The Black Fox

by H. F. Heard

  “How goes the work?”

  “I believe that there is increasing evidence that Arabic studies are being perceived as an essential correlate to Hebrew—indeed as much as Hebrew is to Greek.”

  “I expect you are right. Indeed when last in London at the Athenaeum I had the pleasure of passing the time of day with the Prime Minister. And of course I need not tell you that, as he is of a stock which has come within the Fold, he has hopes that if we will strive to understand them better, the ‘Jews, Turks, Infidels and Heretics’—as we shall soon be praying in the Good Friday Collect—may yet be brought within the one Flock.”

  Canon Throcton now felt that he might safely, with advantage and indeed ought out of courtesy, take the opening that was being offered. He could now be more particular as to his studies and show their relevance to religion. Now, with a clear conscience he could remove the least fear from the Bishop’s mind that, should he advocate him as Dean, there might be a peril of paganism. An explanation that he would have despised himself for offering to Simpkins and indeed would have denied to the Bishop a few months ago when he felt that Bendwell had betrayed his rightful hopes, now could be offered to aid his prospects and yet not to lower by a jot his amour-propre. Indeed what he would now say might be passed on directly to the real Fount of all Preferment, the Head of the Government.

  “The local Fold and the world-wide Flock, yes, my particular studies have often kept that key passage from the Theological Gospel before my mind. Again and again I am impressed with the extent that Christian thought permeated Islam.”

  “I once read that at an early age Mohammed himself was instructed by a Nestorian monk?”

  “Yes, I believe it to be true. And we must remember that Nestorianism was cast out of the Church because of its Protestant refusal to consent to that new and temerarious title for the Virgin, Mother of God.”

  This, too, was well said. The Bishop, like most of his colleagues, was being given more trouble by his Anglo-Catholic clergy than by any other of those sectional semi-schisms which the Establishment combined and contained, more through a common endowment than by a common obedience. Bishop Bendwell therefore continued interested, more interested than he had expected, in what he was hearing,

  “But, surely, as our German theologians say (and then those Tübingen rascals do the very thing), Mohammed emptied out the baby with the bath?”

  “True, My Lord, true. But, to go to true culture for a motto—Expellas Naturam a furco tamen usque recurret. The saints of Islam, and such I can’t deny many of their Sufis seem in the past to have been, these men appear to have restored many practices which would go far to redeem the religion of the Koran from its original superficiality—or at least aridity.”

  “Oh, I thought Sufi was just the accurate name for Dancing Dervish—fanatics like the Holy Rollers of the Commonwealth times and the Revivalistic frenzies among the Nonconformists now?”

  “It is a natural mistake. I understand that the many orders of devout Sufis have—as in the Church of Rome and, for that matter, as you have said in our Protestant sects—fringes of ‘enthusiasts.’ But the main bodies deserve attention and, as far as I know, respect.”

  There was a knock at the door and it was opened by the Chaplain.

  “Oh, come in Halliwell. Canon Throcton is bringing me up to date in his advanced studies.”

  The Bishop felt it would be no harm that his Secretary should act as a second listener now that there seemed an opportunity of getting the Canon to explain his position unguardedly. If the Deanery should become his, then young Halliwell could answer any such questions about the new incumbent’s views on theological matters. It would be better than that the Bishop should have to say anything in his defence.

  “Take a chair.” Then turning to the Canon, “You won’t mind my Chaplain being in on this informal instruction, will you? Remarkable, what you were saying in regard to the Islam devotees and their widening of their rather narrow religion.”

  The Canon was certainly not displeased to have an audience, if only of two, if the two were the Bishop and his confidant. “Yes, remarkable, because, though Islam is so severe, yes in a way such an obvious religion, these Sufis have added to it a depth which one might suppose to spring from a profounder metaphysic.”

  “Have they elaborate rites on their own?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, no. Their liturgy, as far as I have read, strictly conforms with the Koran. It is their type or quality of what I suppose would be called meditation or contemplation that is said to be the reason for their spiritual prestige.”

  “Weren’t the greatest Persian poets nearly all mystics?”

  It was Halliwell’s question, and, pleased that the junior was showing interest on his own, and not merely attention by command, the Canon agreed with some cordiality.

  “Yes, I believe it is an exception for any of the authors of the great classic period of Persian verse not to be a Sufi. Indeed I owe such knowledge of Persian as I have acquired to the fascination of this poetry. Even as an outsider—and I certainly have as little claim or wish to be a mystic as to be a Persian—I do not find it hard to understand the Persian pride in this work. They assert that it is the equal of any poetry in the world.”

  Then with a slight hesitation, “Of course it is strange to take as the theme of lyric love, devotion to Deity, and to such an unqualified Transcendence as Islam preaches.” He paused again and then added, “And surely even odder to use the simile of intoxication to describe the state of mind such … such prayer produces!”

  He felt that he might have wandered too far into speculation, lured by the wish to make his case, to show the religiosity of his subjects and at the same time his interest, informed but restrained. It was awkward even to mention in comparative privacy such emotionalism even when, as in the case he had been discussing, it gave rise to a literature that for polish and power could compare with the Greek—and surpass the Hebrew—and rose from men who were evidently, apart from the extravagance of their devotion, of the highest respectability, intelligence and most careful theological severity. Partly to deflect the subject and possibly even to gain support, he turned and asked the appreciative Chaplain, “How did you happen to hear of these very neglected devotees?”

  “Oh, my father was, when at Cambridge, inspired by the example of Henry Martin. After that pioneer in the mission field had died my father went out over his tracks. And, like Martin before him, he was surprised when he reached Persia to find these strange but to him really quite sympathetic people. He used to say to me that he thought they must be more like what the first generation of Quakers seem to have been, and he’d quote Robert Barclay, the early Quaker apologist, about there being no true Quakerism without quaking.”

  Both the elder men looked at the younger who now also felt the need to take refuge in a question. “Mr. Canon, have you come across—I suppose you must have, in your reading—the, the … well, what I suppose we’d call the fairy-tale side of their records?”

  “Of course, of course! Spiritual, and indeed scholarly prestige—we see it from our own mediaeval record—among an uneducated people, always is refracted as thaumaturgy. The white light of Reason, falling on the scored surface of the popular mind, breaks into iridescence. Besides, as I’ve said, they were themselves often superb poets and the rainbow metaphor of the ‘lord of language’ can only be translated by the vulgar into the materialism, both gross and fantastic, of ‘the pot of gold.’”

  “But, but my father used to tell me of some very odd things he himself had seen. Once in Fars, an ancient and now largely ruined town—I believe Persia is named after it …?”

  The Canon allowed that. But it was clear that his guard was now mounted.

  “Well, three Sufis, with whom he used to meet on Fridays for silent prayer … they knew, he was sure, a great deal.… He said the atmosphere was very remarkable at such times. One day he had a fever, a troublesome one. It went while he was at the meeting.…”

/>   “Such fevers are notoriously undulant.”

  “Yes, but they laid their hands on him.”

  “The commonest—I had almost said the vulgarest—way of impressing anyone.” The Canon tried a little to soften his sceptical scorn with a smile. The contempt, however, only roused his unsuccessful informant to continue.

  “But the next Friday, or the one after next, a beggar came in. They never latched the door of their unfurnished meeting room. He had a horrible sore on his shin. He did not ask for money or food, but settled down quietly behind them as they sat in their little square. As the group broke up, the leader leant back, quietly and quickly putting out his hand behind my father who was seated next him, and my father, glancing, saw the Sufi’s first two fingers touch the sore’s centre. He was shocked, and then grateful that as they only bowed when parting he did not have to touch that hand. Then, next Friday, the same tramp walked in and sat with the group. As he sat cross-legged my father saw the lesion was completely healed.”

  “Typical story, if I may say so. I could from my authors quote you a score such and a hundred even more entertainingly impossible.”

  “But would that actually prove that Halliwell’s father was completely deceived?”

  It was the Bishop driven to defend logic, not psychical research. Then, seeing the Canon bridle and hearing him utter, “Post hoc, propter hoc—the very gateway of superstition,” he tried to soothe. After all, the subject was the Canon’s speciality. So retreating to his home-base and putting the accommodating flavour of a question into the reference, he remarked, “After all, as far as we can judge, St. James and his church apparently believed, didn’t they, in the laying on of hands?”

  “My Lord,” the Canon suddenly challenged, “you have had, these last Lenten weeks, to add the round of Confirmation Services to your other heavy duties. May I ask (and I do so for instruction), is the additional labour of the administration of the rite evidentially worth your time and fatigue?”

  The Bishop felt that with Halliwell present, this small conference, as it had become, demanded that he should answer unequivocally. How could he in honesty sound the Canon unless he himself would be sounded because he was sound? “The Greek Orthodox Church permits all priests to practice the confirmational laying on of hands. I do not see why we should not. As it is, you are right, it puts a strain on the Diocesan.”

  Halliwell rose, evidently aware that his master might soon be put in a difficult position. Loyalty to his father and his present Father-in-God moved him to break up the small meeting. “My Lord, might I—as soon as you and Canon Throcton have finished your business—see you about some small diurnal questions?”

  He withdrew and as he did so the Bishop rose. “Very well, Canon. Thank you for this interesting discussion. I feel I am now up to date in your researches and can share, in general outlook, your point of view. And thank you for your help. Whatever we may personally think of the physiological aspect of the charismata—and I think that we of the Church of England are permitted a certain very considerable latitude of view—we know that the sharp points of ritual are not getting any easier to accommodate. Easter is always a busy time and I own the Lenten Confirmation visits—having to be discharged and intercalated with one’s presence at Westminster—have taken it out of me considerably. And Easter always gives us a staff depleted by some form of catarrh. Catarrh and choirs have naturally an affinity. And the Dean really compelling me to put his office into commission, I have to look upon you as a kind of temporary and de facto Dean, don’t I? I am sorry to encroach on your work.…”

  “Not at all.” The answer was more than genial, it was said from the heart. “At any time … at any time.”

  They were out from the mists of speculation and controversy into the bright sun of actuality and future firm hope. Canon Throcton dismissed from his mind the silly boy’s talk and the Bishop’s kindly wish to protect his lamb. The Bishop waved genially to him as he left the spacious Carolingian study in which they had met. With real lightness of step he went down the fine carved stairway with its wide shallow steps. As he made his way across the lawn the high Cathedral clock chimed “Ding, Dong, Bell!” and to his mind set the words “De facto Dean.”

  “As good as done,” he murmured to himself. “And all by keeping one’s temper, swallowing one’s disappointment and waiting cheerfully for the best which is the real substitute for the good.”

  Then his mind, now fully at ease, ran back over the past highly-satisfactory conversation. He had made a good case for his studies and his standpoint. Not only was he clearly useful to the Bishop, he had now been able to show that he was sound, soundly within Anglicanism’s ample bounds, But—his mind ran back onto the silly subject again—how odd young Halliwell had been fostering his father’s folk-tales. The mission field—what a strange and indeed presumptuous vocation. They pick up more tares than they sow our own wheat. And what was it that used to be said at Cambridge of the three types of ordinands? Yes, that was it—the picked few who had fine enough intelligence to have succeeded in the lay world never went to parishes—they were given—like himself—dignities either in the Universities or in the Cathedral closes. The large middle lot became the ordinary parish clergy. The simplest of all that could only get a pass degree—they went out as missionaries, yes, to such places as Persia and China. Unteachable, and so unwaveringly convinced they would teach others.

  He smiled to himself as he paused before his own door. Quite apart from reason, common sense proved that there was no need for the compensations of superstition in a world where a rational insight, an understanding of men and sound scholarship made a clear path to preferment. As for health of the body—well there, as science went on, increasingly the medical profession could cover such risks and cancel such distresses. Dr. Wilkes was a lively enough mind. He smiled still further—“I wonder whether he is interested in the nice problem of euthanasia? I suppose we ‘of the Cloth’ would fight him, if he ventured to hint it—but we have much to gain. When one is hale then one should be in office. Does that poor half-corpse in the Deanery really want to be kept living? Anyhow isn’t it clear that my pleasure in the place while I am sound in wind and limb would add more to the sum of happiness than his semi-miserable semi-consciousness?”

  The Bishop had scarcely had time to settle himself at his desk before the door opened and Halliwell, his regulation black frock-coat breast-plated with a fan of papers, entered. But for a moment his master saw him as more and other than a messenger of business.

  “Halliwell, don’t think I’m unaware of what St. Paul calls ‘the mystery of Godliness.’ Indeed it is the mystery, the profound mystery of it that keeps me, I sometimes think, among the moneychangers and the sellers of doves in the outer courts of the Temple!”

  “You think, Sir, there are real, direct experiences that are as authentic, perhaps more so—I mean more convincing than ever authority, by itself, can be?”

  “Ah, there’s the rub. Mysticism ends in Rome or Rant. Oh, yes, there’s something there. One day, if you become a Dean you’ll have time to read William Law. He can certainly help our style. But our vision—I’m not so sure. Yes, there’s a power of some sort to be found in, in the non-liturgical, non-verbal forms of prayer. But it’s dangerous and we don’t know how to handle it. Steam was a wonderful discovery but even when I was young steam-engines were always blowing up and killing people. Even in this Close of ours, look at some of them, the more zealous—queer, very queer. More religion, you say. Yes and no. Yes, if we knew more about it. No, if we only know what we now know. I know we ought to know. The Church of the Via Media is the Church of Knowledge—neither Authority nor Emotionalism. But look.…”

  The Chaplain glanced at the level eyes that questioned him, so clear in what they saw, so puzzled by the beyond which would not come into clear focus. Halliwell dropped his own to the papers he was holding just under his nose. “Yes, Sir, I see. I’d like to think it over. Anyhow,” and he raised his eyes to his Lord an
d the corner of his mouth with a smile, while he fluttered the correspondence, “you will instruct me how to soothe the flutterings of some of these dovecots.”

  The Bishop chuckled. “Perhaps, you know,” he threw out as they plunged in, “perhaps humour may not be so far from holiness. It’s certainly an ingredient of humility!”

  9

  The spring weather had now decided definitely to begin—after a number of rather exasperating false starts. The whole Close therefore was far more cheerful—almost at its best. Indeed it was “A lovesome thing, God wot!” Poetry of such a calibre was at this time almost too much quoted by its inhabitants as crocuses took the place of snowdrops, then daffodils that of the crocuses, and hyacinths, narcissi and the first tulips completed the cycle of the bulbs.

  Miss Throcton felt the happiness too. She felt, also, that she might have real grounds, based on something more assured than an English spring. Her brother now seemed almost purposely trying to make up for his quick and sharp retreat into estrangement. Now with the brighter days their relationship seemed to have reached a degree of ease—if not of intimacy—that she never remembered before. She sometimes felt that he must almost consider her as his friend and companion. Day after day he would come and sit with her. He would stay on over their tea telling her of his work. And now a couple of times he had gone so far as to hint that the political sky being what it was, the Deanery expectation of life being what it was (and therefore it must ultimately be limited), and his work promising to be more widely known and appreciated—well, putting the three trends together you might almost extrapolate the line caused by the parallelogram of forces and see the formation of something that soon would be practically inevitable. And what would that mean for her? Well in other words this trajectory might move her out of the house she had so beautifully appointed—but not too far.