The Book and the Brotherhood

  Jenkin, though so old a friend, remained for Gerard a source of fascinated, sometimes exasperated, puzzlement. Jenkin’s house was excessively orderly, minimally and randomly furnished, and often felt to Gerard cheerless and somehow empty. The only real colour and multiplicity in the house was provided by Jenkin’s books, which occupied two upstairs rooms, completely covering the walls and most of the floor. Yet Jenkin always knew where each book was. Gerard had always recognised his friend as being, in some radical even metaphysical sense, more solid than himself, more dense, more real, more contingently existent, more full of being. This ‘being’ was what Levquist had referred to when he said of Jenkin, ‘Where he is, he is.’ It was also paradoxical (or was it not?) that Jenkin seemed to lack any strong sense of individuality and was generally unable to ‘give an account of himself’. Whereas Gerard, who was so much more intellectually collected and coherent, felt sparse, extended, abstract by contrast. This contrast sometimes made Gerard feel cleverer and more refined, sometimes simply weaker and lacking in weight. At Oxford Jenkin had, as Levquist approvingly remarked, ‘cut out’ philosophy, and followed linguistic and literary studies throughout his degree. As a schoolmaster he had at first taught Greek and Latin, later French and Spanish. At the polytechnic, and at school, he also taught history. He was learned, but without the will and ambitions of a scholar. He came from Birmingham and Birmingham Grammar School. His father, recently dead, had been a clerk in a factory and a Methodist lay preacher. His mother, also a Methodist, had died earlier. Gerard had used to accuse Jenkin of believing in God, which Jenkin denied. Nevertheless, something remained from that childhood which Jenkin believed in and which made Gerard anxious. Jenkin was a serious man, possibly the most deeply serious man whom Gerard knew; but it was not at all easy to predict what forms that seriousness might take.

  ‘Gerard, do sit down,’ said Jenkin, ‘stop walking round the room and rearranging things.’

  ‘I like walking.’

  ‘It’s your form of meditation, but it should be done in the open air, you’re not in prison yet. Besides, I’m here and you’re bothering me.’

  ‘Sorry. Don’t cook the wine, how many times must I tell you.’

  Gerard removed the wine bottle from the tiles and sat down opposite to his friend beside the fire in one of the upright meagrely upholstered wooden-armed chairs, rumpling with his feet a small Chinese rug which he had given Jenkin several Christmases ago. Jenkin leaned down and straightened the rug.

  ‘Have you decided what you’re going to write?’

  ‘No,’ said Gerard frowning. ‘Nothing perhaps.’

  ‘Plato, Plotinus?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You once said you wanted to write on Dante.’

  ‘No. Why don’t you write on Dante?’

  ‘You translated yards of Horace once. You could translate the whole of Horace into English verse.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘I love your translations. You don’t want to write about your childhood?’

  ‘Good God no!’

  ‘Or about us at Oxford?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, dear boy!’

  ‘It could be a piece of social or political history. What about art? I remember that monograph you wrote on Wilson Steer. You could write about pictures.’

  ‘Only frivolously.’

  ‘A novel then, an intellectual philosophical novel!’

  ‘Novels are over, they’re finished.’

  ‘Why not just relax and enjoy life? Live in the present. Be happy. That’s a good occupation.’

  ‘Oh do shut up –’

  ‘Seriously, happiness matters.’

  ‘I’m not a hedonist. Neither are you.’

  ‘I sometimes wonder – Well, it looks as if you’ll have to write a philosophy book.’

  ‘Let’s leave this subject, shall we?’

  Jenkin did not want, just now, to have an intense conversation with Gerard. There were just certain moves to be gone through, without, he hoped, raising certain subjects. Although he had known Gerard so well for so long he still attempted to manage or construct the conversations which he had with his awkward and sometimes sharp-tongued and touchy friend. Although he was, as they all were, very interested in ‘what Gerard will do’, he felt enough, for a sort of politeness, had been said. If he went on Gerard would become depressed or annoyed. It was obviously a painful topic. Jenkin mostly wanted to tell Gerard about his plan for going on a package tour to Spain for Christmas. Of course Gerard would not want to come because he loved English Christmases. And Jenkin liked travelling alone. He began, ‘I’m thinking of –’

  ‘Have you seen Crimond lately?’

  Jenkin flushed. This was one of the subjects he wanted to keep off. Jenkin had no absolute objection to telling lies, but never told any to Gerard. He said truthfully, ‘No, I haven’t seen him again, not since –’ But he felt guilty. He looked at Gerard, so sleek and collected in his bottle-green jacket, his sculptured face shadowed by the lamp, his eyes narrowed as he looked down into the gas fire. Gerard was smoothing his thick dark curly hair, tucking it back behind his ears. He was uttering an almost inaudible sigh. What is he thinking? Jenkin wondered.

  I hate it that Jenkin sees Crimond, Gerard was thinking. It weakens our position. Though heaven knows what exactly our position is. A position should be a strong point to move from. But what move can we make? God, it’s all got so horribly mixed up and messy.

  ‘Of course we’ll have Guy Fawkes as usual,’ said Jenkin.

  ‘Guy Fawkes. Of course. Gideon will want to send up all the rockets.’

  ‘And then it’ll be time for the reading party and then we’ll be in sight of Christmas.’ It’s like talking to a child, thought Jenkin. The, once or twice yearly, reading parties at Rose’s house in the country had been going on, with a number of longish intervals, ever since they were students. Rose and Gerard had recently revived the custom which had lapsed for a while.

  ‘Oh yes – the reading party –’

  ‘Will you invite Gulliver?’

  ‘Yes.’ Gerard frowned and Jenkin looked away. Gerard felt guilty before Jenkin about Gulliver Ashe. Jenkin had actually said, ‘Don’t lead him up the garden.’ Gerard had, probably, undoubtedly ‘encouraged’ Gulliver, vaguely, not with anything in view, not for any good reason, not for any reason really except that he had looked rather beautiful when Gerard was feeling lonely. Of course nothing happened except that Gerard seemed to be ‘taking him up’ and making him a bit of a favourite. Gerard’s interest had proved ephemeral; what remained were Gulliver’s accusing glances, a resentful air of having rights, a faint impertinence.

  ‘Gull still hasn’t got a job,’ said Jenkin.

  ‘I know!’

  The summer and the autumn had changed many things. Jenkin had been to a summer school and to Sweden on a package tour. Rose had stayed with her father’s relations in Yorkshire and her mother’s relations in Ireland. Gerard had been to Paris, then to Athens to see an archaeological friend, Peter Manson, who was working at the British School. Tamar had unexpectedly given up the university and taken a job in a publishing firm which Gerard had found for her. Of course Gerard had offered Violet financial help, he had offered it in his father’s name, and Violet had rudely refused it. Gerard felt guilty about Tamar, he now felt he ought to have made more effort to discover what was going on. Violet said Tamar was fed up with Oxford, Tamar confirmed this, Gerard, annoyed with Violet, failed to pursue the matter. He had been unhappy and preoccupied at the time, grieving about his father, dismantling and selling the house in Bristol, so full of childhood relics, feuding with Pat and Gideon, worrying about Crimond, worrying about Duncan. Duncan had ostentatiously taken no leave and worked throughout the summer. News of Jean and Crimond was sparse. They were said to be still living in Crimond’s house in Camberwell. They were rumoured to have been to a conference in Amsterdam.

  ‘I hope Duncan will come to the reading party,’ said
Gerard. ‘Christ, I wish I knew what to do about him.’

  ‘There’s nothing to do,’ said Jenkin. Just let determined things to destiny hold unbewailed their way.’

  ‘That’s craven.’

  ‘At the moment, I mean. Duncan obviously isn’t going to make any move. And if we interfere we could just make trouble.’

  ‘You mean get hurt? Are you afraid?’

  ‘Of him? Of course not. I just mean we could mess up further a situation we don’t understand.’

  ‘What don’t we understand? I understand. I just don’t know what to do. If you’re saying that in this modern age adultery doesn’t matter –’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Jean will have to come back to Duncan – I suppose. There’s no life she can lead with that man, he works like a demon all day, he’s crazy really – and she’s a moral sort of person after all –’

  ‘She loves the fellow!’

  ‘That’s nonsense, it’s psychological slavery, it’s an illusion. The sooner she returns the less damage will be done.’

  ‘You think, after a certain time, Duncan might reject her?’

  ‘He could generally detach himself out of self-defence, go cold on her. Why should he suffer so? He’ll drink himself to death.’

  ‘You feel we should help him positively, aggressively if necessary?’

  ‘If we could think how.’

  ‘Gang up on Crimond and beat the hell out of him? He’d like it, he’d play the victim and then take a terrible revenge.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mean that sort of stuff! He wouldn’t like it and we couldn’t do it.’

  ‘I wasn’t serious.’

  ‘Well, be serious.’

  ‘We can hardly go and fetch Jean away by force. You were saying something about Tamar last night, but I didn’t get the hang because Rose came in.’

  ‘Rose is terribly upset about Jean.’

  ‘Is she seeing Jean?’

  ‘No, of course not!’

  ‘I don’t see why she shouldn’t – we have to defend Duncan –’

  ‘She’ll do what we do.’

  ‘But about Tamar – you seemed to think that she could somehow bring Jean and Duncan together again?’

  ‘It’s an intuition. Tamar is a remarkable person.’

  ‘Couldn’t Rose do it?’

  ‘She’s too connected. She hates Crimond. And she and Jean are so close, or were. Jean would hate above all things to be proved wrong by Rose.’

  ‘I see what you mean. Tamar used to see a lot of Jean and Duncan. I remember you said they ought to adopt her! But I don’t fancy involving Tamar, she’s so young.’

  ‘That’s her passport, they couldn’t see her as a judge. She’s got a special integrity. Out of that unspeakable background –’

  ‘Or because of it.’

  ‘She has seen the abyss and stepped away from it, stepped firmly in the other direction – oh how firmly she steps!’

  ‘She’s in search of a father. If you see yourself in that role –’

  ‘Absolutely not. I just thought I’d suggest –’

  ‘Don’t burden her too much. She has a very high regard for you. She’d worry terribly if she wasn’t able to do exactly what you wanted. I expect she’s got enough worries.’

  ‘I think something like this might be just what she needs, a task, a mission, to be a messenger of the gods.’

  ‘You see her as a sort of virgin priestess.’

  ‘Yes. Are you joking?’

  ‘Never in the world – I see her like that too. But look – supposing someone were to say that surely in these days women often leave their husbands for other men and bystanders don’t think this is something intolerable they’ve got to stop at all costs. Why is this case different? Is it because Duncan is like our brother, or because Crimond is exceptionally awful, or –?’ Jenkin here gave Gerard a wide-eyed look which meant that he was putting something out simply for clarification; they had been arguing since they were eighteen.

  ‘Storms gather round that man. Someone could get hurt.’

  ‘You think Duncan might try to kill Crimond? Duncan can bide his time, but he’s violent and fey too.’

  ‘No, but he might have a sudden irresistible urge simply to see Crimond, to argue with him even –’

  ‘And Crimond might kill him, out of fear, or hate –?’

  ‘Men in the wrong hate their victims.’

  ‘Or by accident? You think it’ll end in single combat? Or Crimond might kill Jean, or they’d jump off a cliff together, or –?’

  ‘He likes guns, you remember at Oxford, and Duncan said he was in some rifle club in Ireland, it’s hard luck on him he missed the war, he’d have been dead or a hero, that would have been his aim –’

  ‘I think you’re too obsessed with Crimond’s awfulness. He’s a romantic.’

  ‘We forgive romantics.’

  ‘An âme damnée then.’

  ‘We forgive them too. Don’t make excuses for him, Jenkin!’

  ‘You want your Crimond to be as bad as possible!’

  ‘He likes dramas and ordeals and tests of courage, he doesn’t care if he destroys people because he doesn’t care if he destroys himself –’

  ‘He’s a utopian thinker.’

  ‘Precisely. Unrealistic and ruthless.’

  ‘Oh come – He’s courageous and hard-working and indifferent to material goods and he really cares about deprived people –’

  ‘He’s a charlatan.’

  ‘What is a charlatan? I’ve never understood that concept.’

  ‘He doesn’t care about deprived people or social justice, he doesn’t go anywhere near the real working-class struggle, he’s a self-obsessed theorist, he makes all these things into ideas, into some passionate abstract web he’s weaving –’

  ‘Passion, yes. That’s what attracts Jean.’

  ‘She’s attracted by the danger – by the carnage.’

  ‘A Helen of Troy complex?’

  ‘She likes cities to fall and men to die because of her.’

  ‘You are too unkind,’ said Jenkin. ‘Crimond is a fanatic, an ascetic. That’s attractive enough –’

  ‘For you perhaps. I think you see him as some kind of mystic.’

  ‘Remember how we all once saw him as the modern man, the hero of our time, we admired him for being so dedicated, we felt he was more real than we were –’

  ‘I never felt that. What I do remember was, when someone said he was an extremist, he said, “One must have the support of the young.” That’s unforgivable.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jenkin, and sighed. ‘Still, I’ll never forget seeing him dance that evening last summer.’

  ‘Like Shiva!’

  ‘Weaving his passionate web!’

  ‘Precisely. Crimond’s stuff is just a fashionable amalgam, senseless but dangerous – a kind of Taoism with a dash of Heraclitus and modern physics, then labelled Marxism. The philosopher as physicist, as cosmologist, as theologian. Plato did a good job when he threw out the preSocratics.’

  ‘Yes, but they’re back! I know what you mean and I don’t like it either. But aren’t we now mixing up two separate problems?’

  ‘You mean his private morals and his book. But they aren’t separate. Crimond is a terrorist.’

  ‘That’s how Rose sees him. All the same, he knows an awful lot and he can think. The book may be a great deal better than the slapdash provocative opinions he sometimes utters.’

  ‘Has he shown it to you?’

  ‘No, of course not!’

  ‘Do you plan to meet him?’

  ‘I don’t plan, I just don’t run a mile! We’ve got to see him sometime to ask him about the book.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m going to call the committee, we’ll have to see him –’

  ‘We must get the style right.’

  ‘I think “tone” is the word. You say “ask about the book” – but there’s nothing we can do except curse privately that we’re all
spending our money year after year to propagate ideas we detest!’

  ‘It’s a dotty situation. Jean could support him, but of course he wouldn’t – and it doesn’t alter our obligation.’

  ‘I’m certain he doesn’t touch a penny of Jean’s money.’

  ‘Has the book changed or have we? The brotherhood of western intellectuals versus the book of history.’

  ‘You’re talking his language. There is no book of history, there is no history in that sense, it’s all just determinism and amor fati. Or if there is a book of history it’s called the Phenomenology of Mind and it’s out of date! Or do you think we’ve really given up? Come, come, Jenkin!’

  ‘“What by nature and by training we loved, has little strength remaining, though we would gladly give the Oxford Colleges, Big Ben, and all the birds in Wicken Fen, it has no wish to live”.’

  ‘Don’t quote that at me, dear boy. You don’t think it or feel it.’

  ‘Perhaps it is not only our fate but our truth to be weak and uncertain.’

  ‘You think we are in Alexandria in the last days of Athens!’

  ‘I certainly don’t think we have the right to give away the birds in Wicken Fen, they don’t belong to us. May I have another glass of wine?’

  ‘It’s your wine, dolt, I gave it to you!’

  Gerard stood up as if to go, and Jenkin rose too, looking up at his tall friend and rumpling his wispy strawy hair.

  Gerard said, ‘Why the hell does Duncan have to lose all the time, why is he the one that falls in the river! I wonder what really happened in Ireland –’

  ‘I think we shouldn’t wonder so much,’ said Jenkin, ‘sometimes we try to think in too much detail about other people’s lives. Other people’s consciousness can be so unlike our own. One learns that.’

  Gerard sighed, recognising the truth of this, feeling the inaccessibility to him of Jenkin’s consciousness. ‘What were you up to at that summer school, Jenkin, you’re not going over to God, are you?’