Susan Howatch - Glittering Images

‘I’m a non-smoker, my Lord.’

‘Even more admirable. Jennings, you may address me as “Bishop” or as “Dr Jardine” but leave “My Lord” to the servants, if you please. I think bishops suffer quite enough from delusions of grandeur without being addressed as if they’d been born to the purple … Well, gentlemen, you’ve just seen me at my worst and now I must make every attempt to display myself at my best. Dr Ashworth –’ he passed me the decanter ‘– I beg you to help yourself to the largest possible glass of port and to tell me about your new book. His Grace muttered something about fourth-century Christology and St Anselm, but as there appears to be no connection between the two subjects I confess I’m mystified – or are you perhaps hoping to prove that the seeds of the ontological argument were sown at the Council of Nicaea?’ And he gave me his most charming smile.

I smiled back to signal that I had every intention of supporting his attempt to restore a convivial atmosphere, and began to explain my plan to revise my lectures, but it was Jennings, not Jardine, who talked to me about St Anselm. The chaplain interposed a remark about the Cathedral library but sank into silence as the discussion of St Anselm’s theology degenerated into the dreariest type of academic debate.

Suddenly I said to Jardine, ‘I’m sorry, we must be boring you.’

‘Not in the least.’ He sipped his port. ‘I was merely wondering why you turn your back on the present to bury yourself in the remote past. But perhaps modern Church history would involve you in modern Church politics which is a subject best avoided if your views are unlikely to please the people in power.’

I recognized that this subtly dangerous statement was not an attack but an inquiry; he was giving me the opportunity to state that my career had not been distorted by the most unwholesome form of ambition, and I said at once, ‘I happen to find Arianism and Modalism more stimulating than the Oxford Movement.’

Jardine picked up the reference to Anglo-Catholicism. ‘Does that indicate a certain ambivalence about the High Church party?’

He was inviting me to disassociate myself from Lang, and suddenly I knew he would once again see straight through any profession of loyalty which was not entirely sincere. ‘I was sympathetic to Anglo-Catholicism when I was ordained,’ I said in a clumsy attempt at evasion.

‘So was I – that’ll surprise you, won’t it! But I can see now that I was merely trying to reject my Nonconformist background.’ He turned suddenly to his chaplain. ‘Gerald, I’ve promised to lend Mr Jennings that book by Brunner, The Mediator. Take him to the library, would you, and look it out for him.’

That disposed of Jennings and Harvey. I was alone with the Bishop at last and almost before the door had closed I found myself saying: ‘I’m beginning to think you see straight through everything.’

‘I have a first-class try. I sometimes think I know what life must be like for a musician who possesses perfect pitch. I have a well-nigh infallible ear for detecting false notes in a conversation.’

‘During our debate –’

‘During our debate you tried to conceal that your private views on divorce are rather different from your public views. Yes. I know. And that’s why I couldn’t resist the temptation to tear you to shreds, but I am indeed most sincerely sorry that the debate went so wrong.’

‘It’s all right. My hypocrisy got what it deserved. Sorry I took such a cheap way out.’ The conversation was now so far removed from any dialogue I could have foreseen that I was unable to sustain it. Moving to the hearth, the glass of port in my hand, I pretended to examine the carvings on the chimneypiece.

‘Now that,’ said Jardine, ‘is a very remarkable apology. You’re beginning to interest me exceedingly, Dr Ashworth.’ Although I had my back to him, I heard the splash as he refilled his glass. ‘First of all I was tempted to write you off as just another of Lang’s bright young men,’ he was saying, ‘but the truth’s more complicated than that, isn’t it? You no longer find the required mask of sycophancy easy to wear.’

I finished my port before saying, ‘I’m very much in Dr Lang’s debt.’

‘Of course you are. Men of power have a knack of building up extensive credit, but if one is in a position of power,’ said Jardine, moving over to me with the decanter in his hand, ‘one must always be scrupulously careful not to bankrupt one’s debtors by demanding inappropriate methods of repayment. More port?’

‘Thank you.’ I held out my glass with a steady hand.

‘May I give you a word of advice? Your first duty, debts or no debts, is not to the Archbishop of Canterbury. Your first duty is to God who created you as a unique individual in his own image, not as a miraculous facsimile of Dr Lang. Be yourself, Dr Ashworth. Be the man God intended you to be, not the sycophant His Grace’s vanity would prefer. And now,’ said Jardine, having refilled my glass, ‘I shall stop preaching and we shall divert ourselves very briefly, before we join the ladies, by ruminating on an issue which to me is of far greater interest than dear old St Anselm’s meditations. I refer to the search for the historical Jesus – do you think we can ever see beyond the shining image of the Gospels to the man he really was?’

‘I think it can be unproductive to probe behind glittering images,’ I said, ‘and with all due respect I believe your generation has been too preoccupied with Christ’s humanity at the expense of his divinity.’

Jardine smiled. ‘You think that in pursuing the concept of the immanence of God in mankind we’ve wound up losing sight of God and following mankind, as represented by Christ, down a historical blind alley?’

‘Exactly. Speaking for myself, I’m much more interested in the modern doctrines asserting God’s transcendence and the importance of revelation – I think we should focus on the message Christ presented, not on the shadowy figure behind the glittering image,’ I said firmly, and escaping with profound relief into the world of scholarship, I began to talk of the writings of Karl Barth and the challenge of Crisis Theology.

On our return to the drawing-room Jardine announced: ‘I’m glad to say that Dr Ashworth and I have quite resolved our differences so there’s no need for anyone to remain embarrassed by our debate … Lady Starmouth, come outside and take a turn with me on the terrace.’

‘Coffee, Dr Ashworth?’ called Miss Christie.

‘Yes – thank you.’ I was just moving towards her with alacrity when I was intercepted by a distraught Mrs Jardine.

‘Dr Ashworth, I’m so very sorry – my husband was terribly upset afterwards, I know he was – it was when you mentioned the baby –’ As she broke off I saw to my horror that her eyes were full of tears.

‘My dear Mrs Jardine – please – don’t distress yourself –’

But Miss Christie had come to the rescue. ‘It’s all right, darling,’ she said to Mrs Jardine, and I was struck by her use of an endearment. ‘Dr Ashworth understands. Come and sit down – Mrs Jennings and I were just discussing the choirboys’ concert.’ And passing me my cup of coffee she steered Mrs Jardine to the cluster of chairs where Mrs Jennings was waiting. I found myself abandoned to the company of the Cobden-Smiths, but Lord Starmouth was no more than six paces away by the fireplace and as our glances met he said without emphasis: ‘The Bishop’s passions get the better of him sometimes, but he’s a good man.’

‘One doesn’t look for passion in a bishop,’ said the Colonel with unexpected tartness. ‘Bad form.’

‘Very bad form,’ agreed his wife, ‘but then of course if one’s not brought up to know the difference between good form and bad form one’s bound to cause chaos in later life.’