Ultimate Prizes

by Susan Howatch

  It’s a glorious vision, isn’t it? Or so I think now, but when it first unfurled itself I confess I did have grave doubts because I knew very well I felt so lukewarm towards men that I couldn’t quite conceive of ever summoning the desire to marry one of them. I did tell you at the dinner-party, didn’t I, about my lukewarm state, but I wasn’t quite honest with you about my reasons for being anti-man. I said I couldn’t bear the way men regarded me as just a pair of legs, but there’s rather more to my antipathy than that. You see, I’m still recovering from being in love with the wrong man for six years. His name’s Roland Carlton-Blake. (If I tell you he likes to be known as Rollo you’ll guess at once what kind of a man he is, so I shall merely confirm your suspicions by telling you that before the war he called himself a gentleman of leisure and other people called him a playboy.) Now he’s a soldier in Cairo and as he’s got some sort of desk-job I doubt if he sees any fighting, but I can imagine him passing his leisure hours by riding around the pyramids and pretending to be Rudolph Valentino in The Sheik.

  Why did I fall for this ghastly creature, you ask? Well, primarily for all the usual reasons, he was so handsome, so glamorous, he rode to hounds so beautifully, and life always seemed to be so gay and amusing when he was around, but the real reason why I liked him was that he never tried to jump on me and I appreciated this so much that I began to believe he really did love me for myself and not just for my legs. So I wound up thinking: That’s the one man I could bear to marry—I shouldn’t even mind if he was disgusting when he was having sex—because quite frankly, I don’t see how men can avoid being disgusting when they have sex, so the great thing is not to mind when they do.

  Anyway, earlier this year before he was posted to Egypt I decided to propose to him. After all, it was obvious after six years that he wasn’t going to do it, so I proposed and then he told me he was in the midst of an affair with an actress.

  As a matter of fact I knew her, she was rather nice, but when I found out I felt absolutely crushed, and I said to Rollo: “Why did you never ask me to be your mistress if you’re the kind of man who does that sort of thing?” He just laughed. He said: “You’d have said no and slapped my face!”—which was actually true, as I can never see the point of coming second (being a mistress) when one can come first (being a wife). I’ve always thought fornication was a dead-end career for a woman, almost as futile as lesbianism.

  Very indignantly I said to Rollo: “All right, I admit I wouldn’t have been your mistress, but I could have been your wife and then you wouldn’t have had to skulk around fornicating in such an undignified manner.” Oh, how cross he was when I said that! “I’m always very dignified when I fornicate!” he cried indignantly. “All my mistresses consider me a paragon of discretion!” “All your mistresses?” I shouted. “You mean you’ve had others?”

  Oh Mr. Aysgarth, you’ll think me very naive, especially as I’m a Society Girl who’s supposed to be the last word in sophistication, but you see, I loved him and love is blind and I wanted so much to believe he was pure and noble behind his dashing facade, quite different from all the other men in the world, who appear to see me as a cross between a cream-cake and an ice-cream cornet. Even Father, who’s so well-behaved with his mistresses, only having one at a time and never in the same city as Mother—even Father and my brothers seem to see me as no more than a box of chocolates whenever they take time off from their full varied interesting lives to remind themselves of my existence. How I wish I’d been born a man! Gender’s such a prison sometimes, especially when one wants one’s new true self to be recognised and respected.

  Anyway, to return to Rollo, I said: “How would you feel if I were to tell you that I’d been sleeping with everyone in sight for six years despite the fact that I’d regularly been saying that I loved no one but you?” And Rollo said as if I was being very stupid: “Oh, that wouldn’t have been playing the game at all! A man with mistresses is just living a normal life. A woman with lovers is just being a slut. That’s the way of the world, isn’t it?” At which point I drew myself up to my full height and looked him straight in the eyes and declared: “Your world, perhaps. But not mine.”

  I told him I never wanted to see him again, but the awful part was I did want to, I missed him terribly, and it was just as well he was sent to Egypt or I might have weakened. I still loved him even though I could see he was just a selfish lout with the brains of a flea. I thought: That’s the last straw—I’ve lost first Laura and now Rollo, why don’t I just fling myself in the Thames? But I couldn’t bear the thought of being a failure and anyway I’m not the suicidal type, so I staggered on day after day until finally I had a big stroke of luck: I met Charlotte Ottershaw when I was transferred to the Starmouth Naval Base, and as soon as she started talking about her father the Bishop I saw my salvation. It was the Church of England. I thought: There’s where I can find a man who’s good and noble and pure, who won’t see me just as a box of chocolates and who’ll never betray me with someone else! Clergymen have to be virtuous because it’s all part of the job, and so adultery and fornication would be absolutely OUT.

  Well, Archdeacon dear, I knew at once that I’d had a revelation and I was fearfully excited because I thought I could see the way ahead at last, but then I started feeling depressed again because I realised I knew nothing, beyond a few random facts, about the C. of E. and absolutely nothing about theology and philosophy and all the earnest things good pure noble men talk about. So I told myself that I’d got to find someone who’d teach me what I needed to know because my good pure noble man would at least expect his wife to be able to talk church-language intelligently, it would be a sort of minimum requirement for the job. I think I’m actually quite clever, though it’s a wonder I ever learnt anything from Blackboard. Father thought education for women was a waste of time and Mother thought it was positively harmful so I suppose I’m a victim of a bizarre form of child-neglect, but although I expect I often appear quite scatterbrained I’m not really stupid at all.

  So now that you’ve agreed to be my Guide, Philosopher and Friend I must urge you not to assume I’m a fool and water down your erudition accordingly. I want to know everything, even the difficult bits. Can we start with the Church itself? I’d be so grateful if you could give me some information about the most important people, the sort of information which isn’t in Who’s Who—although I had such a fascinating time with Who’s Who the other day, I looked up the Archbishop of Canterbury and I think it’s so extraordinary that his father was Archbishop of Canterbury too—I wonder what the odds are against such a thing happening? It makes the Temples into a sort of dynasty, doesn’t it, and fancy Frederick being over sixty when William was born, maybe more men should take up religion so that they can keep bounding around when rakes like Rollo are chairbound with gout and hardened arteries.

  I think William Temple will be a tremendous Archbish, he’s so substantial, isn’t he, and I don’t just mean in weight. He’s so human and sympathetic, not like that pompous old prig Archbishop Lang who was so beastly to the Prince of Wales. Now, what I want you to tell me is this: What does William Temple think? Someone said he was a Christian Socialist and someone else said his thought is a blend of Hegelian Dialectic and Platonic Idealism. I’ve heard of Plato (just) but who or what is Hegelian? It sounds like a kind of cloth—or possibly a very grand butler—and the syllables have such a thrillingly sumptuous ring. Write soon, I implore you, and expound on these esoteric mysteries to your most grateful disciple,

  DIANA DOROTHEA TALLENT.

  Much amused I immediately picked up my pen and seized the chance to divert myself from the problems I was unable to face.

  7

  I thought she would soon lose interest in the intellectual aspects of the Church, but her desire to learn persisted until I could only conclude her interest was genuine. I kept my explanations simple, in the belief that clarity is more important to beginners than complex detail, and I did make an effort not to talk down to her
. Again Dido responded with gratitude.

  … and thank you so much for explaining about divine Hegel—I was enrapt and shall now see everything in terms of thesis, antithesis and synthesis. My personal thesis was the frivolous Society Girl, my antithesis is the serious-minded student thirsting for enlightenment, but what will my synthesis be??? No, don’t answer that question, just go on telling me what churchmen think—or rather, think. (When people think, it might only be about the weather, but when they think, it can only be about things that are vital.)

  Charlotte says you’re a Protestant, not a Catholic, which is most confusing as I thought the whole point of the Reformation in England was that we got rid of the Catholics, said “Yah!” to the Pope and lived happily ever after as the Protestant Church of England. Why are these Catholics still around? Anyway I’m glad you’re a Protestant—Protestant services are so deliciously austere and I’ve never been keen on all those flamboyant candlelit genuflections and horrid smells which the Church of Rome finds so essential.

  Charlotte also said you were a Liberal Protestant, which sounds so enlightened, though I’m told “Liberal” in religion isn’t the same as “Liberal” in politics, which is just as well since the political Liberals are nearly extinct. Finally Charlotte said you were a Modernist, which sounds thrillingly wild and abandoned, like those artists who throw a pot of paint at the canvas and call the result A Sunny Afternoon in the Bois de Boulogne. Now, Archdeacon dear, do tell: What do all these exotic Church labels really mean?

  By this time I was so enjoying the task of expanding her intellectual horizon that I savoured her letter for an entire week while I reflected on my reply. Finally after a friendly opening paragraph I wrote:

  … and now let me address myself to your enquiries. The Reformation did indeed re-form the Church in England into the Church of England, but although Catholicism was greatly purged during the following decades it was never eliminated. It had a strong resurgence in the last century (the phenomenon was known as the Oxford Movement) and even today, although most of the Church is Protestant, there is a powerful, vocal and influential Anglo-Catholic minority. The pertinent word here is “Anglo.” They’re our own home-grown breed of Catholics, loyal to the Church of England and owing no allegiance to the Pope. However, they’ve become increasingly keen on the idea of reunion with Rome, a pipe-dream which I’m bound to say I believe to be not only Utopian but misguided.

  This Anglo-Catholic group is known as the High Church party. Opposite them on the other wing of the Church are the Protestant Evangelicals, also known as the Low Church party, another powerful and vocal group, which unfortunately has suffered from indifferent leadership during this century. This no doubt helps to explain how the Anglo-Catholics have managed to grab power in so many important places, but the Evangelicals will rise again and put the Anglo-Catholics back in their place, of that I’m quite sure. Catholicism is fundamentally alien to the British temperament. The tradition of the stiff upper lip, the modest understatement and the horror of foreigners is incompatible with a tradition of embarrassing emotion, ritualistic excesses and the ethos of Southern Europe.

  In between these two militant wings lie the middle-of-the-road moderates who constitute the majority of church-goers. The services I conduct are aimed at this majority although I do incline to Low Church practice. Certainly nothing would induce me to dabble with incense, auricular confession, perpetual reservation of the Sacrament or any other cause so dear to the Anglo-Catholic heart.

  I should perhaps explain here that the Evangelicals play down the importance of the Liturgy (the centrepiece of Anglo-Catholic worship) and play up the importance of the Bible and the sermon. Non-Conformist Evangelicals (those Protestant sects which don’t belong to the Church of England, such as the Methodists and the Baptists) can be fatally bibliolatrous (that is to say, they often believe every word of the Bible to be literally true) but in the Church of England, which places such a high value on enlightened scholarship, I’m glad to say that such a crude approach to religious truth is rare. Although I’m a Low Churchman by inclination I have always insisted that my religion be compatible with the best modern scholarship—and that, my dear Miss Tallent, brings me to MODERNISM.

  Modernism cuts across all parties in the Church of England. It also existed in the Roman Catholic Church (in a far more extreme form, I may add, than it existed among the Protestants) but the trend was exterminated by Papal decree earlier in this century. In other words, it’s as possible to be a High Church Modernist as it is to be a Low Church Modernist. Modernism is less a creed than an attitude of mind.

  In short, we believe in reinterpreting Christianity in the light of modern knowledge. Consequently we welcome all scientific advances—in geology, anthropology, psychology, chemistry, physics and so on—and use them as a springboard to an expanded spiritual enlightenment. This leads, inevitably, to the expression of theological views which startle conservative people in all parties of the Church and scandalise the ordinary layman—with the result that Modernists are occasionally accused of heresy. This is usually quite unjustified. All genuine Modernists (and here I discount the eccentric crackpots who give the movement a bad name) hold fast to the Divinity of Christ, the Resurrection and the concept of Eternal Life. They are therefore orthodox believers. But exactly how Jesus was the Son of God and in what manner he was resurrected and in what sense one is to interpret “Eternal Life”—these are questions which the Modernists hold are open to constant revision in the light of modern knowledge. For example, Modernists don’t believe in miracles; they don’t believe in anything which contradicts the scientific order. But they still believe that Jesus was the sort of man whom people believed capable of performing miracles; they still believe in the absolute centrality of Christ to the Christian faith.

  Because the Modernist movement is based on an attitude of mind and not a creed, there’s a large amount of disagreement among us. Some Modernists believe that women should be ordained, for example, but in my opinion such a view is too extreme. I always take care to be moderate and sensible in my Modernism so as not to give needless offence to my superiors. It’s well known that Raven’s support of the ordination of women has cost him a bishopric. When extreme views are under consideration, one always has a moral duty to discern where to draw the line.

  To sum up, my moderate Modernism complements the so-called Liberal Protestant theology which evolved among enlightened Victorians. I believe (and this belief chimes with Darwin’s work) that the world is evolving steadily in accordance with God’s purpose for mankind, a purpose which is fundamentally good and benign. I believe that sin and evil aren’t as important as man’s basic goodness, the goodness which is exemplified for all time by Our Lord Jesus Christ I believe that God is immanent in this world and that the Holy Spirit is present as a spark in every member of mankind.

  Because of my adherence to such beliefs I strongly disapprove of the new school of theology which is trying to displace the glory and the nobility and the intellectual quality of Liberal Protestantism with an anti-intellectual, pessimistic, degrading approach to God’s creation. This neo-orthodox school (I use the word “neo-orthodox” because the theology is in some ways a barbarous reversion to old-fashioned Calvinism) is also known as the theology of Crisis (the word “Crisis” being used in a somewhat technical sense and meaning that we’re all undergoing the ordeal of awaiting God’s judgement). It emphasises mankind’s sin and misery and says that God isn’t immanent but utterly transcendent, quite unknowable by man. Meanwhile the role of Christ is played down; he merely becomes a salvation event. How repellent! Instead of the forgiveness and compassion of Christ we’re offered the judgement and punishment of God; instead of the Christian message of hope we’re offered a vision of hell and despair. Yet this “neo-orthodoxy” is a rising tide, thriving on the suffering and guilt produced by two world wars. God is seen not putting himself at one with us out of love and compassion but standing over and above us as He plays the stern
father and metes out the punishment. All I can say is that to those of us who are revolted by the concept of stern fathers meting out punishment, this theology is utterly nauseating.

  And now, Miss Tallent, if you’re still conscious after my diatribe against neo-orthodoxy, I shall end this sermon by apologising for writing to you at such length. Should you, however, be interested in hearing more about Liberal Protestantism, I can describe in my next letter the thought of the quintessential Liberal Protestant of the twentieth century, Dr. Charles Earle Raven, a former Canon of Liverpool Cathedral who’s currently Regius Professor of Divinity at Cambridge and Master of Christ’s College. As I’ve already mentioned, his more extreme flirtations with Modernism are best ignored, but his general credo is one with which I find myself profoundly in sympathy …

  I thought that having wheeled on the heavy intellectual artillery I might have reduced Dido to a bemused silence, but never was I more mistaken. Replying by return of post she embraced my cannon-fire with delight.

  … and I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for taking the time and the infinite trouble to introduce me to this new world where I feel sure my future husband is lurking behind some Liberal-Protestant-Modernist bush! What a romantic name Charles Raven is! I feel he ought to be a hero in a novel by Elinor Glyn. Is he handsome? And how old is he? More details, please—oh, and when you write back, could you explain what difference there is, if any, between “idealism” and “Idealism” with a capital I? Liberal Protestants sound beautifully idealistic, so romantic, but on the other hand William Temple, who is said to be a Platonic Idealist (among other things), must need to be very down-to-earth and unromantic as he’s the Archbishop of Canterbury and obliged to deal with all the cynical politicians. What is this Idealism which belongs to Plato? Explain, please!