After Such Kindness (12 page)

I look at my face in the shaving-mirror – the handsome nose, the fine whiskers, the sleek brown hair – and realize that I hate myself. I’ve hated myself for a long time, but it’s easy to keep unwanted thoughts at bay if you keep hand, brain and eye busy. And I’ve kept very busy. I’m a veritable whirlwind of surplice and cassock. I throw myself with abandon into the matters of the moment, the daily concerns of the physical world that is, and always will be, too much with us. I’m a wonderful man when it comes to action: the committees, the vestry duties, the morning services, the evening services, the Sunday sermons, the visiting of the sick, the celebration of funerals, weddings, baptisms – the whole panoply of rituals that can be so satisfying when you do them well and are duly praised for it. People look at me and think I’m a fine man, a God-fearing man. They grasp my hand with fervour, or murmur a blessing under their breath, and I lap up their good opinion. Truly, the sin of pride rides high with me. But underneath it all, I’m a Doubter.

Looking at myself now – pallid, hollow-eyed – I can deny it no longer. Piece by piece, my faith has fallen away. I’m a hypocrite; standing in the pulpit every Sunday and urging my congregation to live their lives well in the hope of eternal bliss, and yet having no belief myself that such bliss will be forthcoming. I claw pathetically at the idea of Heaven, of which I was once so certain; that I saw reflected in human love and in the wonders of nature. But is there such a place? And was that Jesus of Nazareth, to whom I have dedicated my life, in truth divinely inspired? And is there beyond Him a divine watchmaker who has articulated all the parts of the universe according to a most wonderful plan? Or is everything a product of pure chance, of a rolling evolution that takes care of itself and owes nothing to a Supreme Maker? Is it all chaos, meaninglessness, absurdity? And am I
,
Daniel Baxter
,
absurd to believe in it? Or am I destined to burn for my disbelief, to add forever to the burden of mankind’s sins that Christ died for in agony? I do not know.
I do not know.
I fear I will go mad in my confusion. And I cannot openly speak of it to anyone.

I have tried several times to confide in John Jameson. I’d once hoped for some comfort from a man who is both honest and clever; but I sense increasingly that he shies away from such discussions. He’s happy enough to talk about points of principle, but I don’t feel that he has ever had to endure desperate feelings such as mine. I suspect he is a cold fish under all the cleverness and whimsy. Indeed, he looks uncomfortable when I express doubt about the smallest point of faith, and becomes quite petulant if I persist in more rigorous questioning, saying I am enthusiastic enough in my torments to be a Methodist. At other times he has come close to suggesting that, like Newman, I’m tempted to go over to Rome. Perhaps that reflects the confusion of my own thoughts. Once I took a pride in the sensible pragmatism of the Anglican Church, but now it seems a nothingness, a compromised middle way that has nothing in it of true belief. Perhaps I would do better to strike out and nail my true colours to the mast – but which colours? And what mast?

And John is strangely elusive these days. We no longer meet every week in the old, intimate pattern that was such a comfort to me. He’s become so much a friend of the family now that our private discussions have become more superficial and ad hoc
.
In fact, I sometimes think he spends more time with Daisy than with me. Even Evelina has been forced to entertain him on the many afternoons when I am out on parish business. But when opportunity arises, I still bring my questions to him in the hope that I might find illumination, if not comfort. Only yesterday, as I was struggling with my sermon and John was picking about in my bookcase for a particular illustration of a tropical bird, I found a great heat rise in my breast as I attempted, without success, to find a justification for the concept of Eternal Punishment. I suppose I am unduly sensitive to the concept of damnation, being perhaps so much in danger of it myself. But how could God condemn me to perpetual pain for an honest struggle with my conscience? How could He, who is perfectly good and merciful, deal out a punishment which I myself regard as abhorrent, and would not confer on the worst of my enemies? The more I thought about it, the more wretched I became. ‘How can there be such a thing as Eternal Damnation?’ I cried. ‘Suffering with no hope of reprieve? That is an act of savagery, not of a wise and loving Father. I cannot believe in it. I simply cannot.’

John looked up from his book. ‘In that case, Daniel, you will be denying the sacred truth of the Bible.’

‘Then either the Bible is wrong, or God is wrong, or there is something badly wrong with my conscience,’ I snapped, heedless of the enormity of what I was saying.

John closed his book, put it back on the shelf and considered. ‘I admit it is a problem,’ he said at last. ‘But all religions rely on interpretation, and where a variety of languages are involved, interpretation is at its most unreliable. Perhaps “eternal” is not quite what we think it is. Perhaps in the original Hebrew the word does not mean “for ever” at all.’

If true, I thought, what a solution that would be for so many of the problems that have exercised all our minds for years! ‘But how do we
know
if the word has been misinterpreted?’ I said.

He shrugged. ‘All other answers are contradictions and our religion cannot be a contradiction, can it?’

A great sense of disappointment came over me. I had hoped that he would bring me genuine enlightenment, stop up the hole in the sand into which the grains of doubt were pouring so fast. ‘But everything we believe depends on
words
, John – and if we can juggle with them at will, how can we know the true meaning of anything? We could each gloss our own version of the Bible entirely to suit ourselves! Words must mean what they
say
they mean – they must be immutable and fixed – otherwise we are lost.’

‘Are we?’ He smiled. ‘A reader may have a partial – or incorrect – understanding of the words, but that is not the Bible’s fault. It is certainly not God’s.’

I was exasperated. ‘You might as well contend that the Bible means what it says because it – well – says what it means.’

‘For some people it is the same.’ He looked quietly pleased with himself, but I felt cheated. I’ve always hated that kind of hair-splitting theology. It is passionless and dry; and I want nothing to do with it. I need explanations that are strong and simple – that move the soul. They are what brought me to God in the first place, and they are the only things that will bring me back to Him.

And so every day I long to feel again that first careless rapture when Heaven and Love and Passion and Desire were all overwhelmingly present in my heart; when I woke each day with such a sense of freshness and purpose, my limbs firm, my eyes bright, and my whole body ready to be active in the work of the Lord – and when my love for Christ was entwined and reflected so gloriously in my love for Evelina. Not just because of her beauty, but because she seemed to offer – in her piety, her sweet smile, and the soft movement of her limbs – a way to a better future; a future in which I could be as God intended, and carry out His work.

I’d been a lost soul before I’d met her. I’d gone up to Oxford intending to follow in my father’s footsteps and become a country parson; but it was not my vocation, and certainly far from my choice. Even at school, I had been uncertain of my suitability for a life of probity and restraint, but once at the university, I fell in with dubious companions and proceeded, in my own quiet way, to go to the dogs. I drank too much and I gambled at cards. I did as little work as I could and very often I woke with my head in such a hazy state that I would attempt to clear it by smiting my forehead on the bedpost until the blood ran. The mark would remain with me all day, a fearful reminder of my excess; but if, when night fell, there was nothing to distract me, I would drink again, seeking out the most disreputable places in which to hide myself. And when I was drunk, my passions had full reign. I would fall out of the public houses and into the muddy streets, and thence into the clutches of the nice girls who fleeced me of my money and gave me little satisfaction in return, although I yearned after the sight of their pale, naked breasts and the secret dusky places beneath their petticoats. I always repented most sincerely when I woke, and chastised myself once more with the wretched bedpost, but it would not be many days before I got more soddenly drunk, fell deeper into debt, and made myself more shameful in the very houses of shame themselves.

Of all my diversions, only nature was capable of holding me steady. I’d leave my studies behind and walk along the river, or across the fields, sometimes twelve or twenty miles at a stretch, the wind in my face and the firm earth at my feet. Only then would I feel myself cleansed and close to God. Yet, once back in the world of paper and pen, I would immediately suffer from pains in my head and sickness in my stomach. I’d creep wearily between the dreariness of my college room, the dreariness of the lecture hall, and the dreariness of chapel, utterly despising myself and my whole life.

It was in that state that Evelina took pity on me. It’s still a source of astonishment and delight to me that she did so. I have no idea what I would have made of my life otherwise; to what depths I would have fallen if she had not been there to encourage and inspire me. And yet – such is the mysteriousness of God’s ways – it was one of my disreputable companions who proved the means of bringing us together. Wilfrid Chauncey was by no means the worst of my cronies, more of a sportsman than a drinker, running hares along the Oxfordshire hedges and keeping hounds in his college rooms. One night, after extolling the virtues of his uncle’s estate which had ‘acres of shooting and no one to take advantage of it’, he invited me to spend the week before Christmas at the house. His uncle spent most of his time in the library, he said, and was happy for his guests to drink and play cards as much as they wished. It was a very Liberty Hall – provided one did not encounter Wilfrid’s cousin Evelina, who was something of a prig.

I’d accepted with alacrity, having little else to do at the end of term and not relishing a sermon from my father about my dissipated ways. I’d hoped not to encounter the priggish cousin. Well-brought-up ladies didn’t interest me; I thought them vapid to say the least. But I’d scarcely arrived – and was still in my travelling clothes, grimy and dishevelled – when I opened the door to the drawing room, and there she was – standing at the window, gazing out at the distant mountains, her dark hair coiling down her back and a volume of poetry in her hand. She looked like any other modest and pious young lady, and I began to introduce myself with the kind of nonchalant swagger that had become habitual with me. But when she turned to look at me, the careless words died on my lips. Her eyes in that moment seemed not to be the eyes of a young girl at all, but of an angel. An angel who could see through me and read my mind.

Wilfrid strolled in behind me. ‘Hello, Evelina. You’re back from Caerwen, then? Let me introduce Daniel Baxter, the best fellow in Oxford – and the best shot too.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said the angel. ‘Such proficiency usually means a man has spent more time with his gun than with his books.’

Wilfrid gave me a sly grin. ‘You see, sporting prowess doesn’t impress Evelina. She only cares for reading. And don’t think of making love to her, Dan, because it’s a hopeless cause. She’s destined to join the Misses Venables and be lost to the world for ever.’

His words pierced me like a sword. This beautiful young creature lost to the world? But Evelina smiled patiently. ‘You do exaggerate, Wilfrid. It’s not as though I’ll be locked up all day like a nun.’

‘You might as well be,’ he grumbled.

She shook her head in mock despair and turned to me. ‘I need to explain, Mr Baxter. Caerwen is nothing terrible or medieval – just the Misses Venables and their friends trying to lead a good life. I plan to join them as soon as I am old enough. But in the meantime I’d be obliged if you would talk to me as if I’m an ordinary human being. Young men are often so put out when they know my intentions that I’m obliged to take my walks on my own.’

‘You will not walk alone while I am in this house,’ I replied, amazed at the boldness of my words as they came tumbling out with no apparent composition on my part. Suddenly – for the first time in my life – I realized that I was in love, and that it was Heaven. I felt I’d been raised a good six inches above the ground and harmonious music was playing in my ears. All at once, the thought of spending a whole day shooting and a whole night playing cards was anathema to me. I wanted to spend all my time with this divine creature amidst billowing clouds and everlasting sunshine. ‘I’m a great walker,’ I added breathlessly. ‘And to walk with you, Miss Chauncey, would be an honour.’

‘I will keep you to that, Mr Baxter,’ she said with a smile of such pure limpidity that I nearly fell down dead. ‘Tomorrow I shall walk up to Baycastle Crag immediately after breakfast. If you accompany me, I fear you will have to forgo the morning’s shooting. We will know then where your loyalties lie.’

‘I’ll be there,’ I said, not caring about Wilfrid’s chagrin or the loss of sport as long as Evelina’s grey eyes were fixed on mine.

The next day, as we mounted the steep path to the Crag, our talk was all of religion, a topic I had long found tedious, but she infused it with such emotion and longing that I wanted to break away from my wretched, sinful body, to cleave to her side, to draw breath with her, to see with her pure eyes, to taste with her tender mouth. I wanted so much to be at one with her that I could not bear the idea of keeping even the smallest thing back. I felt instead obliged to confess all my sins in a headlong jumble of self-abnegation.

She was not shocked. In fact, she seemed animated, and full of an eager kind of passion. ‘Do you really intend to mend your ways?’ she said, clasping my hands and sending a thrill through my veins. ‘Will you turn back to God this very day?’