Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [83]
When the battle is equally poised, the outcome will often depend on chance. Victory, had Erasmus known it, was being achieved for him not very far away.
The curate, Parker, seated in the vicarage drawing-room opposite the vicar himself, in a chair that was neither easy nor upright but partook of the awkward qualities of both, saw through the casement window how the wind agitated the yews in the garden, shaking them until they lost all resemblance to trees and became like dark, tossing plumage. With them he seemed to see his role as Caliban in The Enchanted Isle dislodged, shaken loose, blown away for ever.
‘We live in dangerous times, sir, perilous,’ the Reverend Edward Mansell said. ‘And crucial for the Church.’ He was a robust man, well rounded out, with a full gaze and a high, pale forehead and abundant auburn hair, of which he was proud. His black broadcloth suit was of best quality and his collar was of a snowy whiteness amazing to Parker. He said, ‘It behoves the clergy to be particularly careful in all matters affecting their repute. I go away on essential business, leaving you in charge of the parish, and what do I find on my return? I find you preparing to portray, on the public stage, an uncouth savage given over to lechery and drunkenness and I know not what.’
The curate leaned forward eagerly, raising reddish hands. His fluffy, light-coloured hair had some energy stirring in its roots which caused a permanent startlement. ‘Allow me to explain, sir,’ he said. ‘My motives are of the best. I am seeking to portray Caliban as debased, not in himself but by others. He is first unjustly subjected by Prospero, afterwards corrupted by the bad example of the mariners. The evil of strong liquor is also at the heart of my performance, sir. It is an evil of great magnitude in all parts of England now.’
The vicar sighed and pursed his lips and smiled upon his curate’s writhings in the spindly, armless chair. ‘So the savage is noble,’ he said, ‘leading a moral life by the light of pure reason, without benefit of scripture, until we Christians come to lend him our wickedness. This is not good theology, Mr Parker. I am sorry you have been infected by these radical ideas. You would say then that Caliban has a soul which renders him capable of receiving the message of redemption?’
‘Yes, most certainly.’
‘In that you go beyond the councils of the Church. The baptism of savages is not yet established, it is still subject to debate.’
‘The main voice in the debate, sir, at present,’ Parker said excitedly, ‘is that of the slavery lobby, who seek to deny –’ Belatedly he remembered that the Mansell family had holdings in the West Indies. In agitation he thrust his hands between his knees and held them there, as it were by force. ‘We are all children of one father, sir,’ he said.
‘No doubt, no doubt.’ The vicar remained silent for some moments. He was not sure of the best line to take. He did not want to embitter the curate if he could help it. Parker was an ideal assistant in the main: he had neither money nor connections to reduce his dependence and he was diligent and enthusiastic, ready to do all that was laid upon him. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I cannot allow it, and I am sorry indeed to see that you have elevated yourself in this way. There is only one Revelation, Mr Parker. They invite the fate of Lucifer who presume to weigh eternal truth in the balance of their own judgement.’
The doomed and flaming angel seemed far to Parker at this moment from the sadly nodding plumes of yew he could see outside the window, waving farewell to his stage