Michael, who had had his first unpleasant shock on seeing James armed with a gun, had at last felt that the practice must be put an end to. Again, he felt surprisingly distressed and not able to put his arguments very clearly. It seemed to him improper that a community of this sort should kill animals. Three of its members, Catherine and the Straffords, were vegetarians on religious grounds, and it seemed, to say the least, in bad taste to confront them continually with the spectacle of slaughtered creatures. Michael knew that Catherine especially was thoroughly upset about it, and he found her once in tears over a dead squirrel. She had in any case an extreme horror of firearms. As time went on Michael began to feel far from democratic, and had at last forbidden gunfire upon the estate pending a full discussion. He realized that he was open to a charge of inconsistency. He advocated mechanization because it was natural in that it increased efficiency, but he opposed shooting as improper, although it too increased efficiency. But in this case he was even more sure of being in the right.
James said, ‘My view is this. We can’t afford to be sentimental. Animals that do serious damage ought to be shot. What we shoot and when and how might need discussing. But after all, as Michael observed a little while ago, we’re seriously in business as market-gardeners. ’ This was as near as James ever came to making a sharp point. He gave Michael a gentle deprecating look as he spoke, to soften the sharpness.
Patchway said, ‘A wood pigeon eats its own weight every day.’
Peter Topglass said, ‘I think the question is not one of efficiency. We’re agreed about that. The fact is that the shooting gives grave offence to some among us.’
Mark Strafford, turning round, said, ‘If it’s the feelings of the animals that are to be considered one might point out that much more distress is caused to a bird by trapping it and ringing it than by shooting it.’ This was a piece of gratuitous polemic, since Strafford was in fact against the shooting too.
Michael, now thoroughly annoyed, said ‘It’s the feelings of the human beings we want to consider.’
‘I don’t see why one side should monopolize the appeal to feeling, ’ said Mark. ‘James and I had very strong feelings about your cultivator.’
There was a disapproving silence. James said ‘Come, come,’ to dissociate himself from the remark.
Michael was now too angry to trust himself to continue. He said ‘Perhaps after all we had better postpone this question again. James has given us his view. Mine is that since a number of people here believe on religious grounds that animal life should be respected we ought, since we profess to be a religious community, to allow this view to prevail, as against a mere consideration of efficiency, even if certain other members don’t hold it. I might add that I also hold the view that members of the community ought not to possess firearms at all, and if I had my way I’d confiscate the lot!’
‘Hear, hear!’ said Catherine in a clear voice, speaking for the first time.
After a silence during which Michael had time to appreciate Catherine’s contribution and to regret his use of the word ‘confiscate’, James said ‘Well, well, you may even be right. I for one would like to think the matter over again. Perhaps we could discuss it in a week or two. And meanwhile no shooting.’
‘Any other business?’ said Michael. He felt tired now and not pleased with himself. He had been catching the eye of young Toby during the last outburst. He wondered what the boy was thinking of them all. How unwise of James to want outsiders at these meetings.
‘I would like to remind everybody about the Bach record recital on Friday evening,’ said Margaret Strafford. ‘I did put up a notice, but I’m afraid people don’t always remember to look at the board.’
With various other trivial admonitions the Meeting broke up. James came up to Michael and began to say placatory things. He was obviously regretting his little piece of controversy. Michael felt emotionally exhausted. He patted James on the shoulder, doing his best to reassure him. He could see from the corner of his eye Peter Topglass lying in wait for him. Peter would certainly have been upset by Mark Strafford’s attack on his bird-ringing. He was sensitive to this particular charge. Michael, wishing to be alone, excused himself from James, had a word with Peter, and walked out onto the balcony.
The good weather was holding. How very large and peaceful the scene was outside. Michael rested his eyes upon it with relief. The sky was a steady blue, washing paler towards the horizon, and a line of small rotund clouds was stretched above the trees which secluded the Abbey from view. The lake was a brilliant yet gentle colour of which it was hard to say whether it was a light blue or an extremely luminous grey. A slight warm breeze took the edge off the heat. To the left along the drive Paul and Dora Greenfield could be seen returning from their walk, Dora’s red dress conspicuous and bright against the grass. They waved. Margaret Strafford, who had been standing down on the gravel with her husband, turned away to go and meet them. Mark Strafford, without looking up, walked slowly the other way towards the estate office. Then suddenly from behind Michael young Toby erupted from the common-room and went past him and down the two flights of steps in three leaps. He set off straight ahead at a run towards the ferry and then slowed to a quick loping walk. He was probably too shy to dally.
Michael walked down the steps. He wanted to avoid the Greenfields who had now stopped and were talking to Mrs Strafford. He began to follow Toby along the path to the ferry. The boy skipped along with an irregular gait, sometimes taking a long jump, his arms swinging wildly. He was wearing his dark grey flannels and an open-necked shirt. His shirt sleeves, escaping from their tight roll, flopped gaily about his wrists. He seemed to Michael a graceful thoughtless animal, without self-knowledge, without sin. Michael quickened his step a little, hoping to come up with Toby before he reached the ferry; but the boy had a long start and had already jumped into the boat and punted violently off before Michael had covered half the distance to the lake. Michael slowed down to a more meditative step, not wishing Toby to think he was anxious to speak with him, for in fact he was not, and had followed the boy half instinctively. Toby, turned now to face the house, waggling the oar vigorously at the back to propel the boat, waved to Michael. Michael waved back and came down to stand on the little wooden landing-stage. The trailing painter of the ferry-boat moved gently in the water at Michael’s feet, drooping from its iron ring. The boat itself came abruptly to land on the other side and Toby leapt out; his departing kick sent the boat bobbing away upon the ripples. Michael lifted the painter and began idly to pull it towards him.
A figure emerged from among the trees opposite and was coming to meet Toby across the open grass. Even at that distance there was no mistaking Nick Fawley. He walked with a characteristic stride of rather aimless determination, his dark head thrust well forward. Michael saw that he was carrying his rifle. The dog Murphy followed him from the shade of the trees and ran ahead towards Toby. The boy bent down to greet the dog, who pranced about him, and then walked on to greet its master.
As Nick came up to Toby he turned and saw Michael watching them from the other side. It was too far for speech, and even a shout would have been indistinct. Nick’s face was a distant blur. For a moment Michael and Nick looked at each other across the water. Then Nick raised his hand in a slow salute, solemn or ironical. Michael released the painter and began to wave back. But Nick had already turned and was leading Toby away. The boat came lazily to a standstill in the middle of the lake.
CHAPTER 7
MICHAEL HAD KNOWN NICK FAWLEY for a long time. Their acquaintance was a curious one, the details of which were not known to the other members of the Imber community. Michael did not share James’s view that suppressio veri was equivalent to suggestio falsi. He had first encountered Nick about fourteen years ago, when Nick was a schoolboy of fourteen, and Michael a young schoolmaster of twenty-five, hoping to be ordained a priest. Michael Meade at twenty-five had already known for some while that he was what the world calls perverted. He had been
seduced at his public school at the age of fourteen and had had while still at school two homosexual love affairs which remained among the most intense experiences of his life. On more mature reflection he took the conventional view of these aberrations and when he came up to the University he sought every opportunity to encounter members of the other sex. But he found himself unmoved by women; and in his second year as a student he began to fall more naturally into the company of those with inclinations similar to his own. What was customary in his circle soon seemed to him once again permissible.
During this time Michael remained, as he had been since his confirmation, a somewhat emotional and irregular member of the Anglican church. It scarcely occurred to him that his religion could establish any quarrel with his sexual habits. Indeed, in some curious way the emotion which fed both arose deeply from the same source, and some vague awareness of this kept him from a more minute reflection. Toward the end of his student days, however, when the conception of perhaps becoming a priest took shape with more reality in his mind, Michael awoke to the inconsistencies of his position. He had been an occasional communicant. It now seemed to him fantastic that he could, in the circumstances, have come to approach the communion table. He did not, for the moment, alter the mode of his friendships, but he ceased to receive the sacrament and went through a time of considerable distress, during which he continued rather hopelessly to do what he now felt the most dreadful guilt for doing. Even the attraction which his religion exercised upon him, his very love for his God, seemed to be corrupted at the source. After a while, however, and with the help of a priest to whom he had confided his difficulties, more robust counsels prevailed. He gave up the practice of what he had come to regard as his vice, and returned to the practice of his religion.
The change, once he had made up his mind, was attended by surprisingly transitory pains. He emerged from Cambridge chastened and, as it seemed to him, cured. Equally far away now were the days of his indifference and the days of his guilt. His love affairs appeared as the étourderies of a much younger man. Michael set his face towards life, knowing that his tastes would almost undoubtedly remain with him, but certain too that he would never again, in any way which could conflict with his now much stricter sense of morality, gratify them. He had passed through a spiritual crisis and emerged triumphant. Now when he knelt to pray he found himself devoid of the guilt and fear which had previously choked him to silence and made of his prayers mere incoherent moments of emotion. He saw himself with a more rational and a more quiet eye: confident of a Love which lay deeper than the contortions of his egoistic and unenlightened guilt, and which worked patiently to set him free. He looked to the future.
After he left Cambridge he spent a year abroad, teaching in a school in Switzerland, and then came back to a post as Sixth Form Master at a public school. He enjoyed the work and was moderately good at it, but after another year had passed he was firmly decided that he wished to be ordained. He consulted various persons, including the Bishop in whose diocese he found himself, and it was agreed that he should complete another year’s teaching, while studying some theology in his spare time, and then enter a seminary. Michael was overjoyed.
The presence in the school of Nick Fawley was something of which Michael had been acutely aware from his first arrival. Nick, then fourteen, was a child of considerable beauty. He was a clever, impertinent boy, who was a centre of loves and hates among his fellows: a trouble-maker and something of a star. His very dark curling hair, which if it had been allowed to grow would have been hyacinthine, was carefully cut to fringe his long face with affectedly waif-like tendrils. His nose tilted very slightly upward. He was pale, with striking dark grey eyes, with long lashes and heavy eyelids, which he kept narrowed, either to increase their apparent length or his own apparent shrewdness, both of which were already considerable. His well-shaped mouth was usually twisted into a mocking grin or pursed in a menacing expression of toughness. He was a master of the art of grimacing and in every way treated his face as a mask, alarming, amusing, or seductive. He put on a sardonic expression in class and hung his long hands ostentatiously over the edge of his desk. The masters doted on him. Michael, while not blind to his qualities, thought him essentially silly. That was the first year.
In the second year Michael saw, owing to the accidents of the time-table, a good deal more of Nick. He became aware too that the boy was directing towards him a more than usual intensity of interest. Nick would sit now in class staring at Michael with an appearance of fascination so bold and unconcealed as to be almost provocative. Yet when questioned he seemed always to be following the lesson. Michael was irritated by what he took to be an impertinent joke. Later on, the boy changed his behaviour, looked down, seemed confused, was less ready with his answers. His expression seemed to have become more sincere, and with that far more attractive. Michael, by now interested, surmised that what Nick had previously feigned for the amusement of his fellows he now perhaps genuinely felt. He was sorry for the boy, thought him now more modest and generally improved, saw him once or twice alone.
Michael was perfectly aware that Nick’s charms were beginning to move him in a way which was more than casual. He knew himself to be susceptible without for a second feeling himself in danger, so confident and happy did he feel in his plans for the future. The fact, too, that he had never before felt attracted in this way by a person so much younger than himself contributed to make him regard his affection for Nick as something rather special but in no way menacing. He felt neither guilt nor distress at the pleasure with which he was now filled by the proximity of this young creature, and when he discovered in himself even physical symptoms of his inclination he did not take fright, but continued cheerfully and serenely to see Nick whenever the ordinary run of his duties suggested it, congratulating himself upon the newly achieved solidity and rational calm of his spiritual life. At prayer the boy’s name came naturally, with others, to his lips, and he felt a painful joy at the contemplation in himself of such a store of goodwill which asked for itself no ordinary reward.
It chanced that Michael’s bedroom, which was also his study, was in a part of the school buildings which was mainly offices and deserted after five o’clock. The door which Michael used opened at the back on to a paddock, now overgrown with small trees and bushes. In this room he kept his books, and boys sometimes came to see him, to continue a discussion or consult a reference. Once or twice after a lesson Nick accompanied him thither, arguing a point or asking a question, and set foot within the door before hurrying off to his next task. He had lately achieved the less restricted status of a senior boy and when free from lessons wandered about at will. It was an evening early in the autumn term, shortly before seven, when Michael working alone in his room heard a knock at his door and opened it to find Nick. It was the first time that the boy had appeared uninvited. He asked to borrow a book and disappeared at once, but it seemed to Michael, looking back, that they had both found it hard to conceal their emotion, and that they had both from that moment known what was bound to happen. Nick came again, this time after supper. He brought the book back, and they talked of it for ten minutes. He borrowed another. It became a custom that he would drop in sometimes in the interval between supper and bed. The gas fire purred in Michael’s small room. Outside were the darkening October evenings. The twilight lingered, the lamp was switched on.
Michael knew what he was doing. He knew that he was playing with fire. Yet it still seemed to him that he would escape unscathed. The whole thing was still, in appearance, innocent, and had a sort of temporary character about it which seemed to reduce its dangers. Until half term, until the end of term. Next term the time-table would be different, Michael might have to move his room. Every meeting was a sort of good-bye; and in any case nothing happened. The boy dropped in, they talked of casual matters, they discussed his work. He read assiduously the books which Michael lent him and obviously profited from the conversations. He never stayed very long.
/> One evening after Nick had come Michael let the twilight linger and darken in the room. Their talk went on as the light faded, and without seeming to notice they talked on into the dark. So strong was the spell that Michael dared not reach his hand out to the lamp. He was sitting in his low armchair and the boy was sprawled on the floor at his feet. Nick, who had stayed longer than usual, stretched and yawned and said he must be off. He sat up and began to make some observation about an argument which they had had in class. As he spoke he laid his hand upon Michael’s knee. Michael made no move. He answered the boy who in a moment withdrew his hand, rose and took his leave.
After he had gone Michael sat quite still for a long time in the dark. He knew in that moment that he was lost: the touch of Nick’s hand had given to him a joy so intense, he would have wished to say so pure, if the word had not here rung a little strangely. It was an experience such that remembering it, even many years later, he could tremble and feel, in spite of everything, that absolute joy again. Sitting now in his room, his eyes closed, his body limp, he understood that it was not in his nature to resist the lure of a delight so exquisite. What he would do or in what way it would be wrong he did not permit himself to reflect. A mist of emotion, which he did not attempt to dispel, hid from him the decision which he was taking: which indeed it seemed to him he had taken by letting Nick, without comment or withdrawal, lay his hand upon him. He knew that he was lost, and in making the discovery knew that he had in fact been lost for a long time. By a dialectic well known to those who habitually succumb to temptation he passed in a second from the time when it was too early to struggle to the time when it was too late to struggle.