make her fully aware of the fact, to wake her up
from the
mental stupor and moral inertia into which she had fallen as a
consequence, in
large measure, of the mere physicality of her relationship with the
painter. Now she could be under no doubt
as to where she stood with Harding. It was
her duty to break with him, to establish a new centre for herself in
which body
and soul were reconciled to the same man, and she thereby acquired a
new
lease-of-life, positive and wholesome.
She needed to find her equal, and so establish herself on a
footing
which could only lead to their common good.
And this equal, this spiritual mirror to her own physical self,
was now
standing before her, reflecting her beauty in his spiritual eloquence,
assuring
her how of beneficial her physical influence had been upon him, and
extending
to her the opportunity of a two-way relationship which would rescue her
from
the self-division into which she had tragically fallen.
A single kiss, gently placed
on her
sensuous little mouth, was sufficient to ignite the torch of her desire
and
hurl her into the arms of her saviour, bringing the present to life in
a way
which made the past irrelevant, insignificant, and contemptible. No doubt, she would have a lot to learn from
him in due course, other aspects of his transcendentalism presenting
themselves
to her as they went forward, growing more finely attuned to each other,
more
closely integrated, as their relationship blossomed.
She would learn about the development of the
superconscious at the expense of the subconscious, and the changing
nature of
the ego in relation to this, so that the contemporary ego, subject to a
greater
influx of spirit, was decidedly less egocentric, not to say egotistic,
than the
ego of, say, three hundred years ago.
The doings of Western man in his egocentric prime were a thing
of the
past, never to be resurrected in the future.
The former tense balance between the two hemispheres of the
psyche -
ever the driving-force behind the development of great civilizations in
the
estimation of philosophers like Spengler - had been superseded by a
mounting
imbalance in favour of the superconscious, with a consequence that all
traditional manifestations of dualism, whether religious, political,
cultural,
scientific, or social, were in rapid decline.
Yes, the civilized world was
destined to
become increasingly transcendental as the decades passed, and nothing,
short of
a solar collapse, could prevent it from becoming more so!
Those who were categorically against the decline
of dualism, and accordingly in favour of stemming the rising tide of
transcendentalism, were simply enemies of evolution, of progress, of
enlightenment. They and their kind would
have to be dealt with in due course, when the world arrived at the Last
Judgement and the wheat were subsequently divided from the chaff and
the chaff,
in a manner of speaking, from the wheat.
A just retribution would doubtless be meted out to all who stood
in the
way of progress, no matter how highly they thought of themselves. 'The slow' would be found wanting and
condemned for having turned their back on the Christian prophecy of
Heaven and
the prospect of Eternal Life - a life lived in the spirit of heavenly
eternity
rather than in the flesh of worldly time.
'The slow' would not be praised for their competitive bias in
the face
of ongoing co-operativeness. It would be
their undoing, their banishment from a transcendental society. Their dualism, no longer respectable, would
be condemned on every front, slowly but surely eradicated from society,
so that
the Christian prophecy of Heaven could eventually be realized ... in
the
millennial Beyond, where 'the peace that surpasses all understanding',
and
hence egocentric relativity, reigned supreme, and dichotomies ceased to
exist.
The transcendental future
was certainly no
fiction, and Carol would have to learn this, along with all of the
other things
which Andrew chose to impart to her concerning the evolution of mankind. She would also come to understand why D.H.
Lawrence's The
Plumed
Serpent was virtually anathema to him and why, by
contrast, he valued Aldous Huxley's Island so
highly. Why Wolfgang Paalen was one of his
favourite
Surrealists and why he abhorred so much of the work of Gericault and
Delacroix. Why he disapproved of Freud
but admired Myers, and so on.
Yes, there would be a lot
for her to learn
as the months slipped by and their relationship became more firmly
cemented. She had a thirst for
knowledge, a thirst which Harding, with his third-rate mind, had failed
to
quench. It was a thirst every
intelligent woman needed to have quenched.
Otherwise, she would be a mere physical thing in the hands of
man -
parched and indifferent, shut-out from proper contact with herself,
deprived of
spiritual growth. No, she'd had enough
experience of that, enough alienation from herself at the hands of
someone who
was spiritually beneath her, to be able to tolerate any more of it!
But Andrew would revive her,
he would pour
some of his spirit into hers and bring it back to life, offer her the
cup of
his wisdom until her spirit overflowed with his being and was duly
restored to
its true strength. She would not be
short of spiritual nourishment with him!
On the contrary, she would be satiated.
And what she received she would return, transformed and enriched
to her
benefactor, in the guise of devotion.
She would take and give back. He
would give and take back. A two-way flow
of giving and taking would be established, so different from the arid,
bogus,
one-sided giving she had known with Harding - a giving of her body
merely! A woman wasn't happy until she
gave not only
with her body but, no less importantly, with her soul, a soul which
answered
the man's physical giving and corresponded to her admiration of him,
his whole
being ... both physical and mental. If
he didn't permit himself to be fully loved because his ideas and
attitudes were
unacceptable to one, failed to correspond to one's deepest intuitions
and
ideological life-urge, then one would be cheating oneself, and nothing
good
could come of the relationship. Better
not to love at all than only to love by half-measures, on the strength
of the
man's sexual prowess.
No, an intelligent woman
could not allow
herself to be degraded to the extent of being a mere body - a whore. Her soul would rebel against it.
She needed the give and take, the spiritual
and the physical, love and sex. Hitherto
Carol had known too little of the former and too much of the latter. Now, with the promise of Andrew's company, it
was time to swing over to the opposite extreme and break free of the
alienated
physicality in which she had been stranded with the painter, working
towards
the reintegration of her being through love.
It didn't matter if Andrew transpired not to being the best of
lovers,
if he didn't make love to her as often or as vigorously as Harding. The fact that his political and religious
beliefs were so much more congenial to her than Harding's, suggested
his sexual
habits would be too, so that a reduction in physical sex would work to
her
advantage. For the double life of mental
allegiance to him but physical allegiance to the painter was a
contradiction in
terms which could not be continued without the risk of serious
consequences -
possibly a severe neurosis or even psychosis, such as usually afflicted
those
who were deeply divided against themselves.
It was therefore high-time for the spirit to triumph over the
senses, in
accordance with the Zeitgeist
of an increasingly post-dualistic age, so that the
dualistic past, in which more often than not senses had triumphed over
spirit,
could be clearly distinguished from the transcendental present, and the
will to
spiritual beatitude made known in no uncertain terms!
It was consequently
imperative for Carol to
sever connections with Harding and thus free herself from the past, not
continue to be torn between worlds. The
new future which Andrew Doyle promised her seemed a good deal superior
to
anything she had known before, signifying a positivity of outlook which
moved with
the current of evolution rather than against it, rejoicing at the most
progressive developments the age had to offer, rather than rebelling
against
them; seeing in the times not defeat and humiliation but pride and
victory -
the grand sweep of transcendental progress taking place right before
one's very
eyes! How different it would be, being
made love to by a man who entered one with a real positivity in his
spirit, the
positivity born of an assurance that the world was gradually changing
for the
better, becoming steadily, if slowly, a better place in which to live! That, in spite of the ever-present threat of
global war and the constant reporting of murders, arsons, rapes,
thefts,
hijacks, explosions, accidents, etc., on the news or in the papers,
life was
gradually evolving for the better!
Yes, different to the point
where one would
hardly recognize oneself. Yet there it
was, Andrew Doyle was such a man, he lived with the unshakeable
conviction
that, come what may, things were evolving for the better and would
continue to
do so until mankind, in overcoming itself, reached its ultimate
destination in
transcendental bliss, some centuries hence, and thereupon brought
progress to a
halt, having attained to its culmination in the post-human millennium. No matter how pessimistic the bourgeoisie
became with regard to the impending collapse of their
world,
there could be no kidding Andrew that his
world
was
in
collapse. Even if he personally
became a casualty of evolution, even if he personally succumbed to a
premature
death, there could be no question of anyone's shaking his
confidence
in the triumph of transcendental ideals and the fact that human life
was on the
rise. Severe economic, social, and
political problems there might be, but they had no power to alter his
vision to
one of bourgeois pessimism or even proletarian cynicism.
To be sure, he had been
through the worst
in his own life, had pushed pessimism as far as it could go before, in
a moment
of enlightenment analogous to a 'Pauline conversion', he had seen the
Light and
thereupon acquired a new optimism, a new wisdom born largely from the
extent of
his previous folly. Thenceforth the
decline of the West, primarily conceived in terms of its bourgeois
traditions,
became not a cause for complaint but one for rejoicing, since it
signified the
progression of Western civilization towards higher spiritual
development - a
development tending away from the dualistic norms of civilized
achievement
towards a level where dualism became no more than an historical
landmark on the
road to enlightenment, a kind of midway stage in human evolution, with
nothing
to recommend it for eternal honours. The
fact that we were outgrowing dualism was yet another aspect of our
progression
towards a higher stage of life, even though it was not an aspect that
appealed
to everyone, including, Andrew had to concede, the painter Robert
Harding. For him, by contrast, it was an
indication of
regression, to be fought against with every means at his disposal.
Yet how fortunate for Carol
that she hadn't
been deceived by the painter's views, but had found her true ally in
Andrew
Doyle! How fortunate for her that she
could now begin to live the victory of the spirit over the senses,
instead of
being the hapless victim of the latter!
To have a companion whose body and spirit vibrated in tune with
her own
... on a major rather than a minor chord.
Not to have to feign scorn at the sight of Abstract
Expressionist or
other modern paintings which Harding invariably chose to castigate. Not to have to feign a liking for works of
art which were really a hundred or more years out-of-date and
accordingly
failed to synchronize with one's inner being, failed to impress one on
account
of their worldly representations. What a
relief it would be to have a companion who, whilst instructive, enabled
one to
remain true to oneself! Carol was so
tired of playing the hypocrite, so anxious to be genuine.
It was such a relief to know that an escape
route from Harding lay open through Andrew and that, by availing
herself of it,
her life could begin to be lived progressively, optimistically, even
happily,
for the first time not only in months, but in years!
She was still somewhat
overcome by emotion
when, after due kissings and fondlings that evening, during which
Andrew had
contrived to excite and even ignite her crotch to a degree where the
fire could
only be extinguished with the help of a succession of wet bursts which
drenched
her nylon panties, she returned to her room in Harding's house and
threw
herself down on its bed with a mixture of relief and joy in her heart. It wouldn't be long now before she saw the
back of the artist for good, and moved, with Andrew, to a flat in
Highgate,
north
CHAPTER
TWELVE
It
had
just
gone
"Have Philip and Pauline
left the
table already?" he grumblingly asked his wife, no sooner than he had
sat
down and sampled a little of the mild tea she had just poured him.
"Gone over to call on
Edwin," replied
Mrs Grace nonchalantly, while regaining her seat on the opposite side
of the
small round table. "They're all
going down to
"Ah yes!" Mr Grace affirmed. "Some pop concert in
Mrs Grace nodded in tacit
confirmation
while pouring herself a second cup of tea.
"Let's hope the weather stays relatively fine for them
anyway," she commented. "It
would be a pity if they all got wet this afternoon."
Mr Grace looked meditative
as he helped
himself to some shredded wheat. Then,
glancing through the kitchen window at a fairly ambivalent sky -
half-blue and
half-grey - he asked: "Did the weather forecast predict rain later on,
then?"
"Yes, unfortunately it did,"
his
wife replied in a tone of voice designed to impress upon him the fact
that she
would never have raised the possibility of bad weather had it not done
so! There then ensued a sullen silence
between
them, during which only the cultured sipping of tea and the methodical
munching
of shredded wheat could be heard.
Eventually, growing bored by it, Mrs Grace asked her husband
whether he
hadn't noticed a change in Pauline recently?
"Not unless you mean her
greater
interest in Edwin Ford than previously," he responded, briefly scanning
his wife's face as though for a clue.
"It's about the third time this week she's gone across to
Edwin's,
isn't it?"
"Fourth actually," Patricia
corrected. "Three times with Philip
and once on her own. It scarcely makes
any sense to me."
Mr Grace meditatively chewed
some more
shredded wheat, before saying: "Could be she's taken a fancy to him. After all, she's not a young girl any more,
is she?"
"No, but she could have
taken a fancy
to him before now," Mrs Grace averred.
"He was always fond of her."
Mr Grace nodded his balding
head. "Too damn fond of her, the way I saw
it," he opined. "Had his eyes
on her more often than a gentleman ought, even if he is
a young
one. But she was never particularly
interested in him, was she? Probably
more through shyness than anything else.
Perhaps afraid of what she might get herself into?"
"Well, if that was
the case,
she's certainly not afraid of it now," Mrs Grace declared.
"Quite the opposite! One feels he
has become quite indispensable
to her."
Pushing his cereal bowl to
one side and
then helping himself to a slice of plain toast, the critic murmured:
"Maybe he has. Could be he can
offer her something we can't."
Mrs Grace sighed knowingly
at this palpable
understatement, before saying: "It's curious how this change-of-heart
appears to have come over her since Robert and his friends paid us that
visit
last month, as though their presence here had something to do with it,
especially Mr Doyle, who appeared to be a great source of interest to
her. Strange, but I couldn't help noticing
the way
she was looking at him during breakfast that Sunday - like they had
something
between them."
"He did seem to spend more
time with
her the day before than anyone else," Mr Grace admitted, while
chewing. "Particularly during the
afternoon, when we went for a stroll. I
don't really know what they got up to in the evening, but he just might
have
said something to her which has a bearing on her current enthusiasm for
Edwin. The fact of his being a
professional writer
undoubtedly contributed to Pauline's interest in him.
However, I don't think we need assume the
worst. I mean, he couldn't have seduced
her, could he?" The critic stared
fairly confidently at his wife, as though the thought of seduction was
too
preposterous to entertain.
Making an effort to respond
to her
husband's confidence with equal assurance, Mrs Grace replied: "No, I
guess
not. Though my intuition on the morning
in question indicated that a change had come over her and that they had
something between them."
"Perhaps it was leading you
to imagine
things, my dear?" Mr Grace suggested.
"Besides, I rather doubt that Pauline would have permitted him
to
seduce her, even if he'd been boorish or audacious enough to attempt it. She has more sense and self-respect, as you
well know. A young woman who's been as
well brought-up as she has, educated at the best schools and all the
rest of
it, couldn't possibly allow herself to be seduced by a complete
stranger in her
own home in close proximity to us!
Anyway, she was in Philip and Edwin's company throughout the
greater
part of the previous evening, wasn't she?"
"So I presume," Mrs Grace
replied
without any great confidence.
"A pity I wasn't there to
keep an eye
on them all," Mr Grace remarked on a regretful note.
"Something could have happened while
they were down at 'The Burning Bush' - something between Edwin and her,
I
mean."
"Or between Mr Doyle and
her,"
Patricia Grace conjectured, recalling their visit to the local pub.
"Well, I should sincerely
hope she would
have more sense than to get involved with him!" Mr Grace strongly
objected, snorting superciliously.
"His behaviour here, particularly during the Saturday afternoon,
was anything but commendable! His
insolence was enough to make me lose my temper at one point. I could have thrown him out of the bloody
house there and then. Indeed, had I not
been so determined to maintain the best possible relations with young
Mr
Harding, I would almost certainly have ordered him to leave. As it was, I had no option but to tolerate
his presence in my home for the rest of the weekend - the presence of a
Socialistic Transcendentalist, as I think he called himself! And a champion of abstract art, to boot! Really, I'm most disappointed with Harding
for having brought such a bloody scoundrel along with him!
He could have spared me that ordeal,
surely?"
Mrs Grace did her best, in
spite of a
feeling of revulsion concerning her husband's ulterior motives for
befriending
the painter, to appear sympathetic.
"I expect he was as much upset by the man's behaviour as
yourself,
not being a Socialistic Transcendentalist, or whatever it was, either,"
she said. "But really, Henry, if it
wasn't your policy to be so discreet, where the seduction of such
potential
victims of your sexual appetites as Harding is concerned, he could have
come up
here on his own. After all, you did
invite him to bring one or two friends, didn't you?"
"Yes, I'm perfectly well
aware of the
fact!" Mr Grace sternly replied, betraying signs of impatience with his
wife's irony. "But not such bloody
friends as them! I can assure you that I
wasn't particularly impressed by his girlfriend either, and not only
for the
obvious reasons! D'you know, she had the
nerve to side with Mr Doyle against me in the presence of Robert while
we were
out in the garden after tea that evening!
Defending his transcendental nonsense after the painter had
tactfully
apologized to me about it. And the poor
slob was further put out by that - as, of course, was I, though I did
my best
to conceal the fact, retaining as calm a demeanour as possible for fear
that a
show of ill-humour would only have alienated him from me.
But that young woman secretly made my blood
boil! She was almost as obnoxious as the
writer, what with her arrogant sexuality.
I wonder what Harding could have seen in her, apart from the
obvious? Bad enough that he should have
had a girlfriend at all, of course. Yet
I couldn't very well tell him so, could I?"
With a wry smile, Mrs Grace
said:
"Maybe you will in due course, since you usually get your way, don't
you? Still, now that you remind me about
the girl, I do recall seeing her with Mr Doyle on the Sunday morning. They were down by the goldfish pond, sitting
there and talking to each other, or so it appeared; though, for all I
know,
Miss Jackson may well have had the writer's hand up her short skirt,
considering the considerable expanse of leg she was showing off at the
time! However, she got up and returned
to the house as soon as she saw me with the washing.
Rather curious really, like she had a guilty
conscience about something. To be
honest, I didn't think all that much of it at the time.
Yet the fact that they were together in such
a remote spot can't be without some sexual significance, can it? One wonders what they could have been
discussing."
"Nothing that we should care
to hear,
I expect," Mr Grace declared testily, while helping himself to another
slice of plain toast. "Probably
something to do with the hypothetical future transmutation of men into
fairies,
or some such bloody nonsense! They might
even have been holding an outdoor séance, for all we know.
Or meditating even - assuming you can talk
and meditate simultaneously.... That's the trouble with our Philip, you
know. Much too susceptible to the latest
silly crazes in religion and the like!
Not a typical Grace by any means!
Only too ready to lend an ear to the likes of that writer. A shame really, since I had high hopes for
the lad. Still have, to some extent,
though I fear he'll continue to turn a deaf ear to my advice, wasting
his time
with pseudo-beliefs and false prophets!
Not that I'd particularly approve of his becoming more like
young Edwin
Ford and turning away from religion altogether.
Oh, no! One extreme would be no
better than another, so far as I'm concerned.
Fortunately, however, Edwin doesn't seem to have all that much
influence
on him, so I don't think we need fear anything there.
We don't want a Red son in the family, do
we? Not after all we've done for him
over the years. He has little reason to
consider himself a proletarian anyway.
No more, for that matter, than Edwin, who, despite his
considerable
arrogance, comes from a perfectly respectable upper-middle-class family. How it is that Ford's boy has
turned
out
the
way he appears to have done, I don't pretend to know; though I
suspect he's
in youthful rebellion against his father, who, as you well know, was
always a
good Tory - at times a little too sodding good, if his sexual
predilections
were anything to judge by! But that's as
it should be. In all probability, his
son will come to his political senses in due course, once he completes
his
studies at
"No, I suppose not," Mrs
Grace
reluctantly conceded, wondering exactly what he meant by the phrase
'got
on'. "You certainly wouldn't have
made a reputation for yourself by attacking modern art, that's for sure! But let's hope, anyway, that our daughter
won't become too influenced by Edwin's revolutionary ideas in Philip's
stead. It wouldn't do to have a Red
daughter in the family either, would it?"
"Of course not!" bellowed Mr
Grace in exasperation. "But,
frankly, I don't think she's any more susceptible to that kind of thing
than
Philip. If anything, she's more likely
to become an airy-fairy transcendentalist and take-up with meditation
instead,
like her brother. I needn't remind you
of how much time she spent listening to Harding's damn neighbour
delivering his
impromptu sermon that Saturday! And if
he had any effect on Edwin as well, then it could be that young Ford
has modified
his views in the meantime, and so become more ideologically acceptable
to her
in consequence. Who knows, but maybe we
should ask her personally - assuming we get an opportunity to, that
is?" He helped himself to a third
slice of toast and requested another cup of tea, which his wife
dutifully
procured him. He wasn't particularly
interested in discussing Pauline's doings.
God knows, she was old enough to look after herself, wasn't she? If she had discovered something new in Edwin,
good fucking luck to her! Let her make
the most of it before he went back to Cambridge in a few weeks' time
and she
went down to London in order, presumably, to begin her literary studies
in the
big bad metropolis. They needn't fear
that he would remould her beliefs or personality in that short space of
time! She had a mind of her own anyway. Marxist sentiments wouldn't have becomed her,
and so on. Mr Grace wasn't for spoiling
his breakfast over any change of heart which had come over his daughter
in
recent weeks. There were more important
things to consider - like, for instance, Robert Harding.
"By the way," he continued,
determined to shift the conversation onto that track, "I take it you're
prepared to visit Harding's studio next week to sit for the portrait of
you
that I've commissioned from him. Now
that the one of Pauline is completed and hanging gracefully - no pun
intended!
- beside the others in our new family portrait gallery, he'll be
anxious to see
you and continue with his work."
Mrs Grace frowned slightly
and sighed her
dissatisfaction at the prospect of having to spend a week or more in
the
painter's dubious company, doing nothing but sitting still. "Oh, Henry, is it really necessary for
me to go?" she protested.
"Aren't the three portraits already completed by him quite
sufficient?"
"No, I promised him work on
a portrait
of you and I intend to keep my promise!" Mr Grace spat back. "If you don't go, he'll be sorely
disappointed. It would amount to a breach
of contract."
His wife was still far from
convinced. "But think of all the expense
this is
amounting to, Henry," she objected.
"Another £600 for the sake of gaining further power over him,
making him more indebted to you? Really,
it's quite reckless!"
"You know perfectly well I
can afford
it," Mr Grace asseverated, visibly unmoved by his wife's misgivings. "I could afford ten such portraits if
necessary. But it won't be necessary, my
dear. After the one of you is completed,
I
shall visit him in person the following week, and during that
time - a time when the pair of us will be quite alone together - I'll
seduce
him into giving me what I really want from him.
And I shall do so partly on the strength of my previous
commissions and
partly on the strength of the family portrait I should like him to
execute in
due course. Such a tempting carrot as
that, valued at around £2,000, can hardly fail to lure the donkey after
it. If he refuses me my personal
satisfaction in the matter, he'll be deprived of this further
commission and
threatened with the harshest public criticism his work has ever
received! Rather than promising to make
his reputation
as a great painter, a champion of genuine art, or whatever it is he
considers
himself to be, I shall set about undermining what little reputation he
already
has and thereby completely ruin his career, branding him with hidebound
conservatism!"
Mrs Grace winced and shook
her bushy
head. "Really, Henry, you're too
cruel!" she exclaimed.
"Cruel?" Mr Grace echoed
incredulously. "Not at all!
Kind to myself would be closer the mark, my
dear. And whether he appreciates it or
not, kind to him as well! The deal seems
to me a very good one so far as he is concerned, much better than I'd
be
prepared to enter into with anyone else.... You don't realize how
important
he's become to me, Patricia, I who may never have the good fortune to
fall in
love with anyone like him again. Ever
since I first clapped eyes on his photograph in one of those
"Henry!"
Mr Grace was unmoved by his
wife's manifest
hurt. "It's my last gamble, my
final opportunity to reap the dividends of my bent," he ironically
explained. "Surely you can't refuse
me your co-operation at this critical juncture, Patricia, now that I've
almost
achieved my objectives?"
There were tears of anguish
in Mrs Grace's
eyes as she responded with: "But, Henry, the prospect of sitting there
for
as long as it takes him to do my portrait and keeping absolutely quiet
about
your sexual designs, not speaking a word about your plan of seduction -
really,
it's too terrible, too ... nerve-racking!
I don't think I can do it."
"Of course you can do it,"
Mr
Grace assured her in his most persuasively encouraging tone. He was almost on the point of holding her
hand. "You've helped me before now,
so why shouldn't you continue to be of service?
After all, you're not entirely without your own little ...
foibles in
such matters. Come now, be
realistic! You wouldn't want us to part
company after all these years, would you?
Not, surely, when you haven't got anywhere better to go?"
These inherently rhetorical
questions,
threatening and sinister, seemed to have the desired effect on Patricia
Grace. For she suddenly snapped awake,
as it were, from her self-pity, wiped the remaining tears from her
eyes, and
gently shook her head. Reality had
brutally returned to her, its disagreeable face reminding her of her
limitations in defying it. In truth, she
lacked the courage to start a new life now, to completely sever
connections
with her husband and begin the half-life of a spinsterish divorcee -
poor and
alone. She had no near or living relatives
to fall back on, no real resources of her own, and the one man who
might have
provided a romantic solution to her problems was ... well, she had no
way of
telling where he was or what he was doing, so long was it since she had
heard
anything from him. Willy-nilly, she was
a kind of slave to her husband whether or not she liked the fact, and
he never
lost an opportunity in reminding her when circumstances required. Accordingly, she had no alternative but to
comply with his demands.
"So you're agreed to the
sitting,
then?" he concluded.
"Yes, if it helps to make
things any
easier for you," she dutifully replied.
"Oh, I'm sure it will!" Mr
Grace
declared excitedly. "For I have
great confidence in my little strategy.
What with the carrot of this further commission and the promise
of good
reviews to-come, I'm quite convinced that the donkey will do as
required. After all, what alternative does
he
bloody-well have, eh?" There was a
broad smile of satisfaction on the critic's narrow face - a smile
fostered as
much on happy expectations as on shrewd manoeuvrings.
He was experienced at this kind of game and
usually succeeded in getting his way.
"Not that this particular donkey is an especially good
painter," he continued, having washed down his last mouthful of chewed
toast with the remaining by-now lukewarm tea in his cup.
"I've known many better, I can tell
you! Some worse too, of course, though
not a great deal so. At best, Harding is
competent and tasteful, but totally without distinction!
There are plenty of others who would be just
as capable of doing what he does. Unlike
him, however, they'd be quite incapable of arousing my interest on
other than
strictly aesthetic grounds. And that,
precisely, is his chief advantage - namely his sexual appeal to me. As an artist, no, I cannot claim to admire
him, much as I may feign something approximating to admiration when in
his
company. His work is fundamentally
soulless, if you know what I mean. Too
tediously academic. It lacks fire,
passion, individuality, technical inventiveness, and conceptual
integrity - all
the things, in short, which make for great art.
We are painted as cadavers instead of human beings, social
automatons
instead of self-willed individuals. His
brush is tarnished by all the worst hallmarks of modernity. He'll never achieve anything great, not even
if he eventually transfers from the canvas to the mural, which seems
rather
unlikely if you ask me, given his fear of decadence."
"But, presumably, you'll
still
continue to befriend him?" Mrs Grace conjectured.
"Provided he gives me what
I'm really
after," Mr Grace responded.
"Just as you'll continue to befriend me, won't you, Patricia?"
"If you insist, Henry."
The critic sighed his relief
and smiled a
modest gratitude. "Good, that's as
it should be," he concluded.
There then ensued a
resentful silence on
Mrs Grace's part, during which time she began to clear away the
breakfast
things.
"By the way, was there any
post for me
this morning?" her husband wanted to know.
"Just this."
She handed him a large brown envelope with a
typed address on the front. It had been
resting on the sideboard to his right.
"Ah, so someone has been
thinking of
me recently!" he mused, opening it with the aid of a large bread
knife. "Another tedious set of
proofs to read, I expect. Either that or
a boring account of ...” His voice abruptly ceased, and it was several
seconds
later before he resumed with: "Good God, just take a look at this!"
Mrs Grace went across to
where he was
sitting and stared down over his shoulder at the contents of the
envelope, now
spread out on the table before him. She
could scarcely believe her eyes.
"Why, it's Pauline!" she cried.
"Yes, so it is," Mr Grace
nervously confirmed. "I don't
understand."
His wife bent closer. "But what's she doing there like
that?" she exclaimed.
It wasn't a question Henry
Grace could be
expected to answer. For there, right
before his startled eyes, Pauline was exhibited in all manner of erotic
nude or
semi-nude poses on at least thirty colour photographs.
There wasn't a photograph on the table in
which she wasn't showing off some private part of her anatomy, and
doing so, in
no less than twelve of them, in the company of an equally pornographic
Carol
Jackson! Really, it was too disgraceful
to behold, especially since Pauline had the look of a person enjoying
every
damn moment of being photographed in such palpably erotic postures! It gave her parents something like the shock
of their lives - Mr Grace turning bright red with embarrassment, his
wife
becoming deathly pale with revulsion.
What-on-earth could it all mean?
For Pauline had made no mention of having been photographed to
them....
Not that that seemed particularly surprising when one considered the
scandalous
nature of the photographs in question!
And Miss Jackson, what could she be doing there, apart, that is,
from
showing off everything she naturally possessed?
It was Mrs Grace who first
recovered from
the shock of such a spectacle and thereupon pointed out a large typed
letter
which lay partially buried beneath the mass of enigmatic photos. Obediently, her husband extricated it from
its hiding place and, briefly scanning the address and telephone number
of its
sender, proceeded to read:-
Dear
Henry,
Enclosed for your careful
consideration is a selection of photos from a modelling session I
recently had
the pleasure of conducting with your daughter, in the company of one of
my best
models, Miss Carol Jackson. I rather
doubt they will make a particularly favourable impression on you, since
that is
not, of course, my principal concern. If
you haven't already guessed by now, it is to prevent you from making a
fool of
Robert Harding by exploiting him to your own ends, which, as I am only
too well
aware from personal experience, are purely carnal.
Also aware of this are Miss Jackson and Mr
Doyle, both of whom made your acquaintance last month and, I regret to
say,
became mutually suspicious of your motives for befriending the painter,
who, so
I am informed, is neither homosexual nor bisexual but conventionally
heterosexual. It is therefore extremely
unlikely that he would take kindly to your sexual designs.
Neither of course did I - an old acquaintance
of yours who, as you'll probably recall, was unable to reconcile
himself to
your desires when, much admired for the wrong reasons, he was
requested, nay,
instructed to do so!
That, believe it or not, was
several years ago, when the said-acquaintance had just begun to
establish
himself in his chosen profession and had yet to acquire the fame and
prestige
to which he has since grown so painfully accustomed.
It was at that time, if you remember, that
you sent me a series of threatening letters in order, as you
facetiously put
it, 'to make (me) see sense and become more reasonable'.
You could not, according to this same letter,
avoid the consequences of having 'fallen in love' with me (you had a
marked
talent for hyperbole, probably still have, for all I know), and would
not be
able to tolerate living unless I satisfied your desires, which then, as
now,
were unequivocally anal.
I have the letter in
question
before me as I write, and could quote quite copiously from it if I
really
wanted to, that's to say, if it were necessary in order to convince you
that I
am not imagining things. And, of course,
I have the others to-hand as well - some seven in all, which more or
less
reiterate your plea for clemency, each one a little more forcefully and
even
shamelessly than its immediate precursor.
No, it won't be necessary for me to quote from any of these
either, as I
am sure you will agree. Better to let
sleeping dogs lie, as they say. And so I
will, provided you comply with my request, which is this: to leave
Robert
Harding alone - absolutely alone!
If you are planning any
further
commissions for him, you must cancel them immediately.
Otherwise I shall be obliged to have examples
of these photographs - which are merely a selection of the ones in my
possession - circulated to various magazines with which I have
commercial
contacts, and published in due course - with the consent, needless to
say, of
the young women involved. Now when these
photographs appear in public, i.e. are published, I shall draw them to
the
attention of certain persons with whom you are or were associated,
sending
copies of the relevant magazines to individuals who could only be
scandalized
by knowledge of the fact that your daughter has turned to pornographic
modelling, and who would almost certainly not wish to associate with
you again. There are, I realize, quite a
number of
persons for whom the spectacle of Pauline Grace, nude and alluring in
one or
another of the more exotic men's magazines, would excite scepticism
concerning
the probity of her upbringing and the genuineness of her modesty. Your old colleague Martin Howard would
certainly be surprised, unable, one feels, to reconcile the daughter of
the
renowned art critic, Henry Grace, with the ostensible righteousness of
the
critic himself. He would surely wonder
how you had allowed or encouraged such a thing to happen!
No doubt, you would feel acutely embarrassed
the next time your paths crossed - assuming they ever did!
And the same, of course, applies to so many
eminent, respectable, God-fearing persons known to yourself, who have
no
sympathy for pornography.
But don't think I would stop
there! I would also make the letters
from you at the height of your infatuation with me known to the world
at large,
revealing you as the two-faced, double-dealing hypocrite you really
are, and
thus exposing your private life to public scrutiny - the lie of your
marriage
to Patricia and the sordid motives behind your current enthusiasm for
Harding's
work duly accompanying my in-depth exposé, thereby bringing further
infamy upon
your name.
Last but by no means least,
I
would ensure that Robert Harding received copies of your letters to me,
so that
he could be left in absolutely no doubt as to the truth of your
relationship
with him as well. Thus, one way or
another, Henry, your life would never be quite the same again, neither
personally nor professionally.
So either you immediately
break off relations with the painter, whose naiveté even I find quite
touching,
or I shall be obliged to carry out these threats. The
decision
is entirely yours - one which I
trust you will inform me about in due course.
If, however, you do decide
to
comply, then rest assured that none of these erotic photos and none of
your
sordid letters to me will ever get into public hands.
Yours
sincerely
Donald
J.
Prescott.
By the time he had got to
the end of this
harrowing letter, Henry Grace was trembling like a battered leaf in a
mid-October gale and was almost on the verge of tears.
Never had he been threatened in so frank a
manner in his entire life, and it was as much as he could do to take
the threat
seriously. It was more like a bad
dream. He wasn't sure that he was really
awake, sitting in his familiar kitchen with his wife standing behind
him and
the smell of burnt toast in the air. But
there, in front of his scandalized eyes, lay the torn envelope, the
letter, and
the pile of colour photographs, and they could not be wished away, like
a bad
dream sometimes could. There they
stayed, staring back at him, it seemed, with a consciousness of their
own,
peculiarly defiant and sinister. They
had to be taken seriously.
"Damn the bastard!"
exclaimed Mr
Grace, as the tension created by the shocked silence became too much
for
him. "Why does he have to interfere
in my affairs like this? What right has
he to stir up the past? It's positively
vile!"
"It would be viler still if
he felt
obliged to carry out his threats," Mrs Grace solemnly averred.
"But how in God's name did
Pauline
fall into the clutches of that frigging wanker in the first place?" Mr
Grace shouted, beside himself with exasperation.
"Evidently whilst at
Mr Grace reflected a moment,
then shook his
head. "But I still don't
understand," he confessed. "I
mean, a sensible well-bred young woman like her - it's scandalous! Just think what would happen if all this got
into the wrong hands! Can you imagine
how I'd feel if the local vicar was sent a copy of one of those foul
sex
magazines with pictures of my daughter spread-eagled all over the place? I mean, that could be what the bastard was
intimating at, couldn't it? One isn't to
know what he'd do. No, I can't risk
it. I shall have to break off ties with
Harding immediately, tell him I've changed my mind about the remaining
commissions.... Or perhaps you would?
Yes, you could phone him in my stead and cancel your sitting
next
week. I don't think I could face-up to
it, not even on the phone. Oh God, why
did he have to bring that Andrew Doyle cad here? It's
all
his
fault,
I'm
convinced
of it. It's because of him
that Pauline
has allowed herself to be demeaned like this.
Now I begin to understand the change which has come over her
recently, I
begin to understand it all too clearly!
He must have seduced her, the rotter! Seduced her while she was
out of
our sight, either here or in
Mrs Grace was still standing
behind her
husband, silent and still, her feelings torn between pity and contempt
-
contempt, above all, for his perverse self-pity, pity for herself for
being
married to such a man. It was difficult
not to tell him it served him bloody-well right for the vile thing he
had
intended to do to Mr Harding - exploiting the young man's professional
vanity
in the interests of his own sexual gratification. Very
difficult
indeed! Yet as she walked
towards the telephone in
the adjoining room to let the painter know of her husband's decision,
this
difficulty was offset by the sudden realization that she would not now
have to
go to Richmond, the following week, after all, and would therefore be
spared
the ordeal she had so painfully anticipated at breakfast.
It was almost as difficult not to express her
sudden relief of the fact, and thereby risk inciting her husband's
wrath. At least there was something in it
for her!
"His number's by the phone,"
Mr
Grace called after her as she approached the receiver.
"And don't tell him I told you to
ring. If he asks for me, say I'm
out." He sat, pale and trembling, slouched
across the table like a man suffering from some terribly enervating
illness,
possibly glandular fever. The life-force
had withered away and he felt as though twenty years older - nearer
eighty than
sixty. The bitter disappointment of
having to comply with
"Hello, is Mr Harding there,
please?"
"Speaking."
"Ah, good morning, Robert! It's Patricia Grace here ..."
"Oh, good morning, Mrs Grace! How nice of you to ring."
There was a moment's
embarrassing silence
before she could pluck up the courage to say, albeit in a slightly
nervous
tone-of-voice: "Er, with reference to the impending portrait of me,
Robert, my husband and I have regretfully come to the decision that we
shall
not now be requiring it. We are of
course extremely grateful to you for the three excellent portraits
already
completed, which we feel will be quite sufficient.
Accordingly, I must therefore cancel our
studio arrangements for next week."
After a stunned silence,
Harding responded
with a faint: "Oh, I see." He
could scarcely believe his ears. He had
been so looking forward to seeing Mrs Grace and perhaps inducing her to
take
off her clothes for him and transfer her sitting into a lying which
would
perhaps enable him to explore her flesh in more concrete terms - terms
such
that would benefit him in more than a financial sense.
"Does this mean I won't be seeing either
of you again?" he asked, almost pathetically.
"Well, possibly not," she
replied, mustering all the diplomatic tact at her disposal at this
moment. "It will depend on whether or not
my
husband wishes to commission any additional portraits from you in
future. But at present, he is quite
satisfied with
the ones he has. If he changes his mind
over the coming weeks, he'll doubtless get in touch with you. For the time being, however, I think you can
rest on your laurels, as it were, and dedicate your talents to someone
or
something else. We are, however, most
grateful to you for having spent so much time and care on us, and wish
you
every success in the future."
Harding offered her a muted
wail of thanks,
despite his manifest disappointment. All
his fondest hopes had been dashed. He
would probably never see her again.
"Well, goodbye, Robert!"
"Yes, goodbye, Patricia! I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed being
associated with you."
She replaced the receiver
with a heartfelt
sigh and slowly headed back towards the kitchen. "Now
you
had better destroy Prescott's
letter and all those dirty photos, Henry, before anyone else sees
them," she
suggested, as she stepped across the threshold into the larger of the
two rooms
with a look of determination on her pallid face. But,
to
her surprise, she found that he had
already done so. For all but a few of
them were torn into tiny pieces and lying at the bottom of the
wastepaper bin,
while the letter itself lay in a crumpled mess of partially torn paper
by his
feet.
A split second later Henry
Grace was
himself lying under the table with the bread knife through his neck and
a
severed juggler spurting bright-red blood across the kitchen floor. He seemed to be staring emptily, or perhaps
even reproachfully, at Patricia Grace, as she backed away from him with
a sharp
look of revulsion on her face. But his
eyes didn't follow her and she realized, soon enough, that he was
losing
consciousness and on the threshold of death, if not already across it.
With a cry of triumph, she
picked up what
remained of the letter, turned on her heels and rushed back into the
adjoining
room again in order to make another call.
But it wasn't the ambulance service, or even the police, whom
she
immediately dialled. It was Donald
Prescott, and it was with a view to not only telling him what had
happened but
actually visiting him in person, the following week, that she held the
purring
receiver up close to her ear.
This time there could be no
regrets, only
tears of joy!