CHAPTER
ELEVEN
It was about 7.30 the
following Wednesday evening when Timothy Byrne arrived at Lord Handon's
The room in which Timothy now found himself was decorated in a
restrained neo-classical manner, with delicate touches of floriate stucco on
the walls, which, in contrast to the white ceiling, were of a pale-green matt
tone. It wasn't long, however, before he
abandoned his initial interest in this craftsmanship and plunged into
reflections on the spiritual superiority, as he saw it, of photographic
reproductions over actual materialistic productions. He had no desire to get carried away by the
all-too-palpable productions in front of him!
Meanwhile, Lord Handon had emerged from the library at the rear
of the house to welcome his guest with outstretched hand. "Come into the library," he
insisted, "since it's warmer there at present and, being an author
yourself, you'll probably prefer it."
Timothy obligingly followed the viscount back along the
passageway and into a small brightly-lit room, where he was offered a seat in
one of its two dark-blue velvet armchairs.
Bookshelves lined the walls on opposite sides of it, whilst an
expensive-looking electric fire, complete with imitation coals, burned away in
an unostentatious chimney-piece set deeply into a wall exclusively dedicated to
modern paintings, and a fourth wall, which also contained some modern
paintings, was graced by a pair of french windows through which part of the
elongated back garden could be glimpsed. A mahogany table and a walnut writing-desk
were the chief items of furniture in the room - the table standing in the
middle, the desk against the chimney-piece wall at a discreet remove from the
fire (as of course were the paintings).
A dark-blue settee and the armchairs were its other large possessions.
"Here's a drop of liqueur to warm you up, assuming you
don't object," said Lord Handon, handing Timothy a small glass of
brandy. "I wait on people myself
more often than not on quiet evenings like this, especially where drink is
concerned." He sat down opposite
his guest to the other side of the fire and gazed across at him in silence
awhile, before adding: "We'll be having dinner shortly, when Geraldine has
finished with the bathroom and is ready to join us. She has been out most of the day with a
friend."
"Oh, really?" Timothy responded, momentarily
looking-up from his brandy. He had quite
forgotten about her. "Not
"No, a girlfriend actually," Lord Handon
corrected. "One of her
fellow-undergraduates." After a
brief pause, he continued: "As for
"Do I!" replied Timothy impulsively. "They're two of the finest paintings
I've ever seen. Really, I had absolutely
no idea Gowling was such a gifted and sensitive artist!"
"No, he doesn't talk all that much about his work actually,"
Lord Handon remarked. "But I only
bought them because I couldn't get hold of any Mondrians at the time and wanted
something approximately similar. Then I
saw these two works advertised in a catalogue, one day, and snapped them up as
quickly as possible. If one can't get
hold of the real thing, one has to make do with copies, I suppose."
Timothy's feelings plummeted drastically, and not only because
of the viscount's obviously predatory instinct to snap things up! "But these aren't copies," he objected.
"I must say, they look rather derivative to me," Lord
Handon averred. "Although the
balance of the parts is, on the whole, less good than in Mondrian, probably on
account of Gowling's homosexual tendencies."
It was obvious to Timothy that Lord Handon didn't really
appreciate the value of what he possessed!
There was a Biblical maxim concerning pearls and swine which seemed not
inappropriate here - the very same maxim which had briefly crossed his mind when
confronted by Lady Handon's religious intransigence, not so many weeks ago.
"As for these paintings here," the viscount continued,
drawing his guest's attention to a pair of slightly larger abstracts which
reposed on the wall to the right of where he was sitting, "they're by the
Swiss artist, Max Bill, and are in his most geometrically cubist style, if one
can so term it. A series of
different-coloured rectangles and squares in regular juxtaposition. Quite absorbing, don't you think?"
"Indeed!" Timothy admitted, though he couldn't see
them properly from where he sat because of the dazzling reflection of the
electric light on their shiny surfaces.
Nevertheless there were a number of other paintings, including a Victor
Pasmore to the left of the Gowlings, which he could see quite plainly, and
these also briefly captured his attention.
He hadn't bargained for even one abstract painting in the library.
"I also have a number of other modern works scattered about
the house," Lord Handon offhandedly revealed. "Which is one of the reasons why my wife
absolutely refuses to live here. As you
may have noticed, during your visit to my country residence, there are no
twentieth-century works hanging there.
It's very much as it was when I inherited it from my father."
"Yes, I'd been especially puzzled by the apparent absence
of modern literature from the library actually," Timothy confessed,
slightly changing the subject.
"Ah well, that's because it's mostly here," rejoined
Lord Handon, who waved an arm in the general direction of the bookshelves lining
the wall behind him. "I couldn't
very well fit these smaller, modern works into so traditional a library as the
one at Rothermore House, even had I wanted to.
Instead, I prefer to maintain two distinctly separate collections - the
bigger and more traditional one at Rothermore, the smaller and more
contemporary one here in what is, culturally speaking, a house of my own
making. At any rate, I allow myself a
degree of modernity here that I would never countenance in the country. I'm torn, if you like, between two worlds -
unable to exclusively reconcile myself to either one of them."
"I much prefer this one," Timothy affirmed, staring
across at the tightly-packed shelves of modern literature.
"Yes, I thought you would," said Lord Handon, smiling.
"Unfortunately, not being of your class, I'm less than comfortable with
just the modern."
Timothy blushed slightly on reception of this startling
confession. He wouldn't have expected
the adverb in Handon's second sentence.
"I've inherited a ton weight of tradition, you see,"
the viscount continued, "and to a certain extent I'm chained to it. My constitution isn't such that I can break
away from it merely at the suggestion of doing so. My country residence does, after all, mean a
great deal to me.... Of course, I'm quite aware that, despite what you said in
the Voice Museum last week, you didn't really like it and would under no
circumstances wish to live in such a large property yourself. I wasn't blind to certain of your facial
responses in several of the rooms there, least of all the library, where you
virtually went pale with revulsion ..."
"Oh, but really...!" Timothy protested.
"Aha! You needn't feel obliged to pretend otherwise
tonight!" Lord Handon countered.
"I could tell from the moment you set foot in the driveway leading
up to the house that you weren't particularly looking forward to your
visit. I was watching you discreetly
from one of the drawing-room windows, you know.
Saw you shake your head a couple of times before mustering sufficient
courage to approach."
Timothy's blush had perceptibly deepened with these remarks - so
much so, that he sought temporary distraction in another sip of brandy.
"And I continued to keep a discreet eye on you throughout
the evening," Lord Handon went on, "particularly during that hour
following your religious lecture, as it were, when I took you and a couple of
the others on a guided tour of the rooms.
There were moments, when you thought I had my attention elsewhere,
during which your distaste for certain of my antique possessions was clearly
manifest, believe me!"
There was no alternative, seemingly, but for Timothy to confess
the truth. "Very well, I'll admit
that certain of your possessions and, indeed, your house in general was
obnoxious to me," he sighed.
"As you know, I'm chiefly interested in spirituality, not in the
worship, conscious or otherwise, of materialism, no matter how cultivated or
elaborate it may happen to be. All that
is somehow distasteful to me."
"So I realize," Lord Handon responded, lighting
himself a mild cigar of the type Timothy had seen him smoking in the
"No, I suppose not," Timothy conceded, smiling faintly
over his brandy. "Although it's not
just the size of your country house that I object to, nor, for that matter, the
amount of cumbersome furniture or number of antiquated paintings there."
"Presumably you don't like the fact that it stands in close
proximity to nature and is thus surrounded by the sensual offspring of both the
sun and the earth's core?" Lord Handon conjectured.
"No, I don't much like that either," Timothy admitted,
growing bolder. "For as you'll
doubtless be aware, nature is a predominantly subconscious phenomenon. However, I have to say, by way of attempting
to mollify you slightly, that I quite admired the way it had been considerably
tamed and shaped into aesthetically-pleasing motifs in the immediate vicinity
of your house. The well-trimmed texture
of the lawn was also commendable, as was the total absence of overgrowth on the
exterior walls of the house."
Lord Handon smiled his pleasure at this unexpected
commendation. "You mean you were
relieved that nature hadn't been allowed to directly impinge upon them?"
"Absolutely!" Timothy confirmed. "It's one of the saddest and most
distasteful sights I know, these days, to see the walls of a beautiful old
house overgrown with creepers, as though under siege from the Diabolic
Alpha. One feels that, at any moment,
nature may completely overrun the place, erasing all traces of
civilization. But, fortunately, that
wasn't the kind of feeling I got while standing in the vicinity of your house. No, if I must confess to my other main
objections, it was to what might be termed the pagan, or pseudo-pagan, content
of the house - the fact, namely, of its having been built with so marked a
classical influence and containing so many objects -
statues, objects
d'art, and the like - of pagan association."
"No doubt, you're alluding to the nude or semi-nude gods
and goddesses in rooms like the library," Lord Handon declared, with a
gentle though evidently self-critical frown.
"I had noted your aloofness with regard to my Venus statuette in
imitation of Phidias, not to mention your disdain for the first-century Greek
vase in the billiards room, where there was also a certain amount of classical
statuary."
"Indeed!" Timothy concurred, becoming freshly
embarrassed by the accuracy of Lord Handon's memory. "Well, yes, I was alluding to them, as
also to the abundance of pilasters and columns with which the house is
supplied. Unfortunately, the spectacle
of so many pagan trappings has a distinctly depressing effect on me these days,
whether the buildings in question be secular or religious, private or
public. I'm rather more in favour of
buildings which transcend pagan associations altogether, as do virtually all
truly modern ones. Indeed, those of us
of a progressive disposition are relatively fortunate to be living in an age
which has completely turned its back on the pagan architecture of classical
antiquity, in favour of a uniquely modern style. Not since the great age of Gothic cathedrals
has Europe witnessed anything of the kind."
Lord Handon nodded his antique head in apparent agreement and,
smiling weakly through the dense haze of cigar smoke he had just exhaled, said:
"I take it you're in favour of the Gothic, then?"
"To the extent that it represented Christian progress
rather than pagan or classical nostalgia - yes, at least in its historical
context," Timothy responded. "For
I'm much more in favour of that which represents transcendental progress and
thereby testifies to a still higher development - like, for example, the great
works of Walter Gropius and Mies Van der Rohe."
"You'd get on well with Nigel Townley, were you to talk to
him about this," Lord Handon averred, referring to the architect Timothy
had first met on New Year's Eve.
"His architecture happens to be very transcendental or, at any
rate, contemporary too - mostly window space with slender infills of a synthetic
order. One of the most uncompromisingly
modern architects currently at work in this country." He puffed a moment on his cigar, looking
towards the bookshelves that lined the wall behind his guest, then continued:
"But I take your point as regards the abundance of classical decoration in
my other house, which, personally, I'm not that terribly keen on myself. Of course, one shouldn't assume that all architecture since
the Gothic age and up to the modern one is necessarily decadent or reactionary,
for it certainly isn't! No ancient Greek
or Roman could have conceived of the majority of country houses still in
existence, least of all those which have no truck with the classical at all,
such as the early Manor Houses and Tudor dwellings. But there are, however, a large number of
buildings that can be described as decadent or reactionary and,
to some extent, I share your distaste for them.
My own Baroque mansion isn't exactly reactionary, but it does contain a
sufficiency of classical detail to render it - how shall I say? - unacceptable
or even obnoxious to anyone with a transcendental bias, I'll concede. Which, to a certain extent, also applies to
this town house, with its restrained neo-classicism, à la Nash. I can tolerate it, but you would doubtless
prefer your little Neo-Plasticist flat, or whatever it is.
"However, don't think I begrudge you your objections to my
property," Lord Handon went on, following a short pause. "In light of your spiritual views, they
make perfect sense to me. And I'm rather
taken by the idea that, in any ultimate sense, God is the outcome of the
Universe instead of its initiator, and consequently that human progress has to
do with gradually overcoming nature, both internal and external, so that
sensual, materialistic matters come, by degrees, to play a less pervasive role
in society. I think you're probably
right, though I can't go as far as you in opposing it. You despise me, I know, since you see the
extent to which materialism has a hold on me and calculate my position in
relation to this envisaged spiritual outcome of evolution to be rather a low
one. Very well, you're entitled to judge
according to your transvaluated lights!"
Here Timothy made a half-hearted attempt at protesting in Lord
Handon's favour, but the latter would have none of it.
"No, I know how you feel and wouldn't wish you to pretend
otherwise," he rejoined, undaunted.
"You're the only one of the seven New Year's Eve guests who took a
dim view of me, and that I can now understand.
I couldn't quite understand it at first however, in fact not until a few
days after you'd gone and a number of your religious views began to rise to the
surface of my mind, like bubbles of enlightenment. Then I started to see the world as though
through your eyes. Perhaps I underwent a
sort of religious conversion, or rebirth?
For I immediately abandoned my wife to her pagan predilections and came
up here, where I proceeded to read Huysmans' À Rebours. I hadn't read that great Manichean novel in
years, but the artificial pursuits of its principal character struck me as
having a profound bearing on what you'd said concerning the necessity of our
gradually overcoming nature, which is fundamentally evil, in order to attain to
God; overcoming the subconscious darkness in order to attain to the
superconscious light. Des Esseintes was
somewhat over-ambitious in his anti-natural endeavours and succumbed, in the
end, to nervous crises which precipitated his enforced return to Paris and, so
one is led to believe, a less-radical lifestyle. You remember the story?"
"More or less," Timothy admitted, nodding vaguely.
"Well, formerly, when I first read the book, many years
ago, it seemed to represent an implicit condemnation of Des Esseintes'
artificial aspirations, being a lesson in what would almost inevitably happen
to anyone who was too much against nature.
But now, since re-reading it, I've come to doubt that assumption and to
believe instead that, although its protagonist ultimately failed in his
spiritual endeavours, the attempt was inherently praiseworthy, signifying a
general evolutionary trend towards greater artificiality, which would seem to
be increasingly pervasive in modern society.
Rather than being reactionary, the novel struck me as somehow prophetic."
"From what I can recall of À Rebours, I would
say that it was both reactionary and prophetic," Timothy
commented. "Reactionary so far as
certain aspects of the protagonist's Catholicism were concerned; prophetic in
relation to his anti-natural or, rather, artificial aspirations. However, I'll admit to a tendency I sometimes
have, these days, of asking people whether they're Lady Chatterley types
or À Rebours types. If the
former, then I automatically take a dim view of them, since they're more likely
to be heathen bastards who either lack the courage or intelligence to go
against nature. If the latter, then I'm
inclined to adopt a respectful attitude towards them, since they seem to be on
the side of moral progress and to whatever pertains, in Christ-like
transvaluation, to a supernatural rebirth, a rebirth which takes its cue from
the spirit rather than nature, and is totally against anything cosmic. There are some, of course, who don't know how
to answer, never having read either book.
But most people whom I come into contact with tend to fall into one or
other of these two categories, and are thus autocratic or theocratic rather
than simply democratically liberal."
Lord Handon saw fit to guffaw through the defensive haze of his
cigar smoke. "I take it you dislike
D.H. Lawrence, then?" he surmised.
"When he's a nature-mongering heathen and paganized
advocate of salvation through sex, like Wilhelm Reich - yes, I most certainly
do!" Timothy averred. "For he
has put his salvation in the world rather than in God or the spirit, as the
case may be, and the one necessarily excludes the other. That seems to be truly 'against the grain' of
evolutionary progress. Indeed, his would
be among the first books I'd ban, if I had the power."
The viscount guffawed anew, this time less boisterously. "There would be a lot of people in this
country who would oppose any intended proscription of D.H. Lawrence!" he
opined, a mischievous glint of light in his eyes.
"I for one!" asseverated the voice of a young woman. It was Geraldine Handon, who, having taken a
bath, was now dressed for dinner in a pale-green satin dress with complementary
dark-green stockings. Her hair was
pinned-up behind her head, rendering both her neck and a pair of emerald
earrings clearly visible on either side.
She wafted a refreshing scent of sweet perfume into the library.
"I was only alluding to one or two of his books,"
Timothy confessed, blushing at the sudden sight of a female who, though
attractive in herself, was dressed in too autocratic a manner for his tastes.
"He was joking really," Lord Handon declared.
"So I would hope!" Geraldine smilingly remarked. Then, offering the writer her hand, she
added: "Delighted to see you again, Mr Byrne."
