A Girl's Guide to Modern European Philosophy

by Charlotte Greig

  “Or she,” I said.

  “Of course,” he said.

  I quoted his words back to him. I remembered them, because they'd impressed me. “She will then introduce herself into that order of knighthood which proves its immortality by making no distinction between man and woman.”

  “Exactly. Now let's take Fiona's first point. She told you that having an abortion is like having a tooth out. In the realm of the ethical, this is a point that can be debated: the extent to which a fetus is a person, the rights of the fetus as against the rights of the woman, and so on. But beyond that, in the realm of the particular which is above the universal, the answer is unknown. The knight of faith must find the answer alone; he—or she—must make the movement of faith, on the strength of the absurd.”

  “But how?” I said. “How do you know what is the right thing to do?”

  “You don't,” he said. “You can only struggle with it. As you have done. As you are doing, Susannah.”

  We stopped to catch our breath.

  “And what about ‘it's not fair to bring a child into the world under these circumstances’?” I said.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “I think—if I understand what you're saying—that one could have that discussion in the social realm and come to some conclusion, based on some moral idea of what is ‘fair’ and so on. But beyond that, the pregnant woman is on her own. She somehow has to weigh up whether her child would be better off having a difficult life or not being born. She has to judge what the value of life is. And she can't really. But she has to try.”

  “Yes. Like Abraham, she must make that journey on her own. At the end of it, she may be judged as a murderer or as a saint, depending on the outcome. But her true greatness will not lie in her actions, which will be judged by the social realm; it will lie in the extent to which she has struggled in private, has kept her faith with herself.”

  We started walking again, side by side, although the path was beginning to become narrower.

  “And what about, ‘you'll be throwing your life away’?” I said.

  “You will only throw your life away if you sit out the dance,” Søren said.

  His cryptic pronouncements were beginning to get on my nerves.

  “You sound like David Carradine,” I said.

  He laughed, his eyes lighting up. “When you can snatch the pebble from my hand, grasshopper …”

  By now the path was only wide enough for a single walker. The grassy hillside around us had given way to rocks and boulders. Up ahead, the terrain on either side of the path seemed to be falling away. I had an urge to turn round and go back the way I came, but I knew I couldn't.

  “This is where I must leave you, Susannah.” Søren's voice was gentle.

  “Don't,” I said, clutching his arm. “Please don't.”

  He removed my arm from his, and pointed at the narrowing path up ahead.

  “Look,” he said. “There's only space for one of us.”

  “Well, why can't it be you?”

  “I've been up there already. It's your turn now.”

  I suddenly felt very tired. I sat down on a hillock beside the path and started crying.

  “I can't,” I said. “I can't, not by myself. I'm scared of heights.”

  “Well go back down, then,” he said. “Go back to the meadows with the flowers and the clanking cows. Go back to ‘it's just like having a tooth out.’”

  I knew that I couldn't now.

  “Come with me,” I said. “Please.”

  “No.” His tone was stern.

  I covered my face with my hands. “It's not fair,” I sobbed, sounding like a child. “I'm not as brave as you. I'm not as clever. I won't know how to …”

  “Faith is a marvel,” he said, bending over me to take my hand.

  I pushed his hand away angrily.

  “And yet no human being is excluded from it,” he went on. “For that in which all human life is united is passion, and faith is a passion.”

  I felt like telling him to fuck off with his faith and his passion, but when I looked up at him, I noticed that he looked tired too. I realized it must have been difficult for him walking even as far as this with his limp.

  “I must go now,” he said, straightening up from bending over me. “Good-bye, Susannah.”

  I stood up in front of him. He grasped me firmly by the shoulders and looked into my eyes. “Good luck. Remember, faith is an end, not a beginning.”

  Then he turned round and walked off down the hillside.

  After he left, I sat back down on the hillock for a while, and wondered whether to carry on or to follow him down. Eventually, I decided to press on. I was terrified of climbing up the steep mountain path, but knew I'd feel ashamed of myself if I turned back. So I got up and started walking.

  Further up, the sides of the path were beginning to fall away, until it was left jutting out on a ridge. It became narrower and narrower, until I had to put one foot right in front of the other to walk along it, holding out my arms to balance myself as though I was on a tightrope. I tried sitting down and pulling myself along with my arms, because it was safer that way, but my progress was so slow that I stood up again and inched my way along.

  After what seemed like hours but was probably only minutes, the path petered out altogether, and I found myself standing at the edge of a deep ravine. A rope bridge with wooden slats was slung over it. The rope was old and worn, and some of the slats in the middle were missing. I didn't dare look down into the ravine, but I sensed that if I did, I wouldn't be able to see the bottom.

  I edged my way onto the bridge, holding tight to the ropes on each side, not looking down except to check whether the slats for my feet were in place. I moved along carefully, but then a wind started to blow up from the ravine and the bridge began to sway from side to side. I clung on, praying that the wind would die down and that I'd get to the other side. Then it happened. The rope behind me snapped.

  I was left swinging from side to side over the ravine. At that moment, I lost my fear. I had to; it was my only chance of survival. I began to clamber up the rope, using my arms and legs, until I got near to the other side of the ravine, where the rope was hanging from. Once I got there, I realized, I'd have no way of getting back down to the path. I'd be stranded on the mountain. But I pressed on: at least I'd be safe up there, on solid ground again.

  I woke up with my head on my desk. There was a crick in my neck, and my cheek was sore where it had pressed against the edge of the pad of paper I'd been writing on. When I looked up, the anglepoise lamp was shining into my eyes, and I couldn't see properly for a moment or two. I rubbed my eyes and looked at my watch. It was ten o'clock. I felt as though I'd been asleep for hours, but it could only have been for a minute or two.

  I got up and went into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. There was nobody in there. While the kettle was boiling, I thought of going in and asking Clare if she wanted a cup too, but I decided against it. I felt too disoriented to chat, and I couldn't tell her about the dream, she'd think I was mad. I needed to talk to someone who would understand, someone who knew about Kierkegaard.

  Rob was a possibility, but I didn't want to phone him yet, not until I knew whether I was going to have the abortion or not. It would be confusing for both of us if I got in touch now. I didn't want to discuss it all with him. I knew it was a decision I'd have to make on my own. The only other person I could think of to talk to was Belham.

  It was a bit late for phoning someone you didn't know well, but this was a bit of an emergency. Well, perhaps not an emergency, but a pressing problem, anyway. Once I told him, I was sure he'd understand how important it was. I picked up the tea, took it back to my room, put it down to cool on the desk, and checked my purse for 2p pieces. I copied down the number I'd scribbled on my file, and went down to the lobby to phone him.

  When I dialed the number no one picked up. I was just about to put the phone down when a female voice came on the
other end. “Yes?” She sounded irritated.

  “Could I speak to … Mr. Belham, please?” I felt ridiculous calling him Mister. Perhaps I should have said James.

  “Who is this?”

  “Susannah Jones, one of his students.”

  She sighed heavily into the phone. “Just a minute,” she said, and went off to get him.

  “Susannah?” he said when he came on the phone.

  “Sorry to call you so late,” I said.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, fine. But there's something I need to talk to you about.”

  “OK,” he said. “What is it?”

  “I've had a dream about Kierkegaard. I need to find out what it means.”

  He laughed. “Well, I'm not a psychoanalyst.”

  “I think it's about the …” My voice trailed off.

  Belham's voice became serious. “Ah, the …”

  “Yes. I can't talk about it over the phone. Could you meet me somewhere tomorrow morning?” I was surprised at how straightforward my request sounded.

  “OK,” he said, picking up my matter-of-fact tone. “Let's go to the Mock Turtle, shall we? Morning coffee? Say eleven o'clock?”

  “Fine,” I said. “See you there. Thanks.”

  I thought of adding, “It won't take long,” but then I thought it might, so I didn't.

  “Bye, then.”

  “Bye.”

  I put the phone down and went upstairs to drink my cup of tea.

  chapter 25

  I GOT INTO BRIGHTON A BIT EARLY next day for my meeting with Belham. When I got to the Mock Turtle I peered in through the window, over the cake display. I couldn't see him but I went in anyway. I sat down at a table near the window and ordered a large pot of tea, and a slice of homemade chocolate cake to go with it. I should really have waited for the cake until Belham arrived, but I was starving.

  I took off my jacket and scarf while I waited for the tea to arrive, and looked around. I'd never been to the Mock Turtle before, but it was quite a well-known tea shop in Brighton. It was a brightly lit, bustling place, with strangely shaped teapots and rococo cake stands everywhere. It was quiet, but not too quiet, with a comforting background hum of voices and clattering cutlery. Belham had made a good choice. It was the sort of place where you could take your time and have a private talk, and no one would make you feel rushed or listen to your conversation.

  Just as the waitress was bringing the tea and chocolate cake, Belham came in.

  “Hello,” he said, taking off his coat and sitting down. “Sorry I'm a bit late.”

  “Hi,” I said. “You're not, really.”

  The waitress set down the tea things and waited.

  “Do you want one of these as well?” I pointed at my cake.

  “Why not,” he said, and asked her to bring him one.

  I poured a cup of tea for each of us. I added milk to mine, and then put in three sugar cubes. He drank his black with no sugar. He lit a cigarette and offered me one, but I shook my head. I'd completely lost the taste for nicotine these days.

  “You're looking well,” he said.

  I wished I could have said the same for him, but he wasn't. In fact, he was looking awful. There were dark shadows under his eyes and he looked as though he hadn't shaved for days.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I'm not too bad. How are you?”

  “Oh.” For a moment he seemed lost for words. “Not too bad, I suppose.”

  I stirred my tea. I was eyeing up my cake, but I didn't pick up my fork. Belham noticed and said, “Go on, eat it up. You can always have another when mine comes.”

  I started in on the cake. It was delicious.

  “You look a bit tired,” I said in between mouthfuls. “Did you have a break over Christmas?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I did.”

  He picked up his tea and began to sip it.

  “What did you do?”

  “Well, I was going to … well, not much, actually.”

  I looked up. Belham was shifting uncomfortably in his chair. I realized he didn't want me to inquire further.

  His chocolate cake arrived and he thanked the waitress but pushed it to one side.

  We chatted about this and that, and I told him I'd almost finished writing my dissertation. He asked me what it was about, and I said it was to do with Heidegger and the metaphysics of gestation. He seemed intrigued, and I said I'd hand it in at the beginning of term for him to look at. I didn't ask him to okay the subject, as I was supposed to do; there didn't seem much point now that I'd written it. I just assumed it was all right, and I noticed that he made no objection.

  Then he said, “So what about this dream then, Susannah?”

  I put down my fork, took a big gulp of tea, wiped my mouth with the napkin, and began to tell him the story of the dream. I was surprised that I could remember it in exact detail. While I was talking, Belham listened carefully. From time to time he interrupted me to ask me for more details, but other than that he remained silent.

  “So,” I said when I'd finished, “what do you think?”

  He looked thoughtful.

  “Well, it seems fairly self-explanatory. It's a pretty good quality dream, I'd say. Philosophically speaking.”

  “Thanks.”

  There was a silence and then he went on, “You know, I've never really thought about Fear and Trembling in terms of the abortion issue. But it's so blindingly obvious, isn't it?”

  “Yes.” I started eyeing up his cake, and he pushed it over to me.

  “When you think about it,” I said, starting in on it, “that Abraham scenario is one that millions of women go through all the time.”

  “Seriously, Susannah,” he continued, “I think you're on to something here. I haven't come across any philosophical writing on this subject at all. You really must follow it up. I know you've almost completed your dissertation, and I'm sure it's excellent, but this …” There was a note of genuine excitement in his voice. “If you could write about this …”

  “Well, I'd like to,” I said. “Maybe I will. But first of all, I've got to decide about this abortion.”

  When I said the word abortion, Belham looked embarrassed and started shifting about in his chair again, but I took no notice.

  “The bit of the dream I don't understand is where Kierkegaard says, ‘You will only be throwing your life away if you sit out the dance.’ What do you think that means?”

  Belham frowned. “I'm not sure. Kierkegaard talks about the knight of faith making the movements of a dance. He says the dancer moves through pain into resignation and then somehow comes through it, landing exactly right, as he puts it. I think he's saying that if you don't do that, if you don't make the movement towards infinity and then back again, that's to say if you don't engage with life properly, you're sitting out the dance, and perhaps throwing away your true potential.”

  I finished up the cake, wiped my mouth, crumpled up the napkin, and sat back. “Yes, but what does that mean in terms of my situation? Will I be sitting out the dance if I have the baby, or if I have the abortion?”

  “I don't know. I really can't advise you on that.”

  “But what do you think?” I persisted. “What's your opinion?”

  Belham looked at me intently. I noticed that his eyes were a very deep brown.

  “Susannah,” he said, “I hardly know you. I can't possibly tell you what you should do. But all I can say is that you're a talented philosopher,”—I noticed he said “are” now, and not “could be”—“and I think it would be a shame if you didn't continue your studies.”

  “So you think I should have the abortion?”

  “I didn't say that.”

  “Well, how can I do both?” I realized I was sounding irritable.

  “I don't know. That's for you to work out. The university is quite forward thinking about this sort of thing. We'd help you as much as possible.”

  There was a pause, and then he added, “I'd
make sure of that.”

  I gave a deep sigh. “I don't know,” I said. “I've done everything I can to think this through. But I still don't know what I'm going to do, and the abortion's fixed up for tomorrow. It's completely freaking me out.”

  “Susannah.” Belham's voice was quiet. “Don't you think you should have discussed this with the man—I mean the men—involved?”

  The men involved. It sounded terrible.

  “I have,” I said. “Well, one of them, anyway. The main one.”

  “What about the other one?”

  “You don't understand. He's just not in a position to help. He's too … young.”

  Belham gave a wry smile. “You're young as well. Why is that a problem?”

  “It just is.” I turned my head away.

  I was aware of Belham looking intently at me. He wasn't going to let this go.

  “It's another student, isn't it?” he said.

  “OK,” I said. “Yes.” I was annoyed. The conversation wasn't going the way I'd planned.

  “It's not …?” He stopped and looked at me quizzically.

  “Yes, it is,” I said. “It's Rob.”

  Belham didn't look all that surprised.

  “So he doesn't know?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he seems a responsible, sensitive person. I think it's only fair to tell him, don't you?”

  Then he changed the subject and started talking about my dissertation again. I felt angry. It wasn't for Belham to tell me what to do. He knew nothing about my situation. He didn't know how immature Rob was. And I hadn't wanted him to know about Rob anyway. I wasn't sure why at first, but then I realized what it was.