Chapter 4
NEXT DAY being Sunday, Matthew decided as soon as he was awake that he would go to church. There was an impulse of refuge-seeking in this idea, for he had had a disturbed unpleasant night, waking in the grey dawn from a nightmare of the girl’s broken body that hung straddling a fence, with black blood pouring from it, and he could neither run away nor take his eyes off it. He lay awake, frightened at first by the singing of the birds, which seemed to be resounding in a bare, damp, grey place, the wood of the self-murderers, extended in his head; he lay still in misery for almost half an hour until the sky cleared and the sun rose, and then he fell asleep again. When he woke for the second time he felt tired and oppressed.
Harry had told him the night before that he’d be gone when Matthew woke up; he was going to preach in Silminster. Matthew wished he’d got up earlier and gone with him. But the church would do; it would have to. Such a craving he had for order now, and stability! He had not set foot willingly in a church for years – not when there was a service on, at any rate – but this morning the thought of singing psalms and hearing prayers spread over his senses like balm.
The morning outside was bright and cloudless and windy; he shaved and dressed quickly and went downstairs. The clock in the hall said it was nearly ten o’clock. Mrs. Parrish had made him some breakfast and left it in the oven to keep warm, and he ate it in the kitchen, staring dreamily through the window on to the back garden.
He washed up carefully when he had finished and then wandered outside. He supposed that they still held services at eleven o’clock, but perhaps he had better set off and find out. He went out into the road and turned up towards the village. He dawdled; the warmth of the sun on his head kept slowing him down to a standstill, and he felt as weak on his knees as a newborn calf. For the matter of that, everything felt newborn and unfamiliar. He could not give a name to a single one of the wildflowers and grasses that grew by the side of the road. He felt small in the face of the world.
On the right-hand side of the road he passed the great yard of Locke and Son. It used to be the firm’s headquarters, but nowadays most of the large construction work was carried on from Silminster, leaving the Barton yard free for smaller contracts and carpentry work. It looked this morning as clean and tidy as if it had just sprung naturally out of the earth, like a huge flower or a tree; and, like a tree, there was something powerfully organic about the way it functioned and rested. The piles of timber and bricks, the fleet of lorries with the firm’s name on them in black and red, the neat offices and sheds – there was order there, and it was visible and clear. Matthew lingered for a long time, staring through the screen of trees that separated it from the road, marvelling at it.
He got to the church at a quarter to eleven and looked at the notice-board by the lych-gate. He didn’t recognise the vicar’s name; he only vaguely remembered the man who’d been here when he was a child and had gone to the Sunday School. The church itself was not especially beautiful, but it was old and untouched and fairly small. The graveyard rose steeply behind it and bordered a green field, where sheep were grazing and where a hawthorn hedge led up and across the brow of the tiny hill. The weather was exhilarating. The sky was clear one minute and half-covered with huge dazzling billowing white clouds the next, that raced and swept across the whole intense blueness of it and disappeared. The sun was warm, except when a cloud crossed it momentarily, and the air was fresh and cool.
Matthew leant on the wall until the bell began to ring, and then wandered slowly inside.
He sat in a pew at the back of the church, on the right hand side next to a window, and watched the rest of the congregation come in. There were not many of them, naturally; a few old ladies, a smartly-dressed man who might have been a doctor or a lawyer and his wife, two or three other middle-aged couples, and that was all. Matthew thought he recognised some of them, but he was not sure, and in any case no-one seemed to know him. He sat still, feeling oddly peaceful.
As the organist began to play a prelude he realised that he would not, after all, find much of an answer here, if he had ever really expected to. It was all too familiar and ordinary. Salvation lay in extremes, in things like that murder, even, and unless the vicar was a saint or a madman he wouldn’t find it here.
Then from the back of the church the vicar’s voice announced the first hymn; and immediately Matthew felt a small obscure shock, and involuntarily turned round. He saw a small man, slightly balding, looking mild and preoccupied, whom he’d certainly never seen before. It was his voice that puzzled Matthew, because it was loud and rich, and intensely melodious, almost the voice of an actor.
He stood up with the rest of the congregation and sang dutifully as they did. It was a short hymn, and when it was over and they were kneeling down Matthew was astonished again at the volume and richness of the man’s voice, reading the prayers. It was not a “parsonic” voice, over-ripe with self-admiration and piety; but it rang out like a bell, effortlessly powerful. “He should have been an actor,” thought Matthew, wondering at it.
It formed a great contrast with his appearance: for he looked ill-at-ease, absent, even slightly nervous. His eyes were very light in colour and made him look half-blind and a little weak. He was not looking at the prayer-book, but staring obliquely down the church, with an uncertain frown on his forehead every now and then.
As the service went by the sun crept round and a beam fell through the window beside him on to Matthew’s side, warming him and causing red and green pools of light to shimmer and coalesce on the wood of the pew in front of him. They sang the psalms, and recited the creed, and sang another hymn which the vicar did not join in, rather to Matthew’s surprise. “Perhaps he’s tone-deaf and doesn’t like to throw everyone off their pitch,” he thought; “but he ought to sing well, with that voice.” And then the vicar went to the pulpit and arranged his notes, and waited impatiently for the hymn to end.
He opened the Bible before the congregation had sat down and began to read his text. He read a sentence from St. John which Matthew didn’t recognise: “He that loveth his life shall lose it; and he that hateth his life in this world shall keep it unto life eternal.” Then, without any other preamble, he went straight into an extraordinary, rambling, wandering maze of a sermon that worked itself up into a vivid excess of passion. Matthew listened greedily.
“You will have noticed that whenever we talk about the entry of God into the world we use the word descent. Christ, we are told, descended into the world; but we don’t perhaps consider as often as we should what this word descent implies. Quite evidently we don’t believe that God is up there in the sky; it is a spiritual height from which he descends, and spiritual depth which receives him. When we say that a man is in the spiritual depths, we mean that he is rotten and sick with anguish for himself and for his life in the world. These are the spiritual depths; and it was to this that the Christ descended – otherwise the phrase has no meaning.”
He said this briskly and decisively, like a barrister; Matthew settled back and listened carefully.
“Once we see this clearly there can be no question of our complacent mouthings about there being no God ‘out there’ – about God being nowhere but in our hearts and affections for our fellow men, and so on; none at all. Why should we love each other, after all’? Is there anything noble in us? All humanity is darkness, darkness; the forms of your mind are the forms of darkness – that darkness which perceived not the light that shone in it; we are clogged with darkness and the forms of darkness, and their number is legion: pride; anger; lust; envy; greed; sloth; and avarice – the classical seven, and a host of others: indifference; fear; ambition; vanity; passion for smallness, for small things, a love for the mean, the petty, the perverse, the temporary, the trivial; the craving for popularity, the urge to be pleasant and the urge to be treated pleasantly, yes, dark ness; nostalgia, sadness, melancholy; and hope, expectation, joy, pleasure and even kindness, curiosity, frankness, timidity; the refusal to bear burdens and the refusal to share burdens, because there are some men in whom the flames of pride burn so highly that they will not give any hint of suffering, and it is a form of darkness thus to cling jealously to one’s own afflictions as surely as it is a form of darkness to spread the germs of plague throughout the world by a hasty, panic impulse to run to one’s fellows, cry, weep, embrace strangers, kiss men and women indiscriminately out of fearful lust and the fear of imminent death; and because darkness, darkness, darkness is everywhere it is dark ness to discourse of these things, doubtless, it is folly, ignorance, and sin to make them known, folly, ignorance, and sin to know of them in secret and say nothing, folly, ignorance, and sin not to know of them at all…”
His voice had become louder; he was speaking almost wildly now, and his voice filled the church and seemed to echo back and forth like a peal of bells. Matthew was overawed. The priest was rocking gently from side to side, his eyes half-closed, the tight intense frown still gripping his brow, his hands spread wide on the pulpit rail.
“They are all – desires. They are all – a greed for the world; and we lust for the world because it is beautiful, oh, it is sodden with beauty like a sponge with vinegar; there is no truth in it, and there is no health in us. Consider what it is in the world that we love.”
He paused again and swallowed, and passed his hand over his eyes, and then leant forward and began to speak again, softly at first and then working up to a climax.
“The sky, first of all; the blue sky, the sun in it and the moon and the stars; the clouds, white, grey, and black; the rain, snow, hail, sleet, thunder, lightning, the rainbows and the haloes around the sun and the moon in strange weather; the mountains and the hills, criss-crossed by valleys and streams and glaciers, overhung with snow or mist or blossoming with spring flowers and green grass; the song of the birds, the lark and the nightingale and the blackbird and the thrush, and the screech of the owl by night; the midnight flitting of the bat, the flight of eagles into the sun, the slow flapping of the crow and the quick dart of sparrows; and the trees, the clear brightness of the larch and the venerable grey of the oak, the dull deep green of elms, the tender lightness of the silver birch and the rich wine-coloured darkness of the copper beech, the straight serried sombreness of pine-trees and the grace of cherry-blossom, of apple blossom; and there are the forms rock takes, the massive grey monolithic granite and the red sandstone, there is chalk with its dazzling whiteness, and near chalk often you find flint, opaque but nearly translucent, like smoky chipped glass, falling in flakes; slate, too, splitting in dark slabs away from the mountain-side; limestone, lava, silt, mud, sand, shingle; rock, piled in confusion, caves, cliffs, scree, wilderness, avalanche, hurled far out pinnacle upon pinnacle surmounted by trails and curtains of snow; the water falls dashing down the cliffs and gullies, leading down again deep into secluded corners, dark unsurveyed pockets and folds, hidden, descending inwards to huge caverns with the drip of water laden with minerals, the stalactites and stalagmites gleaming, their slow growth like teeth into the darkness, and further, ledges, dizzy chimneys and passages, needle-thin, tortuous, intent on their depth, opening out to unseen vast chambers, cathedrals, underground lakes innocent of fish, oh, innocent of life but for the blind gropings and yearnings of soft-bellied creatures without names and the sway of primitive slime at the water’s edge...”
The flow ceased for a second; his face was creased as if in pain, his fists were clenched, and Matthew saw sweat starting on his forehead. The silence in the church was profound. The priest’s voice had never faded or faltered once, but plunged majestically onwards like the course of a river in flood, powerful and a little terrifying. For no reason at all Matthew wondered suddenly if he had heard about the murder, and if he had, what he thought about it… The priest continued.
“And man in the midst of nature, intent on his lusts and their trivial satisfactions – man loves the world, and we call it natural that he should; man hates God, and we would call it unnatural if he did not. This is where we have come to, following our instincts downwards, like water; into the depths. And we are exhorted to take comfort in each other! We are encouraged to call ourselves immortal! This is Satanic irony; for man, man, is no more remarkable, truly, than the lowliest worm in the muddiest pond – no more godly – no more noble; he is only an object of love, of craving; and a form of darkness.”
Abruptly he stopped. He had been speaking for nearly fifteen minutes. His voice had risen in the latter part of his sermon to a kind of hysterical sing-song, and as he enumerated his lists of the forms of darkness he beat unconsciously on the pulpit rail, emphasising the rhythm of the words with a sound like muffled hammer blows on a coffin, or like the heart of the world itself beating faster under the onslaught of his condemnation. The men and women in the church were obviously a little taken aback by the sermon – either that, or angry, or irritated, for Matthew saw people turn to one another and whisper as the flood of words came to an end. Matthew himself was both wondering how far the priest’s disgust with the world really went and trying to fathom the depths of the expression on his face. For as he said the last words, “and a form of darkness,” his lips came together sensually and his eyes opened halfway, and he looked suddenly obscene – as if he were lapped in a drugged sexual ecstasy – while all the time there hovered around his eyes and mouth the shadows of a distant, satisfied cynicism.
He said a few more words, indifferently, with such sudden lack of interest that Matthew could not even make sense of them, and then turned almost theatrically – “flounced,” – Matthew thought – to face the altar, and muttered swiftly “And now to God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost…” and swung round again to announce the last hymn.
As he left the pulpit and went to the altar for the last prayers he seemed much more in command of himself than he had been at the beginning of the service, when Matthew had felt a kind of pity for his apparent nervousness. Now he looked oddly just like a woman who was sexually aroused: his eyes were bright, startlingly light and clear, and his cheeks a little flushed. His movements were brisk, cold, and offhand. He gave the collection-plate to the sidesman and followed him down the aisle to the vestry, ignoring Matthew’s gaze but seeming to acknowledge it by the secretive, self-centred, narcissistic smile that constantly showed itself and vanished at the corners of his mouth.
“I’ll go and speak to him,” Matthew thought, “I’ll go and ask him – it’ll be something done – Christ, yes, it’ll be a movement, I’ll be doing something for once.”
The priest did not go into the porch to say good-morning to the congregation, but stayed in the vestry for so long that Matthew wondered if he had gone out of the church by another door. Eventually, however, when everyone but the sidesman and Matthew had gone, he came out, still wearing his cassock, and still with the peculiar expression half of desire and half of satisfaction on his face.
Matthew stood up and stepped out of the pew, and the priest stopped in surprise.
“Good-morning!” he said. “We haven’t seen you here before, have we?”
Matthew was uncertain what to say, but the man’s tone was friendly enough. At close quarters, he looked even more like an actor, for some reason – there was a kind of over emphasis about his features, which was hard to pin down – but his eyes, which Matthew now saw were a very light shade of greyish-blue and slightly protruberant, did not seem to carry as much theatricality as his nose, mouth, and chin; they were withdrawn, dreamy, even mystical. Something in his face, close to, prompted a dim memory in Matthew, perhaps of a dream, but something far-off and strange – at any rate, he’d spoken, and was waiting for an answer.
“No, not here – well, not for a long time, that is,” Matthew said. “I used to come here when I was a boy. I’m staying with my great-uncle at the moment. Have you been vicar here for long?”
“Two years or so, I think – two years at Whitsun, it’ll be. My name is Cole, Canon Cole: do I know your great-uncle, I wonder?”
“Mr. Locke, of Locke and Son, the elder Mr. Locke. But I don’t think he’s one of your parishioners; I mean, I don’t think he comes to church, because he preaches at chapels.”
“Ah yes! He’s quite famous, you know. I have met him, but as you say, he doesn’t come –”
“Forgive me for saying so,” burst in Matthew impatiently, “but I felt I had to speak to you after hearing your sermon – I was fascinated – what you said about the gap between God and the world, it struck me as being so extraordinary that I couldn’t help waiting behind to ask you to tell me more about it. I know it’ll probably strike you as a waste of time; but I don’t want an immediate course of free lectures, or anything; you must be very busy and as I don’t even live here I’ve got no claim on your time at all. But if you could spare me a few minutes one day this week, perhaps, or anytime you can, I’d be very grateful… You see, I’ve got a sort of God-mania, or religion-mania, that troubles me, and I’ve a feeling I’ll get more help from priests than from doctors… would you mind very much?”
He spoke in a low voice, hoping that the old sidesman, who was gathering prayer-books from the pews and straightening the hassocks, would not hear him; he felt harassed, too, by the figure he could see seated in the porch: the church door was slightly ajar. The Canon. Frowning, stared at the ground, his forefinger pressed thoughtfully along his cheek. After a second he said:
“Mmm… what is your name?”
“Matthew Cortez.”
“Cortez – is it Spanish? Yes; mmm…Certainly I can spare the time, I would be glad to… time! Certainly! But tell me, what do you think of God now? Why did the – er – disunity I mentioned ring true for you? You believe in God, do you?”
“Yes! That’s not the problem! The problem is, why does He seem to be dead? It’s a religious problem, I suppose, but it’s also a philosophical problem, and a historical problem, and probably an economic problem as well for all I know, and a physiological and biological problem too; but why is it? Why? If I sound hysterical, I’m sorry; there’s nothing worse than being talked at by a neurotic. But you see, I’ve decided to make a move; outwards, that is, from myself to this hidden God; and I don’t know where He is. So if you could explain your own conception of God to me I’d be able to see a little more clearly, perhaps.”
“Yes, yes, that’s excellent, I see that plainly. Now look –” he took out a little leather diary from an inside pocket and looked through it, muttering “Monday – Tuesday – no – Wednesday? Would you like to come to the Rectory on Wednesday evening – you know where it is, do you? – say at eight o’clock, after supper? The evening is the best time, perhaps…I find it easier to think in the evenings.”
He made a note and put the diary back in his pocket.
“‘Thank you,” said Matthew, feeling at a loss for words all of a sudden. “It’s very kind of you.”
“That’s quite all right,” said the Canon quietly, moving towards the door. “On Wednesday evening, then...” He opened the door and let Matthew go through into the porch. The sunlight lay like a golden dust-sheet over half the stone floor and over the seat along the right-hand side, and sparkled brilliantly where it caught the glass front of the notice-board. The square patch of sky he could see ahead was so intensely blue that his eyes dazzled for a second and he blinked, and he felt the fresh wind on his face, chilly and exhilarating… and then he saw who it was who was sitting there, and nearly fainted.
He heard the Canon say “My daughter, Elizabeth” – but instantly and more completely than he would ever have believed possible he was transported back to that wild beach with all its dreamlike intensity and felt, swirling around him like clouds of fire, the same, indisputably the same impulse of passion that had enveloped him then. “I can’t let it go,” he thought, “not this time! I’ll make love to her, I’ll take her away, I’ll tell her everything! “ And, conscious of the desperate and imperative need to act, act decisively, he stepped forward and shook her hand as if they’d never set eyes on each other before, although his heart was beating furiously and his legs could hardly support him.
She was wearing a white sweater and dark velvet trousers; her hair was tied loosely with a grey silk ribbon at the back of her neck, and she looked cool and self-possessed, almost indifferent, as she took his hand. She looked, in fact – and it was the complete and total opposite of what she’d been before, and of how he had pictured her ever since – sophisticated; but all around her slim figure there hovered ghosts, dishevelling her hair, wetting her face, her checks, her neck with rain and tears, making the outline of her body waver and flow like a flame, so that he longed to hold it in his hands, to contain it, and, pressing it to his breast, to defy darkness and the devil and time to come between them again.
She stood up to shake his hand and make the pretence of being introduced, of talking politely about the weather; but inside she was trembling with fear and joy. She felt utterly naked, as if not only her clothes but her body too and her habits and her personality and her memory, everything, had been suddenly whirled away in the April wind – everything but the fragile, obstinate nerve-pattern she thought of as her soul – everything but the very centre of her: and that be longed irrevocably to Matthew.
Matthew! Matthew Cortez! She knew his name at last! But it was so unreal to see him! He seemed more tense and cold than she remembered, and his eyes, wider and more penetrating; but then, she thought, as she walked with her lather down the path to the lych-gate and they said good bye for the moment, what did she look like? Had she borne the separation faithfully? And would he tell her?