The Rebel Angels

He earned money. Not much, but enough to keep him. What did he spend my money, and Maria's money, and Hollier's money on?

Could it really be drugs? He looked too well. Drink? He drank a good deal when he could sponge on somebody, but he didn't have any sign of being a drunkard. Where did the money go? I didn't know but I resented being continually asked for contributions.

5

Lent, proper season for self-examination, perhaps for self-mortification, but never, so far as I know, a season for love. Nevertheless, love was my daily companion, my penance, my hair shirt. Something had to be done about it, but what? Face the facts, Simon; how does a clergyman of forty-five manoeuvre himself into a position where he can tell a young woman of twenty-three that he loves her, and what does she think about that? What might she be expected to think? Face facts, fool.

But can one, in the grip of an obsession, face facts or even judge what facts are relevant?

I worked out several scenarios and planned a number of eminently reasonable but warmly worded speeches; then, as often happens, it all came about suddenly and, considering everything, easily. As Hollier's research assistant, Maria had the privilege of eating with the dons in Spook's Hall at dinner, and one night in late March I met her just after the Rector had said the grace that ended the meal, as we were moving towards coffee in the Senior Common Room. Or rather, I was heading towards coffee and asked her if I could bring some to her. No, she said, Spook coffee wasn't what she wanted at the moment. I saw an opening, and snatched it.

"If you would like to walk over to my rooms in Ploughwright, I'll make you some really good coffee. I could also give you cognac, if you'd like that."

"I'd love it."

Five minutes later she was helping me – watching me, really – as I set my little Viennese coffee-maker on the electric element. Fifteen minutes later I had told her that I loved her and, rather more coherently than I had ever expected, I told her about the notion of Sophia (with which she was acquainted from her medieval studies) and that she was Sophia to me. She sat silent for what seemed a long time.

"I've never been so flattered in my life," she said at last.

"Then the idea doesn't seem totally ridiculous to you."

"Certainly not ridiculous. How could you think of yourself as ridiculous?"

"A man of my age, in love with a woman of your age, could certainly seem ridiculous."

"But you're not just any man of your age. You are a beautiful man. I've admired you ever since the first class where I met you."

"Maria, don't tease me. I know what I am. I'm middle-aged and not at all good-looking."

"Oh, that! I meant beautiful because of your wonderful spirit, and the marvellous love you bring to your scholarship. Why would anybody care what you look like? – Oh, that sounds terrible; you look just right for what you are. But looks don't really matter, do they?"

"How can you say that? You, who are so beautiful yourself?"

"If your looks attracted as much attention as mine do, and made people think so many stupid things about you, you'd see it all differently."

"Does what I've told you I think about you seem stupid?"

"No, no; I didn't mean that. What you've said, coming from you, is the most wonderful compliment I've ever had."

"So what do we do about it? Dare I ask if you love me."

"Yes, most certainly I do love you. But I don't think it's the kind of love you mean when you tell me you love me."

"Then -?"

"I must think very carefully about what I say. I love you, but I've never even called you Simon. I love you because of your power to lead me to understand things I didn't understand before, or understand in the same way. I love you because you have made your learning the chief nourisher of your life, and it has made you a special sort of man. You are like a fire: you warm me."

"So what are we to do about it?"

"Must we do something about it? Aren't we doing something about it already? If I am Sophia to you, what do you suppose you are to me?"

"I'm not sure I understand. You say you love me, and I am something great to you. So are we to become lovers?"

"I think we already are lovers."

"I mean differently. Completely."

"You mean a love affair? Going to bed and all that?"

"Is it out of the question?"

"No, but I think it would be a great mistake."

"Oh, Maria, can you be sure? Look, you know what I am; I'm a clergyman. I'm not asking you to be my mistress. I think that would be shabby."

"Well, I certainly couldn't marry you!"

"You mean it's utterly out of the question?"

"Utterly."

"Ah. But I can't make dishonourable proposals to you. don't think it's just prudery -"

"No, no; I really do understand. 'You could not love me, dear, so much/Loved you not honour more.' "