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Graham Greene's heroes : regeneration through experience Sabine, Francisco John 1968

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GRAHAM GREENE'S HEROES: REGENERATION THROUGH EXPERIENCE by FRANCISCO JOHN SABINE B.A., University of British Columbia, 1966 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF MASTER OF ARTS in the Department of ENGLISH We accept this thesis as conforming to the required standard THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA October, 1968 In present ing th i s thesis in p a r t i a l f u l f i lment of the requirements for an advanced degree at the Un iver s i t y of B r i t i s h Columbia, I agree that the L ibrary sha l l make i t f r e e l y ava i l ab le for reference and Study. I fur ther agree that permission for extensive copying of this thesis for s cho l a r l y purposes may be granted by the Head of my Department or by his representat ives. It is understood that copying or pub l i ca t i on of th is thesis for f i n a n c i a l gain sha l l not be allowed without my wr i t ten permission. The Un ivers i ty of B r i r i s h Columbia Vancouver 8, Canada Department of i ABSTRACT C r i t i c i s m of Graham Greene o f t e n centers around what has been termed Greene's "obsessions." Much has been made of h i s "formula" of the hunted man. The suggestion u s u a l l y i s that Greene's "obsessions" .and h i s "formula" are a blemish i n h i s work. Since 1 Greene's a r t i s t r y i n other respects i s seldom questioned, i t would seem to me that there i s an explanation of what seems to be a blemish. The word "obsession" i t s e l f suggests an unconscious a c t i v i t y , an unconscious urge. I t occurred to me that the recurrence of Greene's themes, and h i s "formula" could be explained as an unconscious urge t r a n s l a t e d i n t o symbols which r e f l e c t h i s b a s i c concern. Drawing on Jung's theory of."the c o l l e c t i v e unconscious," and examining the theory of a r c h e t y p a l terminology i n l i t e r a r y c r i t i c i s m as used by such l i t e r a r y c r i t i c s as Northrop Frye, and Maud Bodkin -- i n her'Archetypal  Patterns i n Poetry -- I attempt to show that Greene's heroes are symbols i n a mythic s t r u c t u r e . This s t r u c t u r e , w i t h v a r y i n g a r t i s t i c d i f f e r e n c e s , i s what we see as Greene's i n d i v i d u a l novels and "entertainments." The novels and entertainments represent the f u s i o n of Greene's l i t e r a r y a r t i s t r y , h i s unconscious symbolism, and h i s conscious o r d e r i n g of experience. Greene's heroes, h i s "archetypes," are r e c u r r e n t images which evince h i s theme: that man can only be s p i r i t u a l l y regenerated through experience. The word " r e c u r r e n t " helps to e x p l a i n the term "formula" which has been a p p l i e d to Greene's p l o t s . I attempt, too, to r e l a t e Greene's mythology to h i s 'ob-s e s s i o n . " The reason that Greene chooses to c a l l some of h i s work "entertainments," and others "novels," i s that these represent two d i f f e r e n t l i t e r a r y modes i i which roughly p a r a l l e l two general modes i n a r t and l i t e r a t u r e : the comic and the t r a g i c . The two entertainments examined here, The C o n f i d e n t i a l  Agent and The M i n i s t r y of Fear, are discussed as r e p r e s e n t a t i v e of the comic mode, and the two serious n o v e l s , The Power and the Glory and The  Heart of the Matter, are discussed as " t r a g i c . " The entertainments represent not comedy, but the i n t e g r a t i v e urge; that i s , i n comedy the tendency i s to i n t e g r a t e the hero i n t o h i s s o c i e t y . Both Arthur Rowe, the hero of the entertainment, The M i n i s t r y of Fear, and "D," the hero of the entertainment, The C o n f i d e n t i a l Agent, are r e i n t e g r a t e d i n t o t h e i r s o c i e t y through the love of women. On the other hand, the tendency i n the tragic.mode i s to i s o l a t e . the hero from h i s society.. For example, the whiskey p r i e s t of The Power  and the Gl o r y , and Scobie of The Heart of the Matter, are i n c o n f l i c t w i t h t h e i r s o c i e t y and are not p h y s i c a l l y r e i n t e g r a t e d i n t o i t . I a l s o examine Greene's use of melodrama. I attempt to expose the l i n k between h i s use of melodrama and the comic mode. The n e c e s s i t y f o r a happy ending i n the comic mode i s mainly the reason that Greene uses melo-dramatic formulae i n h i s p l o t r e s o l u t i o n i n the entertainments. I t soon becomes c l e a r that Greene's use of melodramatic formulae i s i r o n i c . This i s so because of Greene's b a s i c theme that one should be aware of both good and e v i l i n human nature. His heroes and the minor characters are h i s medium of expression of t h i s theme. TABLE OP CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I . INTRODUCTION . . . . . 1 "NOVELS" AND "ENTERTAINMENTS"—THE MODES . . . 18 I I . THE CONFIDENTIAL AGENT . 28 I I I . THE MINISTRY OF FEAR 42 IV. THE POWER AND THE GLORY 6U V. THE HEART OF THE MATTER 89 NOTES . 122 SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY 125 i i i ACKNOWLEDGMENT I am gra t e f u l to Dr. Lee Whitehead., without whose i n s p i r a t i o n and guidance t h i s thesis would not have materialized. L i t e r a t u r e does not e x i s t i n a vacuum, but i s r a t h e r , a continuum. Northrop F r y e , Anatomy of C r i t i c i s m CHAPTER I INTRODUCTION It i s v i r t u a l l y impossible to read any c r i t i c i s m of Graham Greene's works without being confronted with the question of Greene's "obsessions." These include what Calder-Marshall c a l l s the "formula" of "the hunted man"; the "terror of l i f e " ; questions of l o y a l t y , betrayal, and s i n ; and the divided soul. Calder-Marshall, seemingly one of Greene's least perceptive c r i t i c s , frankly states that "Greene believes more strongly i n e v i l than i n goodness."^ Some of the more perceptive c r i t i c s , notably A l l o t t and Pa r r i s (Graham Greene), and Walter A l l e n ("Graham Greene", Writers of Today), attempt to understand and explain these obsessions as recurring themes and images. Walter A l l e n notes: "Greene has been c r i t i c i z e d because his novels tend to have the same formula, that of the hunted man. This does not seem to me serious: the hunted man i s one of the oldest symbolic fig u r e s , and even i n the entertainments* one i s not far from symbolism" (p. 22). A l l o t t and F a r r i s see Greene's characters, incidents, and background as constituting "a mythology, which i s the vehicle for Greene's obsessional ideas." * Greene has divided his novels into "entertainments" and "novels." "Entertainments" are the t h r i l l e r s which Greene writes c h i e f l y , as he says, for making money. "Novels" are his more serious works. 1 2 The o p e r a t i v e words f o r the purpose of t h i s t h e s i s a r e . "symbolic f i g u r e s " , "symbolism", and "mythology" because i t i s i n i n v e s t i g a t i o n of the symbolic use t h a t Greene makes of h i s "hero" f i g u r e s i n the entertainments and of the s p i r i t u a l chase i n the s e r i o u s n o v e l s , t h a t the r e c u r r e n c e of the themes can be e x p l a i n e d . Greene's c h a r a c t e r s , i n c i d e n t s and background do i n -deed form a mythology, but, f a r from being merely the " v e h i c l e f o r Greene's o b s e s s i o n a l i d e a s " , the mythology i s the o b s e s s i o n and i s the i n f o r m i n g s p i r i t of Greene's work. T h i s i s why Greene's c h a r a c t e r s seem so a l i k e , and t h i s i s probably why c e r t a i n themes, f o r example, the theme o f p i t y , reappear. That "the working out of the formula [the hunted man) has been v a r i e d with each book and has enabled [Greene} always . . ; to t e l l a s t o r y t h a t i s e x c i t i n g i n i t s own r i g h t as a s t o r y " , 2 i s a t r i b u t e t o Greene's conscious a r t i s t r y . Thus, Greene's mythology i s . b o t h h i s unconscious v i s i o n and h i s conscious symbolism. D i s c u s s i o n of symbolic usage of p a r t i c u l a r images and concepts i n a mythic p a t t e r n touches, almost i n e v i t a b l y , upon the r e l a t e d concept of a r c h e t y p e s . Archetypes, though p e r s o n a l , a r e a l s o u n i v e r s a l In t h a t they a r e part of what Jung c a l l s "the c o l l e c t i v e unconscious." I n Jung's view, the a r t i s t r e s o r t s to "mythology" to g i v e experience i t s most f i t t i n g e x p r e s s i o n . The source of the a r t i s t ' s c r e a t i v e n e s s i s the 3 p r i m o r d i a l experience which cannot be fathomed and which r e q u i r e s " m y t h o l o g i c a l imagery" to g i v e i t form. The a r t i s t i s a v i s i o n a r y , but the v i s i o n i s merely a "deep presentiment" t h a t s t r i v e s t o f i n d e x p r e s s i o n . Because i t i s merely a deep presentiment, the e x p r e s s i o n does not f o l l o w a s e q u e n t i a l p r o g r e s s i o n . Rather, the a r t i s t , i n attempting t o g i v e shape to the "weird p a r a d o x i c a l i t y of "his v i s i o n " uses imagery that i s " d i f f i c u l t to handle and f u l l of c o n t r a d i c t i o n s . " As examples of these v i s i o n a r i e s , Jung p o i n t s t o Dante, whose presentiments "are c l o t h e d i n images t h a t run the gamut of Heaven and H e l l " ; Goethe, Wagner, N i e t z s c h e , and Blake, who "inv e n t s f o r h i m s e l f i n d e s c r i b a b l e f i g u r e s . " Psychology, says Jung, can "do n o t h i n g towards the e l u c i d a t i o n of t h i s c o l o u r f u l imagery except b r i n g together m a t e r i a l s f o r com-p a r i s o n and o f f e r a terminology f o r i t s d i s c u s s i o n . A c c o r d i n g t o t h i s terminology, t h a t which appears i n the v i s i o n i s the c o l l e c t i v e unconscious." Jung d e f i n e s the term as "a c e r t a i n p sychic d i s p o s i t i o n shaped by the f o r c e s of h e r e d i t y " from which consciousness has developed.-^ Archetypes, then, f o r our purpose here, a r e expressed i n the symbols through which the a r t i s t communicates h i s v i s i o n . T h i s unconscious v i s i o n cannot be t o t a l l y d i v o r c e d from the a r t i s t ' s conscious awareness because i t i s a combination of the two which g i v e s the sum t o t a l of the experience of b e i n g . To Jung's " d i s p o s i t i o n shaped by the f o r c e s of h e r e d i t y , " perhaps i t would be w e l l to add, "and the c u l t u r e of the times." T h i s would h e l p to e x p l a i n why a r t i s t s i n d i f f e r e n t c e n t u r i e s order the same symbols i n ways t h a t are meaningful to the age. For i n s t a n c e , when an a r t i s t l i k e , say, Shakespeare, presents a p a t t e r n of r e g e n e r a t i o n , as i n King L e a r . I t i m p l i e s an a r i s t o c r a t i c and n a t i o n a l r e - e s t a b l i s h m e n t of o r d e r . In t h i s age of the i n d i v i d u a l , with i t s emphasis on the common man, an a r t i s t l i k e Graham Greene s e t s much the same p a t t e r n with emphasis on the i n d i v i d u a l . There i s a l o g i c a l c o n n e c t i o n between Greene's " o b s e s s i v e " themes—most frequent a r e h i s themes of p i t y , f i d e l i t y , b e t r a y a l and s a l v a t i o n — a n d h i s unconscious "deep presentiment." I t i s through these symbols, these archetypes, t h a t Greene communi-cat e s h i s r e a d i n g of experience. By "reading of experience" I mean both h i s conscious awareness of the human c o n d i t i o n and h i s unconscious p r i m o r d i a l experience which i s i n g r e a t measure par t of everjjlman's e x i s t e n c e . I t i s Greene's c r e a t i v e a r t i s t r y t h a t enables him to express what we a l l f e e l , and i t i s h i s a r t i s t i c s k i l l t h a t orders these symbols i n a meaningful p a t t e r n . The r e l a t i o n s h i p between Greene's unconscious u r g i n g s , h i s c onscious awareness of e x i s t e n c e , and h i s a r t i s t i c s k i l l w i l l be examined here i n the two entertainments, The C o n f i d e n t i a l  Agent and The M i n i s t r y of Fear; and two of the more s e r i o u s n o v e l s , The Power and the G l o r y and The Heart of the M a t t e r . 5 - In a l e t t e r d e d i c a t i n g h i s l a t e s t n o v e l , The Comedians, to A. S. F r e r e , Greene warns a g a i n s t the f r e q u e n t l y i n d u l g e d tendency of seeing the c h a r a c t e r s i n a n o v e l as f a c s i m i l e s of. the author, e s p e c i a l l y when the novel, i s w r i t t e n i n the f i r s t person. The."I", Greene says, i s as much an imaginary c h a r a c t e r as are the minor p l a y e r s : tta p h y s i c a l t r a i t here, a h a b i t of speech, an a n e c d o t e — t h e y a r e b o i l e d up In the k i t c h e n of the unconscious and emerge u n r e c o g n i z a b l e even to the cook i n most ca s e s . " The experiences and ob s e r v a t i o n s o f everyday l i f e a r e committed t o the a r t i s t ' s unconscious. L a t e r , combined with the "psychic d i s p o s i t i o n shaped by the f o r c e s of h e r e d i t y " - -the c o l l e c t i v e u n c o n s c i o u s — t h e y appear as symbols r e p r e s e n t i n g the a r t i s t ' s r e a d i n g of e x i s t e n c e . Because the symbols a r e -mainly unconscious and touch the very w e l l - s p r i n g of the a r t i s t ' s e x i s t e n c e and concern f o r the human c o n d i t i o n , they tend t o form a r e c u r r i n g p a t t e r n , or a "formula" which r e f l e c t s the a r t i s t ' s concern. I t i s the a r t i s t ' s consciousness t h a t r e -orders the symbols and all o w s f o r the v a r i e t y and excitement which i s the hallmark of an author l i k e Graham Greene. C r i t i c s , such as C a l d e r - M a r s h a l l , t h e r e f o r e , who p o i n t out Greene's formulae and obsessions should make i t c l e a r t h a t they a r e aware of t h e i r f u n c t i o n and t h a t such terms are not meant as censure. A q u e s t i o n can be r a i s e d about the v a l i d i t y of a p p l y i n g Jung's concepts of myth and a r c h e t y p a l symbolism to o r l t l c m of Graham Greene's work. Besides Jung's obse r v a t i o n s of the r e l a t i o n s h i p s between myth, l i t e r a t u r e and psychology, one can quote e x h a u s t i v e l y from Greene's Journey Without Maps to h i n t a t the mythopoeic bent of Greene's mind. Here, as w e l l as i n the a u t o b i o g r a p h i c a l s t o r y , The Lost Childhood, we see a c u r i o u s p a r a l l e l between Greene's views about c h i l d h o o d as a link-between the p r i m o r d i a l past and the f u t u r e , and Jung's view of the c h i l d as p o s s e s s i n g unconscious i n t i m a t i o n s of a n c e s t r y . These i n t i m a t i o n s m a n i f e s t themselves mainly i n • "dreams, n a r c o t i c s t a t e s and cases of i n s a n i t y " when there are " e c l i p s e s of consciousness."^ In The L o s t Childhood and Journey Without Maps. Greene suggests t h a t b e f o r e the c h i l d i s expected t o , and i s prepared to assume the r e s p o n s i b i l i t i e s of everyday e x i s t e n c e , h i s "world" i s the world of the uncon-s c i o u s where are s t o r e d i n t i m a t i o n s of a g e - o l d e x i s t e n c e . : T h i i s why he says i n The L o s t Childhood t h a t he r e j e c t e d q u i t e e a r l y the heroes of romance. The c h i l d , " a f t e r a l l , knows -most of the g a m e — i t i s only an a t t i t u d e to i t t h a t he l a c k s . He i s q u i t e aware of cowardice, shame, d e c e p t i o n , d i s a p p o i n t -ment" (p. 1*0. He h i m s e l f r e j e c t e d the i l l u s i o n of the hero of romance who was "too good to be t r u e " i n favour of the r e a l i t y r e p r e s e n t e d by the symbolic "Gagool," the w i t c h of King Solomon's Mines. She was r e a l t o him because, " d i d n ' t she wait . . . i n dreams every n i g h t i n the passage by the l i n e n cupboard, near the nursery door?" (pp. 13-1*0. Greene 7 seems convinced a l s o t h a t i t i s i n c h i l d h o o d t h a t we choose our d e s t i n y . T h i s c o n v i c t i o n i s made e x p l i c i t i n The.Power and the G l o r y : There i s always one moment i n c h i l d h o o d when,the door opens and l e t s the f u t u r e i n . . . ,,We should be t h a n k f u l we cannot see the h o r r o r s and degradations l y i n g around our c h i l d h o o d , i n cupboards and the bookshelves everywhere ( p i 1 5 ) • T h i s can be compared with Jung's: C h i l d h o o d i s . . . important not only because v a r i o u s warpings of i n s t i n c t have t h e i r o r i g i n t h e r e , but because t h i s i s the time when, t e r r i f y i n g or encouraging, those f a r - s e e i n g dreams and images appear b e f o r e the s o u l of the c h i l d , shaping h i s whole d e s t i n y , as w e l l as those r e t r o s p e c t i v e i n t u i t i o n s which r e a c h back f a r beyond the range of * c h i l d h o o d experience i n t o the l i f e of our a n c e s t o r s . 5 The i n t e n t i o n here i s not to belabour the q u e s t i o n of the v a l i d i t y o f s e e i n g Greene's work i n i t s mythic framework. I am convinced, however, t h a t the v a l i d i t y of such an approach w i l l be enhanced by my. n o t i n g some of Greene's comments i n Journey Without Maps; These comments have unmistakable over-tones both of Jung's concept of the c o l l e c t i v e unconscious, and of myth and r i t u a l . Journey Without Maps i s Greene's account of h i s journey to A f r i c a ; Once, while watching the r i t u a l of "The Masked B l a c k s m i t h " of the A f r i c a n v i l l a g e of Mosambolahun, Greene says t h a t he was reminded of "a J a c k - i n -the-Green" which he had seen when he was f o u r years o l d . L i k e the r i t u a l which he was w i t n e s s i n g , t h i s Jack-ln-the-Green dance "as l a t e as the n i n t h c entury i n England had r e l i g i o u s 8 s i g n i f i c a n c e , the dance was part o f the r i t e s c e l e b r a t i n g the death of w i n t e r and t h e " r e t u r n " o f s p r i n g " . The important aspect of t h i s i s the e f f e c t t h a t t h i s r i t e i n the A f r i c a n v i l l a g e had on Greene: "one had the s e n s a t i o n of having come home, f o r here one was f i n d i n g a s s o c i a t i o n s with a p e r s o n a l and a r a c i a l c h i l d h o o d , one was being scared by the same o l d wit c h e s " (p; 10*0; In the s u b - s e c t i o n e n t i t l e d "Mythology", Greene a g a i n speaks of "the wi t c h a t the corner of the nursery passage;" Here too, he says t h a t he d r e a m t — e c h o i n g Scobie's f e e l i n g i n The Heart of the M a t t e r — t h a t "someone was o u t s i d e the door w a i t i n g t o come i n . " T h i s was a re c u r r e n c e of h i s e a r l i e s t remembered dream (p. 2 1 9 ) . T h i s i s probably a wish f u l f i l l m e n t dream, the e f f o r t of the mind t o make t a n g i b l e the vague "warpings of i n s t i n c t " because Greene had penetrated t h i s "heart of darkness" f o r j u s t t h i s purpose. He concludes t h a t what had a s t o n i s h e d him about A f r i c a was t h a t i t had never been r e a l l y s t r a n g e : "the 'heart of darkness' was common to us both. Freud has made us conscious as we have never been b e f o r e of the a n c e s t r a l threads which s t i l l e x i s t i n our unconscious minds t o l e a d us b a c k i The need, of course, has always been f e l t , to go back and b e g i n a g a i n ? (pp; 3 I O - 3 I I ) . There i s a d i s t i n c t c o n n e c t i o n i n Greene's words between c h i l d h o o d , dreams, the unconscious, and man's e a r l y beginnings; I t i s a matter of c o n j e c t u r e whether the ps y c h o a n a l y s i s to which Greene says he was sub j e c t e d i n h i s y o u t h 0 made him more 9 conscious of t h i s c o n n e c t i o n . In any event, dreams, and a p r e - o c c u p a t i o n w i t h c h i l d h o o d r e c u r i n h i s work. They are "the two promontories i n h i s work"''' says John Atki n s , who claims t o have counted s i x t y - t h r e e dreams i n Greene's p u b l i s h e d Q output. I t would be a mistake, t h e r e f o r e , to overlook these landmarks which may be s i g n p o s t s to understanding the paradox of Greene's v i s i o n . The a r c h e t y p a l hero of myth i s a symbol which has s u r v i v e d through the ages to the modern t h r i l l e r — a term which has been a p p l i e d t o Greene's entertainments. In the f i c t i o n of s u c c e s s i v e ages, the hero's a t t i t u d e s , methods, and weapons have been changed t o s u i t both the age and the author's b i a s , but the modern hero s t i l l r e t a i n s a n o t a b l e symbolic a f f i n i t y w ith such mythic heroes as Theseus, Watu Gunung, S i e g f r i e d , A r t h u r , and even a hero l i k e Robin Hood.9 Lord Raglan i n h i s study, The Hero, attempts to s u b s t a n t i a t e the concept of a monomyth as the' prototype f o r a l l myths. Joseph Campbell, too, i n The Hero With A Thousand Faces, suggests much the same i d e a ; B a s i c a l l y , the common ground between the modern hero and the hero of myth i s t h a t they a r e surrogates a c t i n g i n the i n t e r e s t of o t h e r s . The importance of the concept of the hero as a symbol and archetype cannot be over-emphasized because of i t s r e l a t i o n s h i p to the s i g n i f i c a n t archetype of F a l l , R e b i r t h and Regeneration which i s i n some ways b a s i c to Greene's myth-ology. In the hero-myths "the over-coming of m o r t a l dangers leads i n the end t o a v i c t o r y over the agents of darkness and to a r e b i r t h i n regenerated f o r m . " 1 ^ The hero-myths themselves p a r a l l e l the f u n c t i o n which the p r i m i t i v e myth and r i t u a l served f o r e a r l y man i n h i s attempt to plumb the meaning of e x i s t e n c e and to e s t a b l i s h order out of the chaos of an incom-p r e h e n s i b l e u n i v e r s e : As a symbol, the hero-myth, although presented as a p h y s i c a l b a t t l e , r e p r e s e n t s not a p h y s i c a l triumph, but a p s y c h o l o g i c a l one. S y m b o l i c a l l y , the P a l l r e p r e s e n t s a misguided deed which b r i n g s the t h r e a t of s u f f e r i n g and a n n i h i l a t i o n t o the community. The hero fa c e s the t h r e a t f o r the community and i t s w e l f a r e depends on h i s prowess. H i s e t h i c a l conduct i s an example to the community, and he r e -e s t a b l i s h e s a sense of order and of c o n t i n u i t y . C h r i s t i a n i t y has used and perpetuated much the same concept w i t h the J u d a e o - C h r i s t i a n myth of the Garden of Eden and C h r i s t . I t i s easy t o see, then, t h a t these archetypes "are c o n t i n u o u s l y present and a c t i v e ; as such they need no b e l i e v i n g i n , but only an i n t u i t i o n of t h e i r meaning and a c e r t a i n s a p i e n t awe, . • . which never l o s e s s i g h t of t h e i r import." These archetypes a r e " p a r t l y a s p i r i t u a l f a c t o r , and p a r t l y l i k e a hidden meaning In the i n s t i n c t s . " 1 1 The p a t t e r n o f the hero-myths c o n t a i n s c e r t a i n b a s i c elements which a r e s i m i l a r t o the s i g n i f i c a n t f e a t u r e s of the myth and r i t u a l of the A n c i e n t Near East as o u t l i n e d by Weisinger i n The Agony and the Triumph;! 2 These ares the 11 i n d i s p e n s a b l e r o l e of the hero who goes out of the community; the combat between the hero and an opposing power; the s u f f e r i n g of the hero; the momentary defeat of the hero (the symbolic d e a t h ) ; the miraculous triumph of the hero (the r e b i r t h ) ; and the h e r o i c p r o c e s s i o n when the hero r e t u r n s to a r e l i e v e d and c o n t r i t e community. L i k e the r i t u a l s o f the A n c i e n t Near E a s t , these hero-myths "not only . . . symbolize the passage from death to l i f e , from one way of l i f e t o another, but they are the a c t u a l means of a c h i e v i n g the change-over; they mark the t r a n s i t i o n by which, through the process of s e p a r a t i o n , r e g e n e r a t i o n and a r e t u r n on a h i g h e r l e v e l , both the i n d i v i d u a l and the community are assured t h e i r v i c t o r y over the f o r c e s of chaos which a r e thereby kept under c o n t r o l . " The archetype of the a n t a g o n i s t i s b a s i c t o the r e l a t e d archetypes of the hero and the F a l l , the R e b i r t h and the Regeneration c y c l e . The a n t a g o n i s t r e p r e s e n t s e v i l and the f o r c e s of chaos. In C h r i s t i a n terms, the a r c h e t y p a l a n t a g o n i s t can be r e - i n t e r p r e t e d as the archetype of the d e v i l , s i n or temptation whose s o l e aim i s the f a l l of man. F i r s t , i n psycho-l o g i c a l terms, and second i n t h e o l o g i c a l t e r m s , ^ the archetype of the d e v i l i s an important aspect of Greene's mythology. Greene b e l i e v e s , as he says i n The L o s t Childhood t h a t "goodness has o n l y once found a p e r f e c t i n c a r n a t i o n i n a human body and never w i l l a g a i n , but e v i l can always f i n d a home t h e r e " (p. 1 5 ) • H i s epigramatic "human nature i s not b l a c k and white but b l a c k and grey" i s the key t o an understanding of the problems which h i s heroes f a c e . Greene i s aware of an extant e v i l which i s part of the human c o n d i t i o n . In h i s work, the arche-type of the d e v i l becomes, as Maud Bodkins5- puts i t i n her d i s c u s s i o n of O t h e l l o 1 ^ "a p e r s i s t e n t or re c u r r e n t mode of apprehension, . . . the d e v i l i s our tendency to represent i n personal form the forces w i t h i n and without us that threaten our supreme val u e s . " In h i s work, Greene has taken the concept of the hero beyond the hero-myth stage and has made i t con-s i s t e n t both w i t h C h r i s t i a n thought and w i t h the age. His work i s c o n s i s t e n t w i t h C h r i s t i a n i t y because, as i n C h r i s t i a n thought, the hero i s p a r t l y r e s p o n s i b l e f o r h i s own regeneration. H i s work i s c o n s i s t e n t a l s o with the a g e — t h e age of the is common m a n — i n th a t h i s heroes- "one of us"; that i s , he i s n e i t h e r s u p e r i o r to us not to our environment as opposed to the mythic hero and the hero of romance, and "we respond to a sense of h i s common humanity. 1 , 15 Because Greene presents the forc e s w i t h i n as w e l l as without us that threaten to overwhelm us, and because he was aware of the c o n d i t i o n of e v i l i n the world even before r e l i g i o n l a t e r explained i t to him " i n other terms," C a t h o l i c i s m cannot be seen as the informing s p i r i t of h i s work. He i s a humanist f i r s t and a C a t h o l i c second. He i s what he says he i s : not a C a t h o l i c w r i t e r , but a w r i t e r who i s a C a t h o l i c . H is C a t h o l i c i s m "has perhaps done no more than provide an i n t e l l e c t u a l b a s i s f o r a temperamental p r e d i s p o s i t i o n . Greene has the deep sense of the r e l i g i o u s and of the super-natural that i s ch a r a c t e r i s t i c of the mythopoeic mind. That his Catholicism i s " r e l i g i o u s " rather than "Catholic" i s attested to "by the fact that so many labels have been applied to him. His Catholicism i t s e l f i s controversial. Terms l i k e Manicheanism and, Jansenism have been applied to him. If labels need be applied, i t i s easier to agree with Rostenne i n his Graham Greene: temoln des temps traglques, that Greene, l i k e Scobie i n The Heart of the Matter, i s a modern Prometheus and a visionary. With Greene, we are faced with the paradox that every man can be a here, yet no one can be a hero because, as Greene says i n The Lost Childhood, just when success seems ce r t a i n , "the pendulum i s about ready to swing." As opposed to the assured success of the mythic hero and the hero of romance, the most one can do i s to continue the struggle and hope, because "despair", says Greene i n The Power and the Glory, i s "the unforgivable s i n " (p. 83). Greene's i s not the "si m p l i f i e d mythology" of the whiskey priest';; before his enlightenment: "Michael dressed i n armour slew a. dragon, and the angels f e l l through space l i k e comets with be a u t i f u l streaming hair because they were jealous" (p. 83). Rather, regeneration i n his terms demands a r e a l i s t i c awareness of the truth of the e v i l that attends the human condition. This i s what Greene's symbolic figures demonstrate. 1 1 * What Joseph Campbell observes about a l l s e r i o u s modern l i t e r a t u r e i n The Hero With a Thousand Faces i s tr u e a l s o of Graham Greene. As Campbell sees i t , s e r i o u s modern l i t e r a t u r e i s devoted t o "a courageous, open-eyed o b s e r v a t i o n of the s i c k e n i n g l y broken t r a n s f i g u r a t i o n s t h a t abound b e f o r e us, around us, and within." 1''' T h i s i s one reason why Greene scorns the happy ending. Greene uses the melodramatic con-v e n t i o n s common to the hero-myth and i t s s u c c e s s o r , the mystery-t h r i l l e r , but even i n the entertainments where the convention demands a happy ending, Greene permits only a p a r t i a l "happy-ending." I have used the term "conventions o f melodrama" s p e c i f i c a l l y as i s i m p l i e d i n F r y e ' s d e s c r i p t i o n of melodrama: " i n melodrama two themes are important: the triumph of moral v i r t u e over v i l l a n y , and the subsequent i d e a l i z i n g of the moral views assumed to be h e l d by the audience." Because of t h i s "triumph" and t h i s " i d e a l i z i n g of the moral views", the hero-myth, and the m y s t e r y - t h r i l l e r , , u s u a l l y have a happy—and sometimes a c o n t r i v e d — e n d i n g . I n Greene, t h i s "happy ending" i s o f t e n s u p e r f i c i a l , and, p u r p o s e f u l l y , o n l y p a r t i a l l y happy because Greene c o n s i d e r s a happy ending to be an i l l u s i o n . I n The C o n f i d e n t i a l Agent, f o r example, Rose i s aware t h a t she has c o n s t a n t l y to compete w i t h the memory of "D's" dead w i f e ; She has to be prepared to accept not a whole l o a f , but what i s l e f t . She must be prepared to accept what i s l e f t "now" as she puts i t . A g ain, i n The M i n i s t r y of F e a r . A r t h u r Rowe and Anna H l l f e w i l l never " l i v e happily ever a f t e r " because, i r o n i c a l l y , they must constantly perpetuate a l i e to r e a l i z e any happiness: she must keep his s p i r i t young by avoiding any situations which might remind him of his mercy-killing of his wife and so avoid the p a l l of g u i l t which would once again drown his s p i r i t . She does not know that her brother has already t o l d him. He, i n turn, must constantly be on guard to l e t her believe that he does not know. Ostensibly, then, The C o n f i d e n t i a l Agent and The Ministry of Fear have the conventional ending of melodrama i n which the hero "gets the g i r l . " Greene shows, however, that l i f e i s not l i k e that. L i f e i s a constant struggle. It took a more mature, more r e a l i s t i c , Arthur Eowe to see the necessity of replacing s e l f -p i t y with love to experience even a vestige of happiness i n l i f e . From th i s point-of-view, regeneration i n Greene's terms i s dependent on a frank appraisal of the human condition. As Greene sees i t , one must constantly be aware of the condition of e v i l — w i t h o u t and within—and yet aspire to the "good way" as opposed to the " e v i l way." Here, a d i s t i n c t i o n should be noted between the coupled pairs "good-evil" and "right-wrong." Paul Rostenne makes the d i s t i n c t i o n that "good-evil" touches the very foundations of morality and the metaphysical roots of human conduct; "Right-wrong," on the other hand, applies mainly to s p e c i f i c s o c i a l laws and attitudes and do"not a f f e c t 16 the ultimate depths of b e i n g . ^ Greene's mythology, then, has this i n common with a l l important myths: there is an e t h i c a l , deeply s p i r i t u a l element which has as i t s main function, the regeneration of man's s p i r i t . This i s not to say that Greene's work i s a l l e g o r i c a l , nor that i t i s d i d a c t i c ; rather, the mythology and the morality are so deeply seated that they are fused i n the unconscious and become symbolic. This i s why i t i s possible to say that Greene's obsessive formula of the hunted man i s his mythology. Greene's s p i r i t u a l l y haunted man is usually concerned with a state of l o s t innocence. His regeneration signals the attainment of a higher innocence.. In Greene, there are three d i s t i n c t kinds of innocence. F i r s t i s the higher, incorruptible innocence which faces e v i l without being corrupted by l t . Second, i s the innocence of childhood. Third i s the innocence of the I d e a l i s t . The higher innocence i s the s p i r i t u a l maturity, the regeneration attained by Greene's heroes. His heroes progress either from a prolonged innocence of childhood as in Arthur Rowe of The  Ministry of Fear, or from the i l l u s i o n of idealism as i n "D" of The Confi d e n t i a l Agent. The whiskey priest of The Power  and the Glory and Scobie of The Heart of the Matter progress from the innocence which attends a lack of awareness of s e l f . The issue, however, i s not as clear-cut as stated here, because the innocence of childhood and the i l l u s i o n of idealism b a s i c a l l y constitute a lack of awareness of s e l f , that, i s , a f a i l u r e to recognize the fact of e v i l without and within the s e l f . In Greene, the innocence of childhood i s often the i l l u s o r y state of innocence where the seed i s sown either for s p i r i t u a l maturity or for s p i r i t u a l damnation. This i s why Greene i n s i s t s on the importance of childhood. If the i l l u s o r y state of innocence flowers into the innocence of the i d e a l i s t , t h i s constitutes a "branching-off into the wrong d i r e c t i o n because th i s i s a perpetuation of an innocence susceptible to use by the forces of e v i l . This i s the reason that the i d e a l i s t i n Greene i s an example of the wrong approach to l i f e . The c h i l d , as Greene says i n The Lost Childhood, "knows most of the game" of l i f e , but there i s a point where l i f e ceases to be a game. The i d e a l i s t i s the " c h i l d " who continues the game. The regenerated, or s p i r i t u a l l y mature in d i v i d u a l i s the man who adopts the r i g h t attitude to l i f e : that the" "cowardice, shame, deception and disappointment" are'a fact of l i f e i n the face of which one must attempt to develop and nurture one's i n t e g r i t y . The Greene hero i s tortured i n the face of what "D" of The Confidential Agent c a l l s "the g u i l t which clings to a l l of us." This g u i l t , i n Catholic terms, i s the d i r e c t r e s u l t of o r i g i n a l s i n , of the o r i g i n a l F a l l . But this statement also suggests a community. The community with which Greene i s concerned, however, i s a community of s p i r i t . The humanity of h i s symbolic heroes demonstrates th i s point. It i s , then, a combination of Greene's s p i r i t u a l and human concern that maintains h i s obsessive themes and his basic archetype of regeneration through experience. "NOVELS" AND "ENTERTAINMENTS"—THE MODES Greene makes the d i s t i n c t i o n i n his novels between "entertainments" and "novels." The d i s t i n c t i o n , surely, i s not made on a thematic basis, because there are si m i l a r themes current through both the novels and the entertainments. Themes of salvation, p i t y , f i d e l i t y , betrayal; questions of conscience and r e s p o n s i b i l i t y ; and the drama of meaningful actions taken i n times of c r i s i s are a l l common to Greene's novels: and entertainments. The basis for the d i s t i n c t i o n must, therefore, be sought elsewhere. Examination of t h i s d i s t i n c t i o n w i l l show that the difference i s mainly a r t i s t i c . Greene devotes more of his a r t i s t i c s k i l l to the novel, thus making less frequent use of melodrama. Actually, there i s a close r e l a t i o n s h i p between the novels and the entertainments: they both express Greene's basic archetype of regeneration through experience. Proportionately, i n the entertainments The Con f i d e n t i a l Agent and The Ministry of Fear, the focus i s more on the physical action than on the s p i r i t u a l struggle. We are held more aware of the l i n e a r progress of the plot than we are of the s p i r i t u a l struggle of the hero. In the more serious novels, The Heart of the Matter and The Power and the  Glory. the focus i s on the s p i r i t u a l or in t e r n a l struggle of the protagonist. Even i n The Power and the Glory where there i s a physical chase, the physical chase forms the background fo r , and i s secondary to the s p i r i t u a l struggle of the whiskey p r i e s t . I t would seem, then, that the d i s t i n c t i o n between "entertainment" and "novel" i s a matter of focus and i n t e n s i t y . There i s a greater emotional resonance to the common themes when they are treated i n the novel as compared to the enter-tainment. This i s because there i s more c a r e f u l character-i z a t i o n i n what Greene c a l l s the novel. This i s espe c i a l l y true of The Heart of the Matter i n which Scobie's propensity for compassion i s so c a r e f u l l y delineated that his gradual immersion i n t h i s , h is destructive element, i s not sur p r i s i n g . In this way, the element of melodrama i n such an important novel as t h i s i s minimized. The s t r i k i n g difference between novel and entertainment i s that the plots and t h e i r resolution i n the entertainments do make greater use of melodrama. In The Heart of the Matter, as i s the case with the t r u l y t r a g i c , there i s no resolution to the paradox of Scobie's f a l l . The drama of his struggle i s presented from several oblique angles which defy a too hasty, too harsh judgment, as well as too easy an acceptance. For instance, Scobie i s a "just man," an "A r i s t l d e s , " yet he commits adultery and i s implicated i n the murder of h i s f a i t h f u l servant, A l l . As a Catholic, he dies 20 i n disgrace as a s u i c i d e — t h e Catholic's damnable s i n — y e t Father Rank suggests that he loved God and i s perhaps not damned. He dies to spare Helen and Louise the g r i e f which he believes his continued existence would inevitably cause them, but he may have caused them more g r i e f : his wife, Louise, as a C a t h o l i c , i s b i t t e r at his "damnable" act; Helen, his mistress, already a widow at eighteen a f t e r being married only a month, i s c y n i c a l and s p i r i t l e s s a f t e r t h i s second blow that l i f e has dealt her. The most i n s t r u c t i v e view of the melodramatic formulae which are part of Greene's mythology has been presented by Northrop Frye i n his Anatomy of C r i t i c i s m . In the sub-section "Comic F i c t i o n a l Modes," he notes that Greene's "melodramatic formulas" could be classed as "i r o n i c comedy addressed to the people who can r e a l i z e that murderous violence i s less an attack on a virtuous society by a malignant i n d i v i d u a l than a symptom of that society's own vieiousness."*9 More importantly, Frye writes that " i n melodrama two themes are important: the triumph of moral virtue over v i l l a i n y , and the consequent i d e a l i z i n g of the moral views assumed to be held by the audience. Frye distinguishes between two general "modes" i n l i t e r a t u r e : the " t r a g i c " and the "comic." In the t r a g i c , "the hero becomes iso l a t e d from society;" i n the comic, "he i s incorporated into i t . " 2 l Because th i s e s s e n t i a l d i s t i n c t i o n between the tragic and comic modes seems applicable to discussion of Greene's 21 The Heart of the Matter and The Power and the Glory i n .the tragic mode, and the entertainments The Confidential Agent and The Ministry of Fear i n the comic mode, the terms w i l l be used here. Frye's views on melodrama i n his theory helps to explain why, i n the entertainments, there i s even a p a r t i a l happy ending which i s absent from the serious novels under discussion. Both The Con f i d e n t i a l Agent and The Ministry of Fear depend heavily on melodrama for t h e i r plot r e s o l u t i o n . Ostensibly, they both end f o r t u i t o u s l y for the hero as was the case with the hero of the hero-myths and the hero of romance. As i t was necessary i n myth and.,romance for the hero to succeed to ensure a continuation and/or a r e -establishment of order, so i s It necessary for the Greene -hero i n the romantic entertainment to succeed. "D" of The  Conf i d e n t i a l Agent c e r t a i n l y withdrew himself from society a f t e r the murder of his wife. He i s going through the motions of l i v i n g , but he i s s p i r i t u a l l y dead. Rose knows thi s and t e l l s him that she w i l l not Mgo on loving a dead man" (p. 206). Although he i s on a mission, "D" c e r t a i n l y i s not a heroic envoy because he i s s p i r i t l e s s . But he i s "saved" at the end and returns with the heroine, Rose, perhaps to be reintegrated into the society of his fellow r e v o l u t i o n i s t s . Seemingly, he has found a fairy.godmother who makes i t possible for him to disentangle himself from the web of intrigue which surrounds 22 him. Arthur Howe, too, of The Ministry of Fear, is a s o c i a l outcast and i s s p i r i t u a l l y dead a f t e r the "mercy k i l l i n g " of his wife. He i s "reborn" and i s eventually "saved" by Anna H i l f e . In both cases, then, the hero i s reintegrated into society. The melodramatic plot i s functional. Both enter-tainments, on the surface, have the c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s of the "romance." But here, with the token happy ending, the s i m i l a r i t y to the romance ceases. Greene i s true to his re j e c t i o n of the hero of romance although he uses the con-vention i n a p a r t i c u l a r way. He allows a p a r t i a l happy ending and t h i s , Frye suggests, i s an " i n t e l l e c t u a l i z e d parody of melodramatic formulas." C r i t i c s who censure Greene for his melodramatic formulae, then, should show that they are aware that the melodrama i s only the veneer beneath which l i e s the paradox of Greene's v i s i o n . I t i s only through the love and the basic awareness and p r a c t i c a l i t y of the heroines that the heroes do succeed. I t i s as Kunkel says i n The Labyrinthine Ways of Graham Greene: 2 2 In Greene, the re l a t i o n s h i p of the heroine to the men i s b a s i c a l l y a s p i r i t u a l one. Their mission " i s to swerve the outcast from b i t t e r solitude, to comfort the seedy . . . " The Greene "hero," then, i s a l o s t soul who, i n the comic mode that i s the entertainment, w i l l be reincorporated into society i n the s p e c i f i c terms of Greene's outlook. I f Greene's treatment of the heroic pose i s a parody, then the reader must look beyond the thoughts and actions of the hero to understand Greene's a t t i t u d e . I t i s i n examination of the r e l a t i o n s h i p of the heroine to the hero, and i n the roles of the minor characters that Greene's iro n i c stance can be seen. Because the hero i s a symbol i n the network of Greene's mythology, what happens to him r e a l l y represents p r a c t i c a l rules f o r the guidance of the reader; i n other words—and th i s i s Greene's main concern—what happens to the hero supplies a pattern of s p i r i t u a l and human values. I t would be f a i r to apply to Greene what Jung says of Rider Haggard's f i c t i o n : "; . the story i s primarily a means of giving expression to s i g n i f i c a n t material. However much the t a l e may seem to out-grow the content, the l a t t e r outweighs the former i n importanc e. ,,23 The protagonists of The Heart of the Matter and The  Power and the Glory become isola t e d from t h e i r society. This i s e s p e c i a l l y clear i n The Power and the Glory where the priest i s even more a "wanted man" than i s the American gunman, concern for whose soul causes the pr i e s t to take the decisive action which led to his own capture. The element of the physical chase i n The Power and the Glory would, on the surface, tend to put t h i s novel i n the same mode as the entertainments. But, as has been noted, the physical chase i s only the back-ground f o r the priest's s p i r i t u a l search. The seemingly melo-dramatic ending, i n which the pr i e s t i s "reborn" i n the person of the new p r i e s t who i s sheltered by the boy, Luis, does not a l t e r the tragic tone of the novel. This conclusion i s a r e c o n c i l i a t i o n much l i k e the regeneration that emerges i n Shakespeare's tragic patterns. The novel demonstrates once again Greene's basic archetype of salvation through experience: the whiskey pr i e s t may now be a "bad" p r i e s t , but he i s a better man for i t . Experience has earned him a compassion and a humility which he d i d not previously possess. He can now reaffirm his humanity and, f e a r f u l l y , but humbly, rest on God's mercy i n preference to the "certainty" of Church dogma. Frederick R. Karl 2** i n A Reader's Guide to the Contemporary  English Novel attempts to see t h i s novel as a Greek tragedy. Karl finds that he cannot reconcile the ending to the "ironies and paradoxes" of the whole novel. He has attempted to super-impose a tragic framework on t h i s novel and accuses Greene of deserting h i s paradox fo r "doctrine." He r i g h t l y states that the p r i e s t and the lieutenant "cross each other's paths as brothers, I . . one looking a f t e r the s p i r i t , the other a f t e r the body," but he maintains that the tension between these opposing characters i s l o s t when they see each other as "good" fellows i n t h e i r p a r t i c u l a r ways. I t would seem to me that Ka r l has chosen the very strength of the novel as i t s weakness. Greene's novel would descend to didacticism and the doctrine of which K a r l complains had Greene not made the priest see that the lieutenant i s as much a " p r i e s t " of the p r a c t i c a l needs of l i v i n g as he (the whiskey priest) i s one of the s p i r i t . If the lieutenant i s shown to be t o t a l l y bad, the novel would then "be a doct r i n a i r e celebration of the Church's way. The lieutenant, too, must be made to r e a l i z e that his f i g h t i s against the abuses of c e r t a i n u n f i t men i n the Church—there are u n f i t men i n his own f a c t i o n , too—and not against God because there are also good men serving God. The pri e s t recognizes the lieutenant's basic goodness, but warns him that, as i s the case with the Church, "there won't always be good men i n the lieutenant's party" (p. 2 6 3 ) . As a man of the world, the lieutenant succeeds over the priest's mortal l i f e i n t h i s world. The pri e s t i s not sure of his s p i r i t u a l v i c t o r y ; He must take a chance on God's mercy, because, as he says, he does not "know a thing about the mercy of God." We, the readers, do know that he has gained his v i c t o r y i n the person of the new p r i e s t ; i n the conversion of the boy, Luis; and i n the hollowness which the lieutenant experiences a f t e r h i s v i c t o r y over the whiskey p r i e s t . Bringing together the body (the lieutenant), and the s p i r i t (the priest) i s Greene's way of showing that one must recognize the other. Goodness can r e t a i n i t s purity only by recognizing e v i l without being corrupted by i t . From the conversation between the two men (pp. 2 6 1 - 2 6 9 ) , i t becomes cle a r that the lieutenant's seeming c e r t a i n t i e s are shaken i n much the same way as the priest's previous pride i n his priesthood i s stripped from him. The stronger "body" overcomes the " s p i r i t 26 as i t must i n the s p i r i t u a l wasteland of the novel, but the s p i r i t , the p r i e s t , through harrowing experience and expiation, i s regenerated symbolically i n the person of "Father—-"at the end of the novel. One does not have to be "a believer" i n Church dogma as K a r l suggests, to sense the tragic tone of the novel. The lieutenant and the p r i e s t are both good men. Both, i n t h e i r chosen way of l i f e are " r i g h t . " That i s , t h e i r motives are good. They both perform t h e i r duty as they see i t . Yet the p r i e s t dies, and the lieutenant's i s a hollow v i c t o r y . The e s s e n t i a l tension of the novel, then, i s main-tained. The novel does not become "meaningless as a work of a r t " because the reader can see that the lieutenant has become corrupted by his extreme idealism, and the p r i e s t , before his enlightenment, had permitted his attainment of the priesthood to give way to a pride which tended to s t i f l e his s p i r i t u a l growth. The novel remains ambiguous as far as doctrine, doctrine of Church against State i s concerned. What emerges is Greene's basic concern: the s p i r i t u a l regeneration of a human being. The p o l i t i c a l and r e l i g i o u s issues at war i n the novel i n no way diminish i t s value as a work of art because of the constant tension that Greene maintains between and within the characters. Both entertainment and novel, then, express Greene's basic archetype. The entertainment, because i t i s i n the comic mode, has a s u p e r f i c i a l "happy-ending," and resembles 27 the romance. The emphasis is on speed and economy, and the melodramatic sequences give the i l l u s i o n that a l l i s well. But here, as In the novel, Greene's concern i s s t i l l a s p i r i t u a l enlightenment. The novel, on the other hand, has a greater Intensi ty of characterization. The tone and the mode are usually d i f f e r e n t . Melodrama i s at a minimum. The i s o l a t i o n of the i n d i v i d u a l is more than compensated for by his s p i r i t u a l growth. In "entertainment" and "novel" Greene gives us both the "comic" and the " t r a g i c " view of l i f e . His entertainments give us iro n i c comedy because there i s always a "catch", a reservation, to Greene's happy ending. This i s part of Greene's realism, because the reader comes to r e a l i z e that l i f e seldom presents a happy ending. CHAPTER II THE CONFIDENTIAL AGENT Greene's haunted-man theme i s nowhere more evident than i n The Confidential Agent. In this entertainment, "D," the hero, i s a man with "worry l i k e a habit on his forehead" (p. 7 ) . Danger i s "part of him." He i s a man haunted by visions of a personal treachery as well as "an endless d i s -t r u s t " which touches a l l of mankind. Greene paints a setting which not only p a r a l l e l s the s p i r i t u a l wasteland of his hero, but also sets the almost gothlc tone. In t h i s novel there is a touch of mystery, and v i v i d images of death abound x\rhich show the moribund mood of the hero: The g u l l s swept over Dover. They s a i l e d out l i k e flakes of the fog, and tacked back towards the hidden town, while the s i r e n mourned with them: other ships replied., a whole wake l i f t e d up t h e i r v o i c e s — f o r whose death? The ship moved at half speed through the b i t t e r autumn evening. It reminded D. of a hearse, r o l l i n g slowly and d i s -c r e e t l y towards 'the garden of peace' the driver c a r e f u l not to shake the c o f f i n , as i f the body minded a j o l t or two. H y s t e r i c a l women shrieked among the shrouds (p. 7) (My underscoring). "D's" ship i s now approaching the harbour. He i s on a mission to London to purchase coal for the S o c i a l i s t f a c t i o n i n what i s probably the Spanish C i v i l War. The Royalist f a c t i o n , too, has sent an agent to negotiate for the coal 28 Defenceless under the n i g h t Our world i n stupour l i e s ; Yet, d o t t e d everywhere, I r o n i c p o i n t s of l i g h t P l a s h out wherever the J u s t Exchange t h e i r messages: May I , composed l i k e them Of E r o s , and of dust, Beleaguered by the same Negation and d e s p a i r , Show an a f f i r m i n g flame. W. H. Auden, September 1. 1939. because possession of coal might be the deciding factor i n the war. Seen i n i t s s u p e r f i c i a l p l o t , The Confidential Agent has the same basic units as any hero-myth. F i r s t , there i s the separation from the community because "D" has l e f t home to t r a v e l to London as an agent on a mission. Next, there i s the struggle when "D" meets "L" and other opponents throughout the course of the novel. Then there i s the coming into contact with a source of power when "D" has his interview with Benditch and his associates. Following from th i s i n t e r -view there i s the seeming defeat of the hero because "D" does not succeed i n negotiating a contract. F i n a l l y , there i s the triumphant return of the hero. In t h i s case, i t i s "half a v i c t o r y " (p. 194) , because, although "D" does not get the coal, the enemy does not. Despite the conventional plo t , however, i t soon becomes clear that Greene's novel i s a parody of conventional melodrama. "D" i s motivated only by a sense of duty (p. 2 6 ) . Emotionally, and s p i r i t u a l l y , he i s engrossed i n the condition of e v i l and g u i l t not only i n hi s own country, but by "the g u i l t which clings to a l l of us without our knowing i t " (p. 4 9 ) . Again, he i s an un l i k e l y hero because he fears pain and abhors violence; "he didn't know the f i r s t thing about using his f i s t s " (p. 2 3 ) . When he i s attacked by Captain Currie and "L's" chauffeur, "his mind remained a victim of the horror and indignity of the physical c o n f l i c t " (p. 3 5 ) , leaving him defenceless. "D's" place i s among "dead things": his dead wife and his Medieval Romance. His preoccupation with his dead wife and the effect of the quixotic tendency-of the hero of romance, l i m i t "D's" a b i l i t y to survive i n this world. F i r s t , preoccupation with his dead wife precludes his involve-ment with the l i v i n g . Second, the quixotic hero, l i k e Roland of The Song of Roland, despite having good intentions, is often an e g o t i s t i c a l hero whose bravery can do more harm than good. Often, he destroys rather than integrates. This i s why "D", when the time for action comes, can see-his "lectures i n Romance, The Song of Roland" as a "dead albatross" about his neck (p. I*l4) . On the positive side, "D's" basic human f e e l i n g and propensity for love i s the key to his regeneration. This i s part of Greene's paradox: "v i r t u e " can often become a destructive element." This i s i n keeping, too, with c r i t i c a l views of Greene's treatment of pi t y as a I'destructive v i r t u e . " In t h i s novel, Greene has used several symbols and minor themes i n constant balance and contrast to establish his theme of regeneration. "D's" sense of corruption and treachery i s balanced by instances of human f e e l i n g , and response to human kindness. More, melodrama i s made to seem ri d i c u l o u s by the constant contrast that i s maintained between r e a l i t y on the one hand, and, on the other, a stereotyped code of honour—as i n the case of Currie. Again, the unrealism of the happy-ending i s contrasted with Rose's realism. Greene makes thi s e x p l i c i t , too, by having "D" comment on the cinematic presentation of l i f e — t h e happy.ending. "D" says of t h i s : " i f we l i v e d i n a world . . . which guaranteed a happy ending, should we be as long discovering i t ? " (p. 66). Dr. Bellows' idealism and the heroism of The Song of Roland— "D" i s an expert on th i s Medieval romance—is balanced by Rose's sense of the r e a l i t i e s of l i f e and by the hero's reawakening. In th i s novel, too, Greene uses the fog of the English autumn as an expanding image that p a r a l l e l s "D's" s p i r i t u a l state. The melodramatic plot thus becomes a parody, and i s merely the framework within which Greene gathers and orders h i s symbols to present the theme of his entertainments. "D" i s a man who i s consciously aware of e v i l . When he f i r s t meets Rose, " i t seemed to him immeasurably sad that anyone so young should have known so much fraud" (p. 18). Greene maintains t h i s image of "D" throughout the novel. As a man alone, "D" finds that "there was no t r u s t anywhere;" he i s unhappy about Else because he finds that "she was pre-posterously young to have such complete knowledge of v i c e . " Because he thought that the corruption i n his country i s caused by the war, he i s surprised to f i n d that the atmosphere of d i s t r u s t i s present i n England too: 32 He had imagined that the suspicion which was the atmosphere of his own country was due to c i v i l war, but he began to believe that i t existed everywhere: i t was part of human l i f e . People were united by t h e i r v i c e s : there was honour among adulterers and thieves. He had been top absorbed i n the old days with his iove and with the Berne MS. and the weekly lectures on Romance Languages to notice i t . It was as i f the whole world lay i n the shadow of abandonment. Here we have the reason that Greene's hero needs to be reintegrated into the society of the l i v i n g . L i f e has been passing him by. It i s as though he i s seeing what l i f e i s l i k e f o r the f i r s t time. "DM i s aware of e v i l , but his awareness i s i n h i b i t i v e : he tends to withdraw i n the face of e v i l rather than learn to l i v e with i t . He i s an innocent i n the sense that he i s surprised by e v i l and his s p i r i t suffers for i t s presence. His i s a C h r i s t l i k e passion, his s p i r i t moaning for the sins of others. Most importantly to Greene's theme, i t i s as though "D" expects perfect goodness i n every-one. This i s why he i s so shaken by evidence of d i s t r u s t and v i c e . Despite his being middle-aged, he i s obviously Ill-equipped to cope with l i f e as i t i s . Unless he i s to endure a l i v i n g death, he must be helped. What "D" needs i s a source of s p i r i t u a l rejuvenation, a new source of f i r e . A r t i s t i c a l l y , Greene uses coal as a symbol of his hero's needs. On the human l e v e l , Rose and Else provide the human relationships that p r e c i p i t a t e "D's" rejuvenation. I t i s "D's" basic goodness that causes Else to react to him as "a gentleman." It i s her trust that i n turn causes him to trust her i n the midst of the intrigue which surrounds him. Else and "D" both respond to genuine human f e e l i n g and t h i s i s t h e i r bond. But i t i s "D's" inexperience and his lack of the necessary a r t i f i c e which a l e r t Mrs. Mendri l l , the manageress, and causes the murder of E l s e . Greene's use of Else as a character i n the novel i s important to his theme. The combination of worldliness and c h i l d - l i k e innocence which Else represents, i s i n contrast to "D!s" middle-aged innocence. Even at her age, the c h i l d , E l s e , i s better equipped to survive i n t h i s world than "D" i s . "D" must r e a l i z e that e v i l does exist as part of the human condition and one has to be on guard against i t . In the novel, the manageress and "D's" other enemies are the archetypes of e v i l . "D" should have r e a l i z e d that no inform-a t i o n which could point to his own destruction and that of Else should be given to them. The mutual trust established by Else and "D", causes "D" once again to have a personal interest i n a human being. Symbolically, Else becomes the s a c r i f i c e for "D's" regeneration. I t Is his involvement with her that s t i r s him to action a f t e r her murder. After her death "D" becomes "The Hunter" rather than "The Hunted." It i s s i g n i f i c a n t that the fog, symbolic of "D's" s p i r i t u a l state, "had nearly l i f t e d " (p. 115) once he set out to avenge Else's death. He i s now, i n his awkward way, taking an active interest i n l i f e . He i s now reborn, "he had been pushed about l i k e a lay figure long enough" (p. 106). Else's death, then, signals the star t of "D's" regeneration. Truly, with Greene, "even i n the entertain-ments one i s not far from symbolism" for here, beneath the s u p e r f i c i a l secret agent plot, we have a recurrent r e b i r t h pattern not on a cosmic l e v e l , but on a meaningful i n t e r -personal l e v e l . It i s Rose who enables "D" to complete the cycle. He has f i r s t to trust someone, a process begun with Else with . whom he finds "a surprising r e l i e f at fin d i n g that, a f t e r a l l , there was a chance of discovering honesty somewhere" (p. 49). The role of regeneration of the hero seems to be reserved for the women i n both entertainments dealt with here. In The Ministry of Fear, i t i s Anna H i f f e who saves the hero. Here, i n The Confidential Agent i t i s Else and Rose Cullen. It i s s i g n i f i c a n t that i t i s only with Else and Rose that "D" fe e l s and expresses any t r u s t . On giving his hotel room key to Else f o r safe-keeping, "D" had said to her, "I trust you" (p. 41). When he had r e c o i l e d from k i l l i n g "K" and Rose asked for h i s gun, he gave i t to her and " i t was his f i r s t a c t i o n of trust (p. 146); l a t e r , "he . . . f e l t a tremendous gratitude that there was somebody i n the warring crooked uncertain world he could t r u s t besides himself" (p. 150). There i s a suspicion, here, that his words, to Else may have been due to the expediency of the.situation. By appealing to her need for t r u s t , he thus further secures her l o y a l t y . When he gives his gun to Rose, however, t h i s i s a genuine act of trust because by t h i s time he i s a f u g i t i v e from English law. Like E l s e , Rose has a worldliness which, to "D", i s incongruous with her youth. But, l i k e Else, her worldliness enables her to survive i n t h i s f a l l e n world which Greene depicts. She i s r e a l i s t i c , but she remains b a s i c a l l y good. I t i s her innate goodness which responds to "D's" basic goodness and f a c i l i t a t e s t h e i r close r e l a t i o n s h i p . Rose r e a l i z e s more than "D" does, that he i s unable to deal with v i c e . She f a l l s i n love with him perhaps because of his innocence: as she t e l l s him, "go on being honest. That's why I love you." Throughout the novel she protects him. She saves him from several dangerous situations and points out to him that business-men l i k e her father and his associates are impressed neither by sentiment nor by melodrama. Besides helping "D" to overcome his physical problems, Rose i s to l e t him see the necessity f o r human l o v e — n o t a general-ized, "I love the whole world," i d e a l i s t i c love as i n the case of Dr» Bellows—but a warm, personal love. For "D" t h i s i s necessary In his regeneration because, although he loved his dead wife dearly, he must now re-discover love for the l i v i n g . A f t e r a l l , " i t was the l i v i n g who had to suffer from loneliness 36 and d i s t r u s t " (p. 205). Greene has s k i l f u l l y handled t h i s phase of "D's" regeneration. The sad, lonely, "D" does not suddenly forget his dead wife and f a l l i n love with the young, a t t r a c t i v e , Rose, but slowly, almost grudgingly, he comes to trust her and w i l l probably come to love her. Besides the p a r t i a l success of "D's" mission as an agent, there i s the more important success of his regeneration or rejuvenation of s p i r i t . At the end of the novel, on hearing Rose's voice, i t i s now possible for "D's" heart to miss a beat " l i k e a young man's." The fact that "D" has to be content with hal f a v i c t o r y w i l l perhaps show him that l i f e , r e a l l i v i n g , cannot be measured by ide a l standards: on t h i s side stands l i f e , on the other, the i d e a l world of romance. ThVis much should be clear to him because he himself, l i k e Greene, had rejected the hero of romance. "D" found that Roland, the t r a d i t i o n a l hero of The Song of Roland was a "big brave f o o l " who sought the a i d he should have sought i n the f i r s t place only "when a l l his men are dead or dying." Roland had refused to blow the horn to summon aid because of "his own glory." His "heroism" had done more harm than good. "D" himself chose the r e a l i s t i c Oliver as the hero (pp. 6 1 - 6 3 ) . "D" has only to apply t h i s assessment of The Song of Roland to his own l i f e to see that the extreme heroism of the hero of Romance does not necessarily apply to everyday l i v i n g . 37 The view that Green parodies melodramatic formulae i n this novel i s r e a d i l y shown i n the t h i n l i n e which Greene draws between comedy and melodrama. In many cases where the "hero" i s involved i n some physical action, the language i s , purposefully I am convinced, s t i l t e d , comic and unreal. One could quote exhaustively to demonstrate the point, but the most s t r i k i n g example occurs when "D" i s beaten by "L's" chauffeur with Currie i n charge. Here, "D", who had borrowed Miss Cullen's car, is stopped by Currie, who wants to amend "D's" "wrongs"; "L's" chauffeur who i s "L's" strong arm; and "L" who wants "D" beaten and searched for the i d e n t i f i c a t i o n papers without which he cannot bargain for the coal: 'I don't understand,' D. said, 'what you propose to do?' 'If I had my way, you'd go to gaol—but Rose--Miss Cullen—won't charge you.' He had been drinking a l o t of whisky: you could t e l l that from the smell. 'We'll treat you better than you d e s e r v e — f i v e you a thrashing, man to man.' 'You mean—assault me?' he asked incredulously. 'There are three of you.' 'Oh we'll l e t you f i g h t . Take off your coat . . . .' D. said with horror, 'If you want to f i g h t , can't we get p i s t o l s — t h e two of us?' 'We don't go i n for that sort of murder here.* (p. 33) This episode i s well sustained, with the righteous Currie's public school stance well defined. A f t e r the beating, Currie "was embarassed—he was l i k e a prefect who has caned a boy and finds the s i t u a t i o n afterwards less clear-cut" (p. 36)• Later Greene i s almost e x p l i c i t about his intention. "D", before he becomes f u l l y acquainted with Rose, suspects "hat she i s one of the enemy. When she c a l l s him to arrange a meeting, he thinks: "surely they were not going to throw a mistress at his head—people didn't f a l l for-that sort of thing except i n melodrama. In melodrama a secret agent was never t i r e d or uninterested or i n love with a dead woman". Yet, "D" i s i n love with his dead wife and he i s the hero. In his onslaught against a l i m i t i n g idealism, Greene presents "the absurd Captain Curr i e " as a stereotype of the English public school, with i t s code of honour. This public school code of honour i s probably the l a s t vestige of the romantic hero's ethic of conduct. Greene holds t h i s stereo-type up to r i d i c u l e i n thi s entertainment as well as i n The  Ministry of Fear—Digby—and The Heart of the M a t t e r — H a r r i s and, to some extent, Wilson. Another of Greene's stock characters which appears i n thi s entertainment i s the i d e a l i s t , the one who loves a l l of mankind. Here, i t i s Dr. Bellows who has "love of a l l the world." It had "always been his dream to help." But "the rash unfortunate man" who "dreamt of universal peace" was unsuccessful and wretched (p. 42). To "D", Dr. Bellows i s an object of p i t y . In Greene, these people are used by the unscrupulous for t h e i r own ends. In The Ministry of Fear i t i s Dr. Forester who i s used by the forces of e v i l . In The  Confid e n t i a l Agent, Mr. "K" uses Dr. Bellows' Entrenationo School as a meeting place for in t r i g u e . "D" wonders "how much treachery Is always nourished i n l i t t l e overworked centres of somebody else's idealism" (p. 73). People l i k e Dr. Bellows " l i v e d i n an atmosphere of unr e a l i t y . . . i n an ivory tower, waiting for miracles" (p. I3M • The way i s clear to "D" then, who "could love the dead and the dying better than the l i v i n g " (p. 130). Unlike Dr. Bellows and his kind; unlike the f a c i l e and s e l f -deluding Currle; and unlike the destructive but well-meaning hero of romance l i k e Roland, "D" must come to face the r e a l i t i e s of l i v i n g and engage 'himself i n l i f e . The death of Else forces him to thi s action and with the help of Rose, he must attempt to meet l i f e on i t s terms without s a c r i f i c i n g his e s s e n t i a l goodness. "D" has been able to see the un-r e a l i t y of Dr. Bellows' i d e a l i s t i c view of l i f e , so much so that he can pit y him. Through the Berne MS. he can see that The Song of Roland i s "tragedy" rather than "heroics." The Berne MS. i s s i g n i f i c a n t because i n this version, Oliver strikes Roland down "with f u l l knowledge . . . . He dies hating the man he loves." "D" finds that the Oxford version of The Song of Roland had been " t i d i e d up to s u i t . . . the tastes of the medieval nobles who were quite capable of being Rolands i n a small way--it only needs conceit and a strong arm." This "con" game that has taken place i s important to Greene's theme. The question of "D's" a b i l i t y to see the f a u l t i n others and not i n h i m s e l f — h i s r e f u s a l to face the fact of the ko co-existence of good and e v i l — p o i n t s out one of the ironic aspects of the t i t l e . The Confidential Agent. The Irony-operates on at least two l e v e l s . On one l e v e l , "D" i s a c o n f i d e n t i a l agent for his party, yet i t . i s clear that his superiors have no f a i t h i n him. He, i n turn, i s aware of the d i s t r u s t which has weakened the cause. On another, and more Important l e v e l , "D" i s a c o n f i d e n t i a l agent without confidence, that i s , he i s a "confidence" agent i n the vulgar sense of "con" man i n that he i s deluding someone--himself. He has permitted the lack of f a i t h i n humanity fostered by the atmosphere i n h i s country to s t i f l e his a b i l i t y to r e l a t e meaningfully to another l i v i n g human being. He could s t i l l cherish love, but only by withdrawing into love for his dead wife. Here we have the key to t h i s novel. The hero of the hero-myth served the purpose of saving the community thus, i n d i r e c t l y , celebrating the cause of the good, over the e v i l way. This i s the same concept perpetuated by„the C h r i s t i a n doctrine that the good w i l l i n h e r i t the earth. In t h i s novel, Greene has used the convention i n a p a r t i c u l a r way to show that power, the power of meaningful existence, resides, not on the strong arm of an imaginary hero, but In meaningful interpersonal r e l a t i o n s h i p s . The atmosphere of e v i l and con-stant d i s t r u s t which Greene so often presents, p a r a l l e l s the state of bondage of the community before the a r r i v a l of the hero. It i s to be equated also with "the f a l l e n world" i n Ch r i s t i a n thought. In the hero-myth, the a r r i v a l of the hero represented the return to grace. This i s paralle l e d i n Ch r i s t i a n thought by the advent of C h r i s t . But each man, r e a l l y , i s partly responsible for his own salvation. Further, as Greene says i n The Lost Childhood, goodness may never again f i n d a perfect incarnation i n the human body. As he sees i t , although perfect goodness may never walk the earth again, the "grey" i n human nature, i f nurtured, may go a long way„ towards making t h i s h e l l of earth into an approximation of the lo s t paradise where previously there was harmony and love. Thus, Greene i s concerned with the recapture of a l o s t sense of community as suggested i n Journey Without Maps. It i s a generalized e v i l — " t h e r e was no trust anywhere"—that has disrupted the deep a f f i n i t y shared by the loving and the loved, i n much the same way as the prime archetype of e v i l , the d e v i l , had shattered the harmony of Eden. But Greene's i s not a paradise of peace and s i m p l i c i t y . His i s a paradise that sub-sumes e v i l as a r e a l i t y , and those who can transcend this e v i l can r e t a i n i n t e g r i t y , the higher innocence. "D" i s a hero i n this novel not because of hi s f i g h t i n g s k i l l and a cu l t i v a t e d ethic of conduct, but because he i s one of those people " a l l over the world . . . who didn't believe i n being corrupted--simply because i t made l i f e impossible" (p. 31)• To him, and perhaps to Greene, t h i s attitude i s not so much a question of morality, as one of simply e x i s t i n g . There i s nothing more unhappy than that man that has never been touched by adversity for he has not had the means to know himself. Seneca, De Clementla 'Man has places i n his heart which do not yet e x i s t , and into them enters suffering i n order that they may have existence.* Leon Bloy Epigraph to Greene's The End of the A f f a i r CHAPTER III THE MINISTRY OF FEAR W. H. Auden, i n "The Heresy of Our Time", 25 asserts that " i n book a f t e r book, Graham Greene analyzes the vice of p i t y , that corrupt parody of love and compassion which i s so insidious and deadly for sensitive natures." Pity, as Auden sees i t , i s e s s e n t i a l l y e g o t i s t i c a l because, behind p i t y for another l i e s s e l f - p i t y and, behind s e l f -p i t y l i e s c r u e l t y . This observation i s true to some degree, and i s , i n part, applicable to discussion of Greene's entertainment, The Ministry of Fear. Auden's views, as used here, do not, however, take into account Greene's treatment of pi t y as a v i r t u e . In t h i s novel Greene deals with pity both as a vice and as a virtue a l l i n the same context, and presents the reader with yet another paradox which seems to defy sol u t i o n . In t h i s novel, which, from i t s examination of the ambiguities of pity i s a prelude to The Heart of the Matter, Greene has once again clothed an important aspect of the meaning of existence i n the trappings of melodrama. The Ministry of Fear i s divided into four "books" which r e f l e c t i t s mythic framework. In Book One, "The Unhappy Man", we have the state of transgression. Here, we see Arthur Rowe as Greene's now-familiar haunted man who i s seeking either a 42 ^3 l o s t peace of mind or an escape from his mental torment. At the end of thi s f i r s t book the hero succeeds, to some degree, i n escaping from his mental torment; he "dies." In Book Two, "The Happy Man", Arthur Rowe i s "reborn" i n the person of Digby, x-srho, psychologically, i s the adolescent Arthur Rowe with the experiences of his most recent twenty years not t o t a l l y erased, but forgotten; Rowe i s suffering from amnesia caused by a bomb explosion. It i s almost as i f Rowe has'been granted his death-wish to escape his mental anguish. Book Three of the entertainment begins the return of the hero. Here, we see Arthur Rowe slowly rediscovering l i f e and r e l i v i n g memories both pleasant and unpleasant. Greene's f i n a l "book" in t h i s entertainment gives a hint of an explanation of his intention; This Book Four, e n t i t l e d "The Whole Man" shows the new Arthur Rowe who is to be contrasted with the o r i g i n a l Arthur Rowe and with the Digby/Arthur Rowe of the middle portion of the novel. The mythic framework of the novel, then, i s r e l a t i v e l y simple: the act of euthanasia which Rowe commits i s the transgression for which he i s to suffer; a f t e r many adventures during which he su f f e r s , he i s "reborn" thus being given a second chance. Greene even introduces the element of supernatural intervention i n thi s entertainment. When Rowe goes to the fete where his adventure i s to begin, " i t was as i f Providence had led him to exactly t h i s point to indicate the difference between then and now" (p. 6 ) . The "then" refers to Howe's youth when he l i v e d v i c a r i o u s l y through the pages of romance. The "now" i s the r e a l i t y of l i f e , the emotions, relationships and actions which led to his tortured state. The s u p e r f i c i a l plot of The Ministry of Fear i s deceptively easy. In Second World War London, Arthur Rowe goes to a charity f a i r , and i s mistakenly given the clue to the winning of a cake which contains microfilms of high security war plans. The spies, headed by W i l l i H i l f e , want to regain the microfilm, and the intrigue begins, ending with H i l f e ' s suicide. Into and around t h i s basic plot Greene weaves his drama of Arthur Rowe, a sensitive man who, as a c h i l d , "wouldn't hurt a f l y 1 ' (p. 7 3 ) . As a c h i l d , Rowe had rel i e v e d a rat of i t s misery by beating i t repeatedly, and compulsively, on the head because "he couldn't bear the sight of the rat's pain any more" (p. 7 3 . ) • Now as a man he has k i l l e d his wife because he could not bear her su f f e r i n g . He has been given token punishment by a sympathetic court, but he punishes himself more than i t i s possible for human ju s t i c e to punish. Despite his crime, we get the impression throughout the novel that Rowe i s b a s i c a l l y good. Anna H i l f e , who has seen "a l o t of k i l l i n g s " and "bad people," finds that Rowe does not f i t i n with the bad. Rowe tortures himself•because, although his wife had been suffering, he "could never t e l l whether she might not have preferred any sort of l i f e to death" (p. 1 0 3 ) . Then there i s the question of Intentions had his act been mercy to himself because he could not bear his wife's suffering? There i s also Rox^ re's observation that "you shouldn't do e v i l that good may come" (p. 21). Rowe's crime i s monstrous to himself because he i s b a s i c a l l y good.- For him, because of his basic goodness, there i s the p o s s i b i l i t y of salvation. Unlike the unnamed, but obviously evil,they who "can bear pain—other people's p a i n — e n d l e s s l y " because they "don't care" (p. 118), Rowe does care. It i s his caring that drives him to his "monstrous act", but i t i s also his caring that i s his saving grace. Rowe's mental torment i s his expiation, and the bomb ex-plosion which causes his amnesia i s a r i t u a l death preparatory to his r e b i r t h . When we next see Rowe, t h i s time as Richard Digby, he i s indeed reborn. Mot only i s his name changed, but his features are changed by a beard, and he has forgotten the events of the l a s t twenty years of his l i f e , including his k i l l i n g of his wife. The sett i n g i s paradisiacal, and the f i r s t chapter of this Book i s e n t i t l e d , f i t t i n g l y , "Arcady." Here there i s peace and s i m p l i c i t y while the war continues outside the walls. But even i n this paradise, there i s a " H e l l " represented by the sick-bay where there are cruelty and s u f f e r i n g . U n t i l he sees the sick-bay for himself, Digby refuses to believe i n i t s existence. To him, i t "had no more r e a l i t y than the conception of H e l l presented by sympathetic 46 t h e o l o g i a n s " (p. 147). Digby Is the innocent Rowe who had b e l i e v e d i n a world o r d e r . To him, the world i s b l a c k and white. F o r i n s t a n c e , he begins to l o s e r e s p e c t f o r Dr. F o r e s t e r when he f i n d s i n e f f i c i e n t l y erased p e n c i l marks i n Dr. F o r e s t e r ' s copy of T o l s t o y ' s What I B e l i e v e . T h i s moves him to a c t i o n and d e f i a n c e a g a i n s t Dr. F o r e s t e r because, "you couldn't r e s p e c t a man who dared not h o l d h i s o p i n i o n openly" (p. 157). To him t h i s i s di s h o n o u r a b l e . H i s d e f i a n c e e v e n t u a l l y l e a d s - t o h i s escape and h i s meeting with d e t e c t i v e P r e n t i c e . . - Rowe becomes a "whole man" only when, through s h a t t e r i n g experience, he has l e a r n e d to l o v e , and to r e p l a c e p i t y with "tenderness" (p. 267). P a r a d o x i c a l l y , h i s lov e permits him to do something- which an i n t e g r i t y of honour would not have pe r m i t t e d : he l i e s to Anna H i l f e . He l i e s to preserve her l o v e . He d e s p e r a t e l y needs t h i s chance to l o v e someone and she needs him too. Rowe a l s o sees the l i e which he t e l l s Anna as a c o n t i n u i n g e x p i a t i o n to the dead, h i s w i f e . H i s r e -p l a c i n g of p i t y with tenderness i s what makes him a hero, not i n the sense of h i g h adventure where he r i g h t s wrongs by v i o l e n c e , but as a> person s u f f e r i n g f o r and with the l o v e d . Even b e f o r e Rowe becomes the "whole man" and j o i n s the M i n i s t r y of those who l o v e , he f i n d s i t p o s s i b l e to r e j e c t the k i n d o f happiness which he, as Digby, had found i n Dr. F o r e s t e r ' s Arcady. Digby, he f i n d s l a t e r , was "a r a t h e r g r o s s , complacent, p a r a s i t i c stranger whose happiness had l a i n i n too great an Ignorance." Happiness, he finds, "should always be q u a l i f i e d by a knowledge of misery" (p. 222). In The Ministry of Fear, Dr. Forester i s an example of how not to be; W i l l i H i l f e i s another. Dr. Forester i s an i d e a l i s t who i s " r i c h i n abstract knowledge," i n "the theories which lead one en t i c i n g l y on with t h e i r appearance of n o b i l i t y , of transcendent v i r t u e . " Dr. Forester, however, i s lacking i n "detailed passionate t r i v i a l human knowledge" (p. 222). Although Dr. Forester loved humanity, Rowe finds that i t i s necessary to love the in d i v i d u a l person?, "one can't love humanity." The e v i l , l i k e W i l l i H i l f e , can always use people l i k e Dr. Forester to t h e i r own ends, because they only have to appeal to the i d e a l i s t ' s "virtues, h is i n t e l l e c t u a l pride, his abstract love of humanity" (p. 223). As i t i s the role of Rose Cullen i n The Confidential  Agent to recognize "D's" basic goodness and innate incorrupt-i b i l i t y and rescue him from himself, so i s i t the r o l e of Anna H i l f e i n The Ministry of Fear to rescue Arthur Rowe. Anna H i l f e , who has seen suff e r i n g , cruelty and e v i l , and i s herse l f involved i n her brother's espionage, recognizes and i s attracted by Rowe's innate goodness. She knows the c i r -cumstances of his k i l l i n g his wife, but she sees Rowe as an object of love and she attempts to save him, much i n the same way as an adult would rescue a c h i l d who has strayed too far a f i e l d . The same love/protection s i t u a t i o n which had existed between "D" and Rose Cullen l i e s between Rose and Anna H i l f e . She, l i k e Rose, i s b a s i c a l l y a r e a l i s t , one who has learned to l i v e with e v i l without being corrupted by i t . In the novel, she i s Rowe's l i n k with r e a l i t y and sanity. In the end, she saves him from her brother. Anna has a sin g l e -minded purpose: her happiness and that of Rowe because she loves him. It w i l l r u i n her happiness and that of Rowe i f he regains his memory, so she does not want his memory to return. Hers i s not love of country or of an i d e a l , but love for a human being. With her, i t i s simply a matter of sur-v i v a l . In t h i s sense she i s a primitive. Her love for Rowe makes i t possible for him to make the integrating s a c r i f i c e and commitment by his l y i n g to her. The many dream sequences i n the novel serve to heighten the effect of Rowe's g u i l t . They also serve to show Rowe's need for an escape. Because r e a l i t y i s too scarring, Rowe attempts to retreat into childhood. The dream sequences also serve the function of a flashback through which we not only get d e t a i l s of Rowe's youth, but also the attitude to these d e t a i l s which experience has forced upon him. Through the de t a i l s of his childhood, we get to know that the c h i l d , e s p e c i a l l y i n Rowe's case, r e f l e c t s the man. His childhood k i l l i n g of a rat magnifies into his k i l l i n g of his wife l a t e r on i n l i f e . His present attitude to his pastoral, peaceful youth is that i t "i s n ' t r e a l l i f e anymore." I t i s the " t h r i l l e r s " with t h e i r stories "about spies, and murders, and violence, and wild motor-car chases" that are r e a l . The dream sequences show top, that although Rowe i s not f u l l y conscious of i t , he i s beginning to r e a l i z e that l i f e i s not a l l peace and t r a n q u i l i t y . He i s to learn to l i v e with the world as i t i s . Greene's s k i l l i n using dream sequences i n t h i s novel i s worthy-of p a r t i c u l a r mention. There are two dream sequences i n The Ministry of Fear and they are both functional. In Chapter Five, e n t i t l e d "Between Sleeping and Waking," the epigraph from Yonge's The L i t t l e Duke reads: "they came to a great-forest, which seemed to have no path through i t . " This suggests a sense of l o s t d i r e c t i o n . I t i s just at t h i s point i n the novel that Rowe, thinking that the police want him for the murder of Cost, takes the cunning H i l f e ' s advice and goes "underground." Here he i s i n limbo, out of touch with f a m i l i a r surroundings. I t i s here f i t t i n g l y , that he has his f i r s t series of dreams (pp. 6 8 - 7 5 ) . In t h i s series of dreams his mind reaches back to f a m i l i a r , pleasant c h i l d -hood scenes. He i s once again a c h i l d , confessing now to his mother that he has k i l l e d his wife. The dream wavers between dream and memory, ending f i n a l l y i n the nightmare of the present i n which there are policemen and seances l i k e that of Mrs.'Belalrs where he had become the scapegoat for Cost's "murder." The series of dreams here serve the purpose of a biographical sketch of the important highlights of Rowe's character. A r t i s t i c a l l y , they also serve to deepen the pathos of Rowe's plight and the view that existence as he knows i t , i s "a madhouse." I t i s at "a madhouse" that Rowe has his next dream, "a kind of waking dream" i n which he reasons about k i l l i n g , damnation, and salvation (pp. 1 5 5 - 1 5 6 ) . It i s i n t h i s waking dream that he r e a l i z e s the essential egotism of i d e a l i s t s . In t h i s dream, which acts as a s e l f -pardon, Digby/Rowe concludes that non-involvement i s a way to save only one's own soul. Was i t not better, he asks, "to take part even i n crimes of people you loved, i f i t was necessary hate as they did, and i f that were the end of everything suffer damnation with them rather than be saved alone?" He concludes that "for the sake of people you loved, and i n the company of people you loved, i t was r i g h t to r i s k damnation." This question i s to be dealt with by Greene l a t e r i n The Heart of the Matter. In t h i s novel, The Ministry  of Fear, i t i s this conviction that strengthens Rowe and i n i t i a t e s a c t i o n — h e attempts to shed his i d e n t i t y of Digby and seek his true i d e n t i t y . As he. had done i n The Confidential Agent, Greene uses, i n The Ministry of Fear, attitudes to l i f e c u l t i v a t e d from the i l l u s i o n of romance as contrast to cast the spotlight on the r e a l i t i e s of l i f e and human nature. Here, too, more so than.in The Confidential Agent, the effects of childhood attitudes are brought into focus. There i s an a f f i n i t y drawn between the ess e n t i a l innocence of the i d e a l i s t and the innocence of childhood: they both have a distorted view of l i f e . The analogy between the innocence of childhood and the innocence of i l l u s i o n and how they contrast with l i f e i s best shown by two s t r i k i n g episodes i n The Ministry of Fear. The passages are rather long, but must be quoted at some length for t h e i r f u l l e f f e c t . The episodes are s i g n i f i c a n t because the f i r s t one occurs when Rowe has reached the depths of despair and decides to commit suicide. He i s taking a f i n a l look i n retrospect at his convictions and ce r t a i n t i e s through out his l i f e . The second i s equally important because Rowe has gone through his r i t u a l death (the bomb episode and his subsequent loss of memory) and has to begin again. In the f i r s t episode, just prior to his act of charity to the "bookseller," the act that i s to give him second chance, Rowe r e f l e c t s : In childhood we l i v e under the brightness of immortality—heaven i s as near and actual as the seaside. Behind the complicated d e t a i l s of the world stand the s i m p l i c i t i e s : God i s good, the grown-up man or woman knows the answer to every question, there i s such a thing as truth and justice i s as measured and f a u l t l e s s as a clock. Our heroes are simple: they are brave, they t e l l the truth, they are good swordsmen and they are never i n the long run r e a l l y defeated. That i s why no l a t e r books s a t i s f y us l i k e those which were read to us i n ch i l d h o o d — f o r those promised a world of great s i m p l i c i t y of which we knew the ru l e s , but the l a t e r books are complicated and contradictory with experience; they are formed out of our own disappointing memories—of the V.C. i n the police dock, of the faked income tax 52 return, the sins i n corners, and the hollow voice of the man we despise t a l k i n g to us of courage and purity. The l i t t l e duke i s dead and betrayed and forgotten; we cannot recognise the v i l l a i n and we suspect the hero and the world i s a small cramped place. The two great popular statements of f a i t h are 'What a strange place the world i s ' and 'I'm a stranger here m y s e l f (p. 102). The second episode occurs when Rowe, who had l o s t his former id e n t i t y and reappeared as Digby escapes from Dr. Forester's Mental I n s t i t u t i o n . As the psychologically young Digby, Arthur Rowe i s much l i k e Twain's Tom Sawyer who i s a l l for high adventure and honour. From the time he escapes the Mental C l i n i c , and has to face again "the horror of returning to l i f e " (p. 177), Rowe resumes his own name. He goes to Scotland Yard where he believes he i s wanted f o r murder. When Prentice, the detective assigned to his case explains that Rowe had unwittingly become involved i n murder and espionage, Rowe asks him i f l i f e " i s r e a l l y l i k e t h i s . " To Prentice's reply that "this i s l i f e , so I suppose one can say i t ' s l i k e l i f e , " Rowe r e p l i e s : 'It i s n ' t how I had imagined i t , ' . . . . 'You see, I'm a learner. I'm right at the beginning, t r y i n g to f i n d my way about. I thought l i f e was much simpler and—grander. I suppose that's how i t s t r i k e s a boy. I was brought up on stor i e s of Captain Scott writing his l a s t l e t t e r s home, Oates walking into a b l i z z a r d , I've forgotten who i t was losing his hands from his experiments with radium, Damlen among the lepers' . . . . •There was a book c a l l e d the Book of Golden Deeds by a woman c a l l e d Yonge . . . The L i t t l e Duke' . . . . 'If you were suddenly taken from that world into t h i s job you are doing now you'd f e e l bewildered. Jones and the cake, the sick bay, 53 poor Stone . . . a l l t h i s talk of a man c a l l e d H i t l e r . . . your f i l e s of wretched faces, the cruelty and meaninglessness . . . . It's as i f one had been sent oh a journey with the wrong map' (pp. 193-19*0. The r e l a t i o n s h i p between childhood innocence and an i l l u s o r y idealism about l i f e i s d e f i n i t e l y established i n these two passages. I f the naive certainties, of childhood are ex-changed for the i l l u s i o n of a world order as presented by romance, the i n d i v i d u a l i s not prepared to face l i f e because, when he comes face to face with l i f e , the r e s u l t w i l l be bewilderment, disillusionment, and f i n a l l y , despair. The i n d i v i d u a l w i l l f i n d that unlike the c e r t a i n t i e s of c h i l d -hood, and unlike the clear-cut d i s t i n c t i o n between good and e v i l of the romance, "human nature i s not black and white, but black and grey." Greene's grappling with the emotion of p i t y i s what raises t h i s entertainment above the thriller-romance l e v e l . Here, again, as i n The Confidential Agent, the subject outweighs the story. In his presentation of pity both as a vice and as a v i r t u e , Greene's concern i s the human being, not an abstract discussion of p i t y . As a v i c e , pity i s "so much more promiscuous than l u s t " (p. 2 9 ) , that i t can grow to "monstrous proportions necessary to a c t i o n " (p. 6 2 ) — s u c h as Rowe's act of euthanasia. As such, pi t y can be "a h o r r i b l e and h o r r i f y i n g emotion" (p. 7 3 ) . As a v i r t u e , pity i s akin to charity, i t s theological equivalents i t i s t h i s very sense of charity, " p i t y " (p. 107), which makes Rowe help "the bookseller" with his burden of books. S i g n i f i c a n t l y , i t is at the bomb incident which follows t h i s act of charity that Rowe loses his memory and has a chance to take a new look at l i f e . Again, when Anna H i l f e says to Digby/Rowe, "you had-a great sense of p i t y . You didn't l i k e people to su f f e r , " she implies that t h i s i s a v i r t u e . Once more, i t i s s i g n i f i c a n t that i t i s Rowe's aura of innocence born from his sense of pity that awakens Anna H i l f e ' s love and pro-te c t i v e i n s t i n c t . Pity, then, i s the wheel on which Rowe turns. But a wheel, which can be a great boon, becomes a destructive force when out of con t r o l . With a wheel, there is also the element of chance. Arthur Rowe, with the pre-d i s p o s i t i o n to a p o t e n t i a l l y good, and yet p o t e n t i a l l y destructive emotion, p i t y , must not - encounter an adverse s i t u a t i o n ; but he does. His wife's suffering from an i n -curable disease moves him to pity and despair. Greene puts his "hero" i n a f u l l y human s i t u a t i o n , one for which few can claim to have an easy solution. Greene's emphasis, however, i s neither on the theological nor on the l e g a l aspect of Rowe's act. His interest i s on the emotion and the sense of human empathy which moved Rowe to his act. From the character sketch we have of Rowe, i t i s d i f f i c u l t to believe that he would commit murder i n the l e g a l sense of the word, because he i s b a s i c a l l y good. Greene makes t h i s c l e a r : " i t i s only i f the murderer i s a good man that he can be regarded as monstrous. Arthur Rowe was monstrous" (pi 101) . i . There must, therefore, be something insidious and e v i l i n t h i s human pity that drives Rowe to the ultimate transgression against humanity. But Rowe i s acting out his nature. This serves to show that good and e v i l co-exist i n man's very nature; Greene's seeming emphasis on the e v i l aspect of pity does not necessarily show that Greene believes more strongly i n e v i l than i n goodness. I t shows, rather, that Greene t r i e s to nurture the goodness that i s intermixed with e v i l , by pointing out the e v i l that might be accepted i n the guise of goodness; The "good" are those who have more "grey" than "blackness" i n the i r natures; that i s , those tfho have, l e f t more of the l i g h t (goodness) that was l o s t through the o r i g i n a l P a l l ; It i s through the o r i g i n a l P a l l that e v i l has crept into human nature! On the secular l e v e l , this be-comes manifest i n the v i s i b l e e v i l which exists i n the world. F i c t i o n r e f l e c t s t h i s e v i l and i s , i n thi s way, an imitation of l i f e ; It i s Rowe's degree of l i g h t , his charity, that makes him worthy of being saved i n the "comic mode" of t h i s entertainment. The plot raises some inter e s t i n g questions! F i r s t , there i s the question as to whether or not Rowe's act had a s e l f i s h motive: was his k i l l i n g of his wife mercy to her, or to his own sensitive nature? Second, and following from the f i r s t , i s the question: i f Rowe could not hear to see his wife s u f f e r , would i t have been more acceptable to have committed suicide? Third, there i s the question posed by Rowe himself: should one commit e v i l that good may come? Rowe's act i s an assertion of s e l f . He has the capacity for empathy with human suffe r i n g , and i n an attempt to a l l e v i a t e s u f f e r i n g , he acts. His empathy and compassion are godlike, but his action i s human. By th i s I mean that a godlike grace motivates him; he i s driven to assert this godliness, the strength of which sets him above the average being. Yet, his action i s necessarily human, thus d e f i c i e n t , because he i s human, not a god, and i s subject to the miseries of- being human. The paradox l i e s i n th i s d u a l i t y . By acting, he may be wrong, yet he must act because t h i s i s his nature. Because The Ministry of Fear i s i n the comic mode, the drama of Arthur Rowe i s played ostensibly with a happy ending. In the s p e c i f i c terms of The Ministry of Fear, the expiatory suffering which Rowe undergoes i s the reason that, symbolically, as a pardon, "Providence" leads Rowe to the fete; but i t c e r t a i n l y i s his innocence and his basic good-ness that awakens a kindred spark i n Anna H i l f e and causes her to love and help him. For Greene, t h i s human inte r a c t i o n i s most important because, as Rowe hopefully thinks at the end of the novel, "perhaps . . . one could atone even to the dead i f one suffered for the l i v i n g enough" (p. 2 6 8 ) . The pity which Auden refers to as a "corrupt parody of love and compassion," the pity which drove Rowe to k i l l , i s to be distinguished from a pure p i t y — c h a r i t y , compassion-which i s a v i r t u e . Perhaps th i s i s the d i s t i n c t i o n that Rowe attempts to make with his observation that "love i s n ' t safe when pity's prowling around" (p. 263). This suggests that pity and love are separable, and that love can be destroyed by p i t y . The puzzle s t i l l i s not solved by thi s d i s t i n c t i o n because compassion and charity are necessary components of love and, surely, somewhere, even i n a corrupt pity l i e s compassion. There i s , then, at least t h i s one common denom-inator, compassion, between pity and love. The haunted Rowe has to answer the question, whether the compassion he f e l t was, as he himself puts i t , mercy to his wife, or mercy to himself (p. 36) because be could not bear the sight of her pain. Pity thus becomes s e l f - p i t y . Mercy and the kind of "pi t y " which Rowe said that he f e l t for Henry Wilcox (p. 92) are suggestive of a distance which i s not compatible with love. I t would seem that part of Greene's answer to his probing of pity i n thi s novel i s that a generalized p i t y , l i k e a generalized i d e a l of l o v e — a s i s the case with Dr. Bellows i n The Confidential Agent, and an idealism l i k e Dr. Forester's i n thi s n o v e l — i s i n s u f f i c i e n t . I t i s insidious and destructive because although i t resembles love i t can be the submerged rock on which love founders. A generalized p i t y separates and destroys while a mature love integrates and bolsters. It would seem that the r a t i o which i s i n balance i n t h i s entertainment can be stated as t h i s : mercy i s to compassion and charity what pity i s to love. An i n t e r e s t i n g discussion on mercy and charity by M.D.H. Parker i n The Slave of L i f e 2 ^ might shed some l i g h t on t h i s aspect of the novel. Parker quotes Seneca's d i s -t i n c t i o n between clementia and misericordla. Clementia i s defined as "a moderation of the mind which restrains the power of vengeance or a l e v i t y of the superior towards the i n f e r i o r i n determining punishment." Clementla here i s equated with mercy. Misericordla i s defined as "a sickness of the mind aroused by the sight of other men's miseries." Seneca i d e n t i f i e s misericordla with weakness and has no sympathy with t h i s . But i t should be noted that Seneca was writing for a s o c i a l purpose. His d e f i n i t i o n s are u t i l i t a r i a n S t o i c , and pagan. On th i s same d e f i n i t i o n , St. Thomas Aquinas makes the d i s t i n c t i o n that clementla i s "mercy deserved", a philosophy of expediency; mlserlcordia i s mercy through charity and i s Godlike. For our purposes here the two d e f i n i t i o n s of mlserlcordia have a s p e c i a l i n t e r e s t . By d e f i n i t i o n i t i s the Senecan and Stoic misericordla, "the sickness of the mind" that i s destructive while the Thomist and C h r i s t i a n view of misericordla, charity, i s desirable. Arthur Rowe has both. As such a person, Rowe w i l l always 59 remain a divided man. Yet, although his "sickness of the mind" Is his destructive element, for him there w i l l always remain the p o s s i b i l i t y of salvation because of his charity. Greene chooses to save him, but only on the terms which, he i n s i s t s , i s the r e a l i s t i c approach to l i f e : a constant awareness of the co-existence of good and e v i l . We have here again Greene's view of the co-existence of e v i l and goodness, i n the world yenerally, and i n the one person of the symbolic Arthur Rowe. This i s why at the end of the novel Arthur Rowe and Anna H i l f e are not shown on the thres-hold of a l i f e together i n which they w i l l l i v e happily ever a f t e r . Instead, they must constantly be on guard to preserve each other's happiness and grasp whatever happiness accrues from t h e i r shared e f f o r t s . Together, now, Rowe and Anna H i l f e are not off on a paradisiacal journey through l i f e , rather, they are on the edge of the i r ordeal, l i k e two ex-plorers who see at l a s t from the summit of the range the enormous dangerous p l a i n " (p. 268). Happiness i n Greene's terms i s not deserved, but earned. At least, Rowe w i l l never remain aloof, he w i l l never be g u i l t y of the crime of omission that Dr. Magiot i n The Comedians suggests i s a n t i -human; he w i l l never " l i k e an established society," stand aside and be i n d i f f e r e n t (p. 273). The words of the priest i n The  Comedians who preaches the sermon at the service for the dead insurgents (pp. 270-271) have bearing on t h i s entertainment and on Arthur Rowe's act: "violence can he the expression of love, indifference never. One i s an imperfection of charity, the other the perfection of egoism." Prom t h i s , i t would seem that Greene considers the s i n of omission to be greater than the s i n of commission. Although, b a s i c a l l y , t h i s view of the complexities of Greene's use of p i t y i n t h i s novel seems v a l i d , i t i s not 2 altogether complete. To attempt to grasp only t h i s "message" from th i s novel, as i s the wont of many of Greene's c r i t i c s , would be to overlook Greene's pa r t i c u l a r s k i l l and deny him what he says he gives to the reader here: "entertainment." This view of the operation of p i t y i n The Ministry of Fear i s complete only i n so far as i t encompasses Greene's whole entertainment. This i s true because with Greene, the spot-l i g h t i s not on the abstract thought but on the meaningful human acti o n . Greene writes i n symbolic terms rather than i n philosophical abstractions: t h i s i s a novel i n which he attempts to share a glimpse of h i s v i s i o n of existence, i t i s not a moral t r e a t i s e . The Ministry of Fear, l i k e The Confidential Agent, makes f u l l use of an atmosphere of u n r e a l i t y , of romance, and of melodrama. The drama of Rowe's expiation and r e b i r t h i s played always with war i n the background. The t i t l e of the novel i s a play on words which l i n k s the subject to the story. On the one hand, the word "ministry" suggests bureaucracy, 61 those In power. These are represented i n the novel by H i l f e , the archetype of e v i l , and unknown amoral forces, "they". H i l f e and "they" r u l e by fear and violence. On the other hand, the word "ministry" suggests charity, service. Those who belong to t h i s group, those who love, l i v e i n constant fear: fear that t h e i r charity, t h e i r service, t h e i r love can become a corruption. This why "the whole man" that Arthur Rowe becomes at the end of the novel can, with his love and tenderness for Anna H i l f e , r e f l e c t on the words "Ministry of Fear." He makes a d i s t i n c t i o n between "the small Ministry • . . with limited aims l i k e winning a war or changing a c o n s t i t u t i o n , " and the one to which he now belonged, "a Ministry as large as l i f e to which a l l who loved belonged. If one loved one feared" (p. 267). In t h i s novel Greene has shown that his main concern is not society, nor the abstract term humanity, but people— the i r passions, t h e i r vices, and their v i r t u e s — p e o p l e i n a f a l l e n world, and, therefore, people i n a state of s i n . He has shown that non-involvement, and involvement from a distance are both undesirable. He has raised the question of the pro-priety of r i s k i n g damnation for those whom one loves. With Greene there s t i l l remains what Rostenne c a l l s the mystery of s i n , the mystery of the sinner ("le mystere du pSche, l e mystere de l'homme p&cheur"). Because t h i s novel i s i n the comic mode, i n Frye's d e f i n i t i o n of the term, Greene sees f i t 62 to save his hero, thus giving an affirmative answer to his own question. But even here, there i s only a p a r t i a l l y happy ending. The p r i n c i p a l s , Arthur Rowe, and Anna H i l f e , have been able to see the dangers. But they have always to be on guard against these dangers, and against themselves and against each other. The reader w i l l always remain i n doubt about this kind of happiness. Because of t h i s , Greene's seeming affirmative remains equivocal. As he portrays his characters, Greene delineates the thi n l i n e which divides v i r t u e from v i c e , i n other words, the l i n e that divides goodness from e v i l . The l i n e , as he draws i t , i s th i n , but i t i s there and must be sought and cherished. As Walter A l l e n puts i t i n "Writers of Today," Greene presents the world as he sees i t : "the seedy world of economic man at his most urbanised and atomised, a world i n which the sense of community has been l o s t . . . . " 2 9 In his myth, Greene rescues his hero from th i s "seedy" world. By showing the undesirable way, he Im p l i c i t l y shows the way back to the Ministry of love. The archetypal pattern of the return i s i n keeping with Greene's basic archetype of regeneration through experience. F i r s t , through the dream sequences, we have the image of Rowe's unconscious sense of unity, of a cosmic order and of love (pity and compassion). This, symbolically represents his b i r t h . Next, we see the e v i l e ffects of p i t y , a corruption of t h i s love. Then Rowe's symbolic death at the bomb incident. F i n a l l y , there i s Rowe's symbolic r e b i r t h , maturity and a conscious sense of unity gained through a r e a l love. This mature unity d i f f e r s from the I d y l l i c harmony of Rowe's early childhood because i t incorporates experience. I cannot praise a f u g i t i v e and c l o i s t e r e d v i r t u e , unexercised and inbreathed... John Milton, Areop'agitica CHAPTER IV THE POWER AND THE GLORY Like most of Greene's novels, The Power and the Glory begins with descriptions and images which evoke the sense of a f a l l e n world, a sense of e v i l and of decay. Greene uses images of "buzzards," "sharks," and "carrion" among others, to symbolize an atmosphere of e v i l , of struggle, and of f a i l u r e . In one sentence Greene establishes the essence of the physical plot of the novels "Mr. Tench went . . . past the Treasury which had once been a church, . . . ." (p. 1). Here, the imagery i s one of the material replacing the s p i r i t u a l . This foreshadows the struggle between State and Church or, more s p e c i f i c a l l y , between the Mexican lieutenant and the whiskey p r i e s t . The drama of t h i s struggle forms the back-drop for the more serious, more intense s p i r i t u a l struggle of the xvhiskey p r i e s t . It i s clear that p r i o r i t y must be given to the s p i r i t u a l struggle of the p r i e s t because he could have escaped or at l e a s t have taken the way of Padre Jose had i t not been for his concern—through pride or other-wise—over h i s p r i e s t l y obligations. The Power and the Glory, although i t lacks the intensive characterization of The Heart of the Matter i s a novel with a strong tragic tone. The p r i n c i p a l s , the Mexican lieutenant, and the whiskey p r i e s t , both i n th e i r own way are good men, yet they are at war with each other and destroy each other. In terms of the novel, the lieutenant succeeds i n hi s sphere— the material world—over the p r i e s t . At the end of the novel, however, he i s s p i r i t l e s s and cannot savour his v i c t o r y . For the p r i e s t , a pattern of s p i r i t u a l regeneration emerges dominant i n the person of the new pr i e s t , i n the recanting of the "boy, Luis, and i n hollowness of the lieutenant's v i c t o r y . The novel should not be seen as Greene's a r t i c l e of f a i t h i n Church dogma, because, i f one chose, a similar l i m i t e d case could be made for the secular struggle between Church and State with the State emerging v i c t o r i o u s . Both views are necessarily limited because they tend to overlook both Greene's a r t i s t i c s k i l l and his main concern, which i s that of a man who i s engaged i n a heroic attempt to assert his r e s p o n s i b i l i t y and his humanity. Here too, Greene's basic archetype of regeneration through experience i s evident. The a f f i n i t y between t h i s novel and the entertainments, The  Confid e n t i a l Agent and The Ministry of Fear, i s established by this basic archetype and by the element of the physical chase. The Power and the Glory, however, d i f f e r s from the entertainments i n mode and i n scope. This novel has a tragic tone, although i t seems to lack the tragic rhythm, the true sense of an unavoidable tragedy the The Heart of the Ma-tter presents. This may be so, f i r s t , because of the c a r e f u l l y prepared regenerative pattern established by the action which takes place between Luis, and his mother, with his mother reading to him about saints. At f i r s t the boy scoffs at thi s because his saint, his hero, i s s e c u l a r — t h e lieutenant. Later, he rejects the lieutenant and admits the new priest to the house. Second, despite the priest's anguish concerning the state of his own soul, that of his c h i l d , and that of his parishoners, the c o n f l i c t i s , on the one hand, between him-s e l f and the lieutenant, and, on the other, between the dictates of Church dogma and what he feels as an -independent human being. His f i g h t i s not with God. In The Heart of the Matter, however, Scobie's f i g h t i s with God, himself, and human nature generally. We see Scobie as a man acting out his nature and yet, acting against his own nature. He i s at once the victim and the offender. Although the priest's agony is engaging and moving, the f e e l i n g of te r r o r , of an un-bridgable void presented by The Heart of the Matter i s absent. The Power and the Glory resembles i n many ways a r i t u a l drama, with the priest both as the scapegoat and as the dying god-king. The priest i s l i k e "the King of a West A f r i c a n t r i b e , the slave of his people, who may not even l i e down i n case the winds should f a i l " (p. 25). When the "winds f a i l , " i n t his case, the waning of r e l i g i o u s s p i r i t i n his parish, the p r i e s t has f a i l e d and must die . Thus he becomes the s a c r i f i c e , the dead " b u l l " (p. 295). The priest i s the scapegoat for the Church and f o r the community of believers who can now., with h i s death, more firmly cherish t h e i r secret faith,because they have yet another "saint" as Luis' mother suggests (p. 298). The p r i e s t i s the scapegoat for his, c h i l d , too, for whose salvation he offers his own damnation as p r o p i t i a t i o n . The minor characters, whose l i v e s the priest had affected, form the chorus and a l l note the priest's passing. They a l l "come on stage" to voice t h i s awareness when the f i n a l act of the priest's execution i s played. They report the priest's death. The priest's tale i s t o l d as through a telescope. F i r s t , i n the contracted lens we view the p r i e s t through Mr. Tench's eyes. Gradually, as the lenses are magnified, the p r i e s t i s "on stage" as we see him i n his f l i g h t and follow him through his capture. As the lenses again contract, the priest fades from our view and i t is through the report of the chorus that we know of the priest's death. The ef f e c t of t h i s a r t i s t i c approach by Greene i s to make the. reader f e e l that he i s a spectator viewing the acting-out of a drama on stage. The use of the term " r i t u a l drama" here should perhaps be explained. The p r i e s t undergoes the r i t u a l of death which i n i t s e l f subsumes the basic archetype of death and r e b i r t h through experience. The priest i s "reborn" i n the person of the new p r i e s t because, a f t e r his f a l l from "grace," he has undergone humiliation and s u f f e r i n g . Added to t h i s he has f i n a l l y been able to shrug off Church doctrine and stand as a culpable human being, perhaps not ready but w i l l i n g to face the f e a r f u l mercy of his God: In this sense, the priest's actual death i s a r i t u a l because the regenerative p r i n c i p l e has been prepared for as shown e a r l i e r . I t i s drama, too, because of the distance maintained between the p r i n c i p a l action and the spectators (the readers) by Greene's telescopic approach. Again, by entering the priest's consciousness, thus unfolding his t a l e by revelation rather than by narrative, Greene maintains constant dramatic tension. We sense the pathos of the priest's struggles but we do not undergo i t ourselves. At the same time, despite the distance, we share the priest's attainment of moral insight and derive pleasure from his regeneration. This r i t u a l drama i s , of course, C h r i s t i a n rather than pagan, and i n the novel there are elements of a Ch r i s t i a n Passion with the presence of the Judas-like mestizo who betrays the p r i e s t . Within this a r t i s t i c framework, Greene weaves his tale of a Catholic priest i n a Mexican v i l l a g e who, because of persecution from the state, must either renounce h i s p r i e s t -hood, escape or be hunted down and executed p u b l i c l y . He does not y i e l d , nor does he escape, although, we are led to believe, he could have escaped. He did not escape at f i r s t because of "pride" (p. 129) , and l a t e r , because of an increasing sense of g u i l t and sense of duty. The priest stays and i s hunted down by the lieutenant, whose sole aim i s "cleansing" the state of p r a c t i s i n g p r i e s t s . The lieutenant's youthful association with the Church has been unpleasant, and he had harboured only visions of the Church's corruption. Coincident with the priest's physical struggle for s u r v i v a l , and, I suggest, of greater concern to Greene,1 i s the s p i r i t u a l struggle of the p r i e s t . In the absence of Church shelter and control, he has succumbed to what he*, as a "good" p r i e s t , would have described as weakness and l u s t ; He has taken to drink and, i n a night of l u s t has fathered a c h i l d by one of his parishoners. Greene's focus i s on the sense of g u i l t which follows t h i s act; on the c o n f l i c t between this g u i l t and the p r i e s t ' s conception of his worthi-ness to perform his o f f i c e ; and on the priest's heroic attempt to secure some measure of pardon from God. It i s the priest's f a l l from grace, a dubious grace' i n terms of the novel, that opens the way for the priest to become a better man a f t e r much soul-searching. In t h i s sense, his f a l l i s a "fortunate" f a l l . As such, Greene's priest's tale takes i t s place i n the long t r a d i t i o n of myth. In reviewing the r i t u a l and myth of the Ancient Near East from which Greek myth and others have c r y s t a l l i z e d , Herbert.Weisinger i n Tragedy and the Paradox  of the Fortunate F a l l ^ 0 finds that these myths a l l stem from the theory of the fortunate f a l l . They a l l inculcate "the drama i n which the cosmic and chaotic powers s t r i v e with one another, and which ends i n the vict o r y of the creative God." This theory of the fortunate f a l l i s rel a t e d to, and actually stems from the theory of the divine king who "represents the hopes of s u r v i v a l of the community." When the winds f a i l , that i s , when a l l i s not well with the community, "the God dies that the.people might l i v e ; through him they v i c a r i o u s l y expiate t h e i r sins and pay t h e i r penance; i n his suffering they suffer; and i n his death i s t h e i r l i f e . In time, the dying God i . . i n his own person undergoes the searing experiences of combat, suffering, and deaths" The elements of a C h r i s t i a n r i t u a l drama i n thi s novel are undeniable, then, in-view of t h i s discussion. If The Power and the Glory is seen as r i t u a l drama, i t s a r t i s t r y becomes evident. The prepared regenerative pattern which might seem to he a flaw when thi s novel i s compared with The Heart of the Matter, becomes i t s strength i n i t s p a r t i c u l a r genre. In The Power and the Glory, Greene has written a novel with a regenerative p r i n c i p l e much l i k e the regenerative pattern that emerges dominant i n Shakespeare's tragic plays; This novel, I fi n d , i s a preparation for the true tragic irony of Scobie's dilemma. Better s t i l l , The  Heart of the Matter i s an advancement on The Power and the Glory: In the priest's case, for example, as i n most of Shakespeare's tragic plays, one can touch on the "flaw" which causes the priest's downfall. In the tragic irony of Scobie's drama, we f i n d that the positive "values of his compassion and sense of r e s p o n s i b i l i t y cause his downfall. By invading his characters' consciousness, Greene i s able to f i l l i n past d e t a i l s without the necessity of a long, sequential narrative. For instance, d e t a i l s of the priest's previous l i f e are given i n t h i s way, and when we j o i n the p r i e s t i n his f l i g h t , we know that he i s bearing a heavy burden of g u i l t ; It i s only l a t e r that we know of his addiction to.drink and of his sexual indulgence; It i s the priests " s i n s " which become his salvation. Because of his "sins " he has l o s t the complacency fostered by his elevated position i n the Church: "the good things of l i f e had come to him too e a r l y — t h e respect of his contemporaries, a safe l i v e l i h o o d . The t r i t e r e l i g i o u s word upon the tongue, the joke to ease the way, the ready acceptance of other people's homage" (p; 29)1 By the p r i e s t ' s own admission, this homage had"made him proud: By i m p l i c i t comparison, he i s l i k e the priest whose execution the lieutenant recalls:" "he was a monsignor, • ; . he had a sort of contempt fo r the lower clergy, and r i g h t up to the l a s t he'was explaining h i s rank" (pi 33); In fact, i t i s t h i s pride, t h i s sense of invulner-a b i l i t y which, at f i r s t , caused the p r i e s t to defy the State* edict against theChurchi The State had either closed down, or appropriated a l l churches, and had forbidden observance of the Mass; The priests were a l l to go into voluntary e x i l e , 72 renounce t h e i r vows by marrying and a c c e p t i n g a pension, or be hunted down and executed i f they d e f i e d the-law. The p r i e s t ' s d e f i a n c e o f the law causes him, g r a d u a l l y , to shed the m a t e r i a l symbols of h i s • o f f i c e (p. 82).; By the time x<re . f i r s t see him, he'has l e f t only a b r i e f c a s e c o n t a i n i n g ' " a ; l i t t l e brandy" and some papers. Later,'he d i s c a r d s even t h i s a n d - i s a man, unaccomodated, with only h i s f a i t h and-his burden of u n c e r t a i n t y coneerning h i s f a t e . S i g n i f i c a n t l y , t h e ' l a s t v e s t i g e o f h i s o f f i c e , to be equated wi t h h i s p r i d e of p o s i t i o n , i s d i s c a r d e d when he meets h i s daughter by the " r u b b i s h - t i p " ( p i 110). The s i l k - l i n e d case r e p r e s e n t e d "a whole important and r e s p e c t e d youth . . . he had been g i v e n i t - b y h i s pari-shoners i n Concepcion on the' f i f t h .anniversary of h i s o r d i n a t i o n " ( p i 109)» Through a l l h i s f l i g h t he*-had c h e r i s h e d t h i s i In the f a c e of the y o u t h f u l c o r r u p t i o n o f h i s c h i l d , ,the l i v i n g r e p r e s e n t a t i o n of h i s l u s t , however, he f i n a l l y l o s e s h i s p r i d e . A t the same time, he becomes -j u s t another parent concerned f o r the w e l f a r e - o f h i s c h i l d ' s s o u l i He i s now no longer a p r i e s t concerned with a g e n e r a l -i z e d l o v e of every s o u l . H i s love i s more p e r s o n a l , more meaningful and i s i n c o n f l i c t with h i s p o s i t i o n as w o r l d - f a t h e r : "one mustn't have human a f f e c t i o n s - - o r r a t h e r one must l o v e every s o u l as i f i t were-one's- own c h i l d . "The p a s s i o n to p r o t e c t must"extend i t s e l f over a w o r l d — b u t he f e l t i t t e t h e r e d and aching l i k e a hobbled animal to the t r e e t r u n k " ( p i 112). 73 The t r e e trunk near.the r u b b i s h i s where he had s a i d goodbye to h i s daughter: As one who "loves every s o u l , " the p r i e s t can m a i n t a i n a c e r t a i n d i s t a n c e from the s i n n e r , he can loo k down i n p i t y and be a mediator between the s i n n e r and God; But when the p r i e s t can see h i m s e l f as a s i n n e r , and can become a parent a c t i v e l y concerned over the welfa r e of h i s o f f s p r i n g , he becomes more than j u s t a mediator! He becomes C h r i s t - l i k e i n o f f e r i n g h i m s e l f as a w i l l i n g s a c r i f i c e f o r h i s daughter's s a l v a t i o n . He can pray s i l e n t l y , "0 God, gi v e me any k i n d of d e a t h — w i t h o u t c o n t r i t i o n , i n a s t a t e of s i n — o n l y save the c h i l d " ( p i 111). The p r i e s t ' s r e c o g n i t i o n of B r i g i d a as h i s c h i l d r a t h e r than as the l i v i n g symbol of h i s s i n , i s one of the climaxes o f the n o v e l and may a c t u a l l y be the most important s i n g l e episode i n the whole n o v e l . Greene dwells a t l e n g t h oh t h i s episode as compared t o the speed and economy of the r e s t of the n o v e l . Greene devotes t h i r t y - t w o pages (pp. 81-112) of t h i s f a s t - p a c e d n o v e l to t h i s episode, and every subsequent scene, e s p e c i a l l y the important episode o f the p r i e s t ' s f i r s t imprisonment, harkens back to t h i s scene of r e c o g n i t i o n ! S i g n i f i c a n t l y , too, i t i s i n t h i s v i l l a g e which he c a l l s "home" and which he has been a v o i d i n g f o r s i x years t h a t the p r i e s t had f a t h e r e d B r i g i d a ; I t i s here t h a t he indeed becomes a human f a t h e r r a t h e r than a p r i e s t l y f a t h e r , and s u f f e r s the heart-ache o f parenthood. I t i s here too, t h a t when the 74 lieutenant would have captured him, his own " s i n , " Brigida, saves him by declaring him to be her father. It i s here that the p r i e s t f e e l s "the shock of human love" (p. 90). Gradually, we see the p r i e s t becoming human. Prom seeing Brigida simply as the r e s u l t of "an act which h o r r i f i e d him" (p. 90) , the priest becomes "aware of an immense load of r e s p o n s i b i l i t y . . . indistinguishable•from love. This he thought, must be what a l l parents f e e l : ordinary men go through l i f e l i k e t h i s crossing t h e i r fingers, praying against pain, a f r a i d . . . . For years, of course, he had been responsible for souls, but that was d i f f e r e n t . . . a l i g h t e r thing" (p. 90) . His interrupted sermon at the Mass i n the v i l l a g e ends as a kind of self-pardon. Here, the p r i e s t equates pro-creation with love. I t i s at t h i s Mass i n the v i l l a g e that he f e l t God present i n the body, the symbolic communion bread, "for the f i r s t time i n s i x years" (p. 97) . Later when the priest i s about to say goodbye to Brigida, Greene makes the change from p r i e s t l y father to parent e x p l i c i t and moving: the p r i e s t "was a man who was supposed to save souls; i t had seemed quite simple once, preaching at Benediction, organizing the guilds, having coffee with elderly ladies behind barred windows, blessing new houses with a l i t t l e incense, wearing black gloves . . . i t was as easy as saving money: now i t was a mystery. He was aware of his own desperate inadequacy" (p. 111). The priest can now t e l l B r i g i da: "I love you. I am your father and I love you . . . you a r e — s o important." To him she i s "more important than a whole continent" (p. 111). Recognition of his f a l l i b i l i t y and his human l i m i t a t i o n places the priest squarely back into the stream of humanity where he, too, i s subject to the mystery of existence without a l l the answers. He no longer f e e l s that he has a l l the answers provided by the Church and he becomes humble. He even becomes C h r i s t - l i k e i n his treatment of the Judas, the mestizo whom he i s c e r t a i n i s bent on betraying him (p. 133). It i s important to point out that the priest had never l o s t his f a i t h i n God. His doubts had been fostered by the c o n f l i c t between Church doctrine and his human indulgence. It i s his f a i t h i n God which enables him, a "sinner," to continue to give absolution to others i n the name of God. Paradoxically, i n recognizing himself to be human, the priest becomes more than human because he, even though f e a r f u l l y , can emulate the C h r i s t - l i k e s a c r i f i c e . He can love his c h i l d to the extent of o f f e r i n g his damnation as p r o p i t i a t i o n for her corrupt soul: to love and forgive the s i n f u l i s to approach Godliness. In h i s person, the p r i e s t reaffirms the mystery of the God-Man r e l a t i o n s h i p . At the same time that the priest becomes the s a c r i f i c e , he may secure his own salvation because, when he becomes human and accepts his " s i n , " he becomes subject to the s a c r i f i c e which C h r i s t had made for the sinner. This i s why he feels that he cannot place himself even above the Judas-mestizo who i s to betray him. As the priest sees i t , "Christ had died for t h i s man too: how could he pretend with his pride and lu s t and cowardice to be any more worthy of that death than th i s half-caste?" (p. 133) . BY becoming humble and rej o i n i n g the universe of culpable human beings, then, the priest can now secure at least the p o s s i b i l i t y of salvation by making himself subject to Christ's s a c r i f i c e for f a l l e n humanity. He can throw himself on the inestimable mercy of God, the extent and quality of which he knows "nothing" (p. 269). Greene has placed the priest's agony and his attained humility i n a positive l i g h t by i m p l i c i t contrast with the other characters i n the novel. These are, notably, the lieutenant; Padre Jose; the "pious" woman i n the prison; the Lehrs; and the unseen martyr, Juan. The superstitious, b l i n d f a i t h of the more minor characters, too, i s i n contrast to the searching, probing f a i t h of the p r i e s t . To these converts, the mass i t s e l f i s a symbol of f a i t h rather than the symbolized r i t u a l that i t i s , i n f a c t . The f a i t h of the Indian woman stands as a challenge to the priest at the time when his f a i t h i n God i s at i t s lowest ebb. He expects that a miracle should attend an act of f a i t h such as the Indian woman's. Mr. Tench, at the same time that he i s part of the chorus of t h i s drama, i s an i r r e l i g i o u s spectator whose concern over the priest's execution i s akin to what one fe e l s on "seeing a neighbour shot" (p. 294). 77 The lieutenant, i n his given sphere, i s as much a priest of the secular, as the whiskey p r i e s t i s of the s p i r i t u a l , world. The lieutenant i s a leader, an example to his men. He has ''something of a priest i n his intent observant walk—a theologian going back over the errors of the past to destroy them again" (p. 32). His quarters are "as comfortless as a prison or a monastic c e l l " (p. 32). He i s a mystic, too, yet his view of existence i s n i h i l i s t i c . His view of existence i s that human beings had "evolved from animals for no purpose at a l l " (p. 33). The lieutenant has a r e l i g i o u s intensity of purpose and his asceticism i s an i m p l i c i t comment on the priest who lacks these "virtues". Because of t h i s characterization of the lieutenant, the priest's degradation stands i n stark contrast. The lieutenant i s an example to the p r i e s t . But t h i s , too, adds to Greene's basic image of a f a l l e n world. This is a world i n which material values supercede s p i r i t u a l values. It i s necessary that the basic, but misdirected virtues of the lieutenant should be recognized by the priest because there i s some positive value i n him. He i s of lesser stature than the p r i e s t , however, because he has permitted his "secret passion" (p. 162), his desire to capture the p r i e s t , to become an end i n i t s e l f . He i s trapped by his own z e a l . His passion causes him to destroy the very people whom he i s dedicated to serve. Although the lieutenant means well to his people, his unbending ethic of duty precludes the tolerance, 78 humility, and compassion which become the priest's saving grace. The lieutenant can f e e l "no sympathy at a l l with the weakness of the f l e s h " (p. 3 4 ) . Such an attitude w i l l invariably r e s u l t i n pride, the inordinate self-esteem which had been the priest's f a i l i n g previously. The end r e s u l t of such a pride i n the face of the f r u s t r a t i n g lack of success which the lieutenant experiences, i s despair. In the end, the lieutenant has no f a i t h to r e l y on; he has had only f a i t h i n himself and his cause. This i s the reason that at the end of the novel he i s a hollow man. At the end, "the dynamic love which used to move his t r i g g e r - f i n g e r f e l t f l a t and dead" (p. 2 9 9 ) . A l l his human passion has been spent i n a messianic crusade for a cause that proves hopeless. His cause has proved hopeless because when the boy, Luis, who had previously esteemed him as a hero spits on his revolver-butt, t h i s i s a summary r e j e c t i o n of a l l that the lieutenant stands f o r . The boy, Luis, represents the new generation, and his action i n sheltering the new p r i e s t , signals f a i l u r e of the lieutenant's vow that l i f e , for the new generation, " i s never going to be again for them what i t was" for him (p. 2 9 9 ) . Padre Jose stands out, f i r s t , as a balm to the lieutenant's b i t t e r crusade. He represents, to the lieutenant, "a l i v i n g witness to the weakness" of the f a i t h of priests (p. 3 4 ) . It i s obvious that as a dedicated man himself, the lieutenant despises Padre Jose and holds a grudging admiration for the 79 whiskey pr i e s t who, by his very tenacity i n the face of his fear, reaffirms the mystery of f a i t h . Second, Padre Jose stands out to the priest as a continuing source of doubt as to whether or not i t i s better to take the l i n e of least resistance. Is i t better, he asks himself, to do e v i l that good may come? In terms of the novel, t h i s means, i s i t Ttforthwhile to r i s k the venting of the lieutenant's wrath on the v i l l a g e r s who shelter him so that he can continue to serve t h e i r s p i r i t u a l needs? (pp. 88-89). Would i t have been better to subject himself to the r i d i c u l e of r e l i g i o n of which Padre Jose i s the Incarnation? The answer i s given by the lieutenant's grudging admiration of the whiskey p r i e s t ; by the mockery of Padre Jose by the children of the v i l l a g e ; and by Padre Jose's despair. Padre Jose "had l i v e d for two years i n a continuous state of s i n " (p. 39')i. Because t h i s has to do with his break-ing of h i s ascetic vows, his " s i n " i s akin to the whiskey p r i e s t ' s . There i s a symbolic difference, however, between Padre Jose's taking a wife and the whiskey priest's sexual indulgence. Padre Jose's sexual impotence (p. 39) i s i n contrast to the whiskey priest's v i r i l i t y . The whiskey priest can give l i f e , Padre Jose cannot. The analogue here i s to the whiskey priest's a c t i v i t y , his soul-searching for new s p i r i t u a l l i f e as opposed to Padre Jose's vegetable existence. For Padre Jose now, "there was never anything to do at a l l — n o d a i l y O f f i c e , no Masses, no confessions, and i t was no good 80 praying any longer at a l l : a prayer demanded an act and he had no Intention of acting" (p. 3 9 ) . Padre Jose, we know from the whiskey priest's reminiscence, had never been a man of high a s p i r a t i o n s . He had had the humility of o f f i c e that the whiskey pr i e s t lacked. Because Padre Jose lacks the degree of s e l f - a s s e r t i o n which the whiskey p r i e s t has, he can never f a l l as far as the whiskey p r i e s t . By the same token, however, he can never reach the height of s p i r i t u a l a t t a i n -ment of the whiskey p r i e s t . Unlike Padre Jose, the whiskey pr i e s t w i l l never.be a bystander. In contrast, then, the whiskey priest's sins and his action to atone for these sins set him above Padre Jose. The "pious", unnamed woman i n the prison i s the incarnation of the priest's former l i f e . She represents the homage, and tendency to complacency which i s opposed to truth, compassion, tolerance, and humility. She represents the l i p service that i s paid to r e l i g i o n without the true s p i r i t of r e l i g i o n . Prom her conversation with the priest i t i s clear that t h i s pious woman takes pride i n her "Christian a t t i t u d e . " Hers i s a world of white and black, that i s , of "good and e v i l , " and of "good" priests l i k e the martyr, Juan, whose story Luis* mother reads to her children i n the course of the novel. People l i k e t h i s pious woman "came to death so often i n a state of i n v i n c i b l e complacency, f u l l of uncharity" (p. 172). I f charity i s a God-like grace, then the conclusion, here, must be that complacency and the attendant uncharity, puts the holder further away from God. I f God can make allowances, surely, a human being must. S i g n i f i c a n t l y , the priest's advice to her "You must trust God, my dear, to make allowances" (p. 175)» i s what he himself has to do. The whiskey p r i e s t , for a l l his sins, i s closer to God than i s t h i s pious woman. The Lehr's represent an ethic of an ordered l i f e i n which preparation i s made for every contingency (p. 222). They are frug a l and Pu r i t a n i c a l , and are "upright and i d e a l i s t i c " (p. 220). Mr. Lehr has about him "the th i n rectitude of a bishop upon a tomb" (p. 23*0. Like Browning's "Bishop," f o r him, "peace, peace seems a l l . " With his s i s t e r , he l i v e s i n an Arcadian state, c l o i s t e r e d from the struggles of the world. The Lehrs l i v e d i n peace and "had combined to drive savagery out by simply ignoring anything that con-f l i c t e d with an ordinary German-American homestead" (p. 220). This, of course, sets the priest's struggle i n worthwhile perspective because one does not Improve a s i t u a t i o n simply by ignoring i t . An attitude such as that of the Lehrs c o n f l i c t s with Greene's view of the need for a perpetual fight against s i n and corruption. Here, idealism i s again used by Greene as an a n t i t h e t i c a l example of his concept of the need for awareness. Mr. Lehr "had disapproved of m i l i t a r i s m " i n Germany, but had not fought against i t : he had f l e d . This, along with Padre Jose's stand, constitutes, i n thi s novel, a s i n of omission greater than the whiskey priest's sins of commission. Coral Fellows Is presented i n t h i s novel as an innocent. She i s , however, the innocent without awareness, with a l l the c e r t a i n t i e s and s i m p l i c i t i e s of youth: "her candour made allowances for nobody: the future, f u l l of compromises, anxieties, and shame, lay outside . . ." (p. 48). She dies a vi o l e n t death, the d e t a i l s of which we are not t o l d . She has a basic c h a r i t y . Her act of charity to the priest i s probably the turning point i n her facing of the compromises of l i f e . She finds that she has to l i e to the lieutenant to save the p r i e s t . In some ways, she i s a miniature incarnation of the p r i e s t . Like the p r i e s t , she i s a guardian—she i s more of a guardian to her parents than they are to her. The same p r i n c i p l e of unity which attends the priest's death attends hers: she becomes the unifying p r i n c i p l e between her weak father who tends to dissociate himself from misery, and her hypochondriacal mother. Mr. and Mrs. Fellows have d r i f t e d apart, and the f e e l i n g and c i v i l i t i e s between them are super-f i c i a l . They are united i n the end. With the death of Coral, they f e e l that, "they had both been deserted. They had to s t i c k together" (p. 2 9 0 ) . Now that they no longer have Coral to depend on, they have to depend on each other. Even the whining Mrs. Fellows who i s anxious to return to England, when Mr: Fellows refuses to go, can now say to her husband} "We've got each other, dear" (p. 2 9 1 ) . A r t i s t i c a l l y , Greene makes provision for a dramatic l u l l i n the fury and agony of the priest's struggle. The priest f i n a l l y crosses the border into Southern Mexico and, through border regulations, i s safe from pursuit by the lieutenant. Here, i n the state where the Lehrs lead t h e i r peaceful existence, the p r i e s t can celebrate a Mass i n Mr. Lehr's barn. Here, he has communicants and respect: "he f e l t respect a l l the way up the s t r e e t " (p. 2 2 6 ) . This interlude i s i n s t r i k i n g contrast to the f l i g h t of the priest when he had been reduced to f i g h t i n g with an aged, crippled, dog for i t s food—an old, r o t t i n g bone. Here, too, the priest can rai s e money by p r a c t i s i n g the simony that had so embittered the lieutenant. An example of t h i s simony sees the p r i e s t bargaining with a woman about the price he w i l l charge to baptize her children (pp. 2 4 4 - 2 4 5 ) . The priest had tasted the depths of p r i v a t i o n and now i t was tempting to return to, and savour, the l i f e of ease. It i s here, however, that Greene shoinrs the e s s e n t i a l virtue i n the priest that makes him worthy of salvation and gives the reason for the regenerative pattern i n the novel. The p r i e s t buys whiskey with the money, and his cunning matches that of the cantina-owner. His awareness of his con-tinued state of s i n shows, however, that he has not t o t a l l y reverted, unthinkingly, to his former days. He decides, now that he himself has to revert to l i e s to outwit the cantina-owner to get better whiskey value for his money, that "fear and death" are not the worst things. He marvels at "how e a s i l y o neforgot and went back" (p. 228). The confessional at which he presides i s r e a l l y h i s wrestling with his conscience, because l a t e r , during the confessional, "suddenly, without warning, with an old sense of homesickness, he thought of the hostages i n the prison yard . . . the suffering and endurance which went on everywhere the other side of the mountains" (p. 2 3 2 ) . He finds that he can no longer give the penance mechanically, and he i s i r r i t a t e d by the complacency of the communicants• When he says to one of these communicants "'; . . loving God i s n ' t any d i f f e r e n t from loving a man—or a c h i l d ' " (p. 2 3 3 ) , the p r i e s t i s equating human love with love of God and i s a c t u a l l y affirming his acceptance of the r e s p o n s i b i l i t y of parenthood. The p r i e s t i s torn between hi s ascetic vows arid his humanness—the fact that he "loved the r e s u l t " of his "crime" (p. 2 3 8 ) . He cannot yet reconcile t h i s love, "the thought of the c h i l d on the rubbish heap" which "came automatically back to him with painf u l love" with his ascetic vows. He cannot communicate with God, hence his journey to Las Casas where he can confess and be absolved i s useless. He cannot confess and be absolved because, at the same time that he f e e l s g u i l t y of a crime because of his vows, he feels that giving l i f e to the image of God, even i n - a l l i t s youthful corruption, i s not a crime. This i s the crux of the 85 p r i e s t ' s s p i r i t u a l struggle: his humanity i s at war with the Church's teaching. I am convinced that there are two main reasons that the priest returns, C h r i s t - l i k e , with the Judas, the mestizo. One i s that i f he allows a man, even the American gunman, a murderer, to die i n mortal s i n , he w i l l have f a i l e d God not once, but twi c e — t h e one being f a i l u r e of duty, the other, his unresolved sense of s i n . The second reason for his committing suicide (and t h i s i s r e a l l y what he does by returning), i s his giving way to despair at his i n a b i l i t y to solve his c o n f l i c t . He has decided to l e t God be the judge. The question has been plaguing him throughout his f l i g h t , and when he reads Coral's assessment of Hamlet's dilemma; "'the Prince of Denmark i s wondering whether he should k i l l himself or not, whether i t i s better to go on suffering a l l the doubts about his father, or by one blow . . . ,'" the pri e s t decides on the "one blow." The priest's action i n going to hi s death substantiates his role as scapegoat and as an assertive human being subject only to the Highest Judge. As a scapegoat, the priest offers himself as s a c r i f i c e i n the name of God. As an assertive human being, he dies for his love of hi s c h i l d i n defiance of e c c l e s i a s t i c vows which had c o n f l i c t e d with human desire and passion. The view of the pri e s t ' s double reason for returning can be seen from h i s words to the lieutenant. 'I don't know a thing about the mercy of Gods I don't know how awful the human heart looks to Him. 86 But I do know t h i s - - t h a t i f t h e r e ' s ever been a s i n g l e man i n t h i s s t a t e damned, then I ' l l be damned too.* (He s a i d ) , 'I wouldn't want i t to be any d i f f e r e n t . I j u s t want j u s t i c e , t h a t ' s a l l ' (p. 2 6 9 ) . The p r i e s t r e f u s e s to be damned f o r reneging on h i s duty. And, as to h i s own g u i l t , he i s making God the judge. I t i s now t h a t the d e c i s i o n i s out of h i s hands t h a t the p r i e s t i s ready f o r c o n f e s s i o n . He i s r e f u s e d the chance t o c onfess by Padre Jose and attempts a c o n f e s s i o n alone i n the p r i s o n on the eye of h i s e x e c u t i o n . H i s attempts a t c o n t r i t i o n are presented with engrossing pathos. The p r i e s t i s concerned not so much with h i s own s o u l , but with that of B r i g i d a , h i s c h i l d . Greene presents the p r i e s t ' s epiphany i n the form of a dream. T h i s dream, one of s e v e r a l i n the n o v e l , i s of g r e a t e s t import because i t takes the form of a miraculous r e v e l a t i o n to the p r i e s t t h a t he has been f o r g i v e n (pp. 282-283). B r i e f l y , the dream i s one of f r u i t f u l n e s s and a c h i l d i n the dream, probably C o r a l , who had p r e v i o u s l y spoken to the p r i e s t about Morse Code, speaks to him now of "Morse" code and "news." Both of these are symbolic of communication and i t i s on awaking from t h i s dream t h a t the p r i e s t can f i n a l l y communicate with God. For the f i r s t time he says an a c t of c o n t r i t i o n , b e a u t i f u l i n i t s s i m p l i c i t y , e x p r essing only c o n t r i t i o n , no r e q u e s t . The d i s t i n c t impression i s t h a t the p r i e s t has a t t a i n e d h i s f o r g i v e n e s s . He fadesr from our view and the f i n a l chapter i s g i v e n to the chorus who r e p o r t h i s death. The Power and the Glory exemplifies, even more than do the entertainments, Greene's basic archetype of regeneration through experience. The need for a basic awareness of e v i l as well as the concept of the fortunate f a l l i s abundantly evident i n t h i s novel: good can come of e v i l . As always In Greene, e v i l i s spotlighted, but as usual, too, there 1sf good-ness and charity to offset t h i s e v i l . Greene's continuing use of characters set i n balance and contrast i s one of the reasons for the fast pace of his novels. This serves the purpose of saving the reader the tedium of a sequential narrative; Perhaps i t i s i n t h i s novel with the deep sense of the r e l i g i o u s , that the reason that Greene uses idealism as an a n t i t h e t i c a l example to communicate hi s basic archetype, may be seen; The whiskey priest observes, with reference to his daughter, that the love which he f e l t f o r her, "he should have f e l t f o r every soul i n the world:.all the fear and the wish to save concentrated unjustly on the one c h i l d " (p. 280). The word "unjustly", here, may be attributed to the priest's sense of g u i l t , of f a i l u r e i n what he considers to be his duty. He f i n d s , however, that t h i s i s the way i t i s : he loves t h i s one c h i l d more than a whole "continent." The rest of his observation, here, can perhaps be set against his previous words to the lieutenant that what God-like love man has i s "the smallest glass of love mixed with a pint of ditch water" (p. 269)....It i s only God who can love the whole world. The e s s e n t i a l egotism of the i d e a l i s t approaches d i v i n i t y with insufficiency--"the smallest glass." It i s impossible then, for the i d e a l i s t to love the whole world. He i s not being true to himself i f he thinks he can. As has been shown here, i n The C o n f i d e n t i a l Agent, and i n The  Ministry of Fear, the best one can do to approach Godliness i s to love one person and show charity to a l l others. With t h i s view, Greene i s a r e a l i s t . His realism, however, i s not a s o c i a l realism l i k e the s o c i a l realism of the late nineteenth century, but a realism of the " s p i r i t u a l " nature of man. This has meaning i n the context of a l l time, hence Greene's mythic pattern can r e f e r even as f a r back as the o r i g i n a l F a l l ; .Shall mortal man be more just than God? S h a l l a man be more pure than his maker? Job. 4:17 CHAPTER V THE HEART OP THE MATTER The c r i t i c a l controversy s t i l l rages over Greene's enigmatic presentation of Scobie, the hero of The Heart of  the Matter. Scobie has been seen variously as a C h r i s t -figure, as a Prometheus, as a coward, and as a man who " i s g u i l t y of a kind of emotional egoism," a man who has "a compulsion to take the whole load of cosmic suffering on his own shoulders:"31 i n "Graham Greene and the Catholic Press, " 3 2 Donald P. Costello shows that the Catholic world has seized upon The Heart of the Matter as Greene's theological manifesto and/or his debasement of Catholic doctrine. There c e r t a i n l y are elements of the C h r i s t - f i g u r e , of the Promethean, and of the despairing coward i n Greene's presentation of Scobie. Further, the fact that Scobie i s a Catholic does have important bearing on thi s novel. To see Scobie from only one of these points of view, however, i s to overlook the fact that Scobie i s but an expanded symbol i n the network of Greene's mythology. He i s the symbol of a ce r t a i n force, s p i r i t u a l and human, which i s i n c o n f l i c t not only with i n i m i c a l ! 3 external forces, but within i t s e l f . B r i e f l y , the external forces are represented by the "world" of the novel. The i n t e r n a l force i s divine and human love which has been 89 corrupted into p i t y . Here, we f i n d operating the same con-cept of pi t y as both a vice and as a virtue as was the case in The Ministry of Fear. The compassion which motivates pity and makes i t a v i r t u e , distinguishes Scobie from others i n his environment. Pity i s a vice when i t becomes the breach through which one's i n t e g r i t y i s overrun. The main differences between The Heart of the Matter and The Con f i d e n t i a l Agent are the mode, the tone and the scope. In many ways, Scobie i s none other than Greene's fixed symbol of the hunted man whom we have seen i n The Con f i d e n t i a l Agent. The Ministry of Fear and The Power and the Glory. In context, Scobie i s an expanded symbol of t h i s archetype and represents Greene's continuous probing of c e r t a i n aspects of the s p i r i t u a l and moral existence of man as he acts with and against the contra-dictions of l i f e . Here, E. K. Brown's i n s t r u c t i v e view, i n Rhythm i n the Novel.33 of the a r t i s t ' s use of the " f i x e d " symbol and the "expanding" symbol might shed some l i g h t on Greene's varied presentation of his basic archetype of the hunted man who secures, or i s at least a symbol of, regeneration through experience. As Brown sees i t : the fi x e d symbol i s almost e n t i r e l y r e p e t i t i o n ; the expanding symbol i s r e p e t i t i o n balanced by v a r i a t i o n ; and that v a r i a t i o n i s i n progressively deepening disclosureo By the slow uneven way i n which i t accretes meaning from the succession of contexts i n which i t occurs; by the mysterious l i f e of i t s own i t takes on and supports; by the part of i t s meaning that even on the l a s t page of the novel i t appears s t i l l to withhold—the expanding symbol responds to the impulses of the novelist who i s aware that he 91 cannot give us the core of his meaning, but strains to reveal now t h i s aspect of i t , now that aspect, i n a sequence of sudden flashes. Greene's basic archetype has been seen i n d i f f e r e n t contexts i n the entertainments dealt with here, and i n the novel, The Power and the Glory. In The Heart of the Matter we have yet another context. It i s true that Catholicism forms part of the meaning of the novel, but Catholicism here i s only part of the "variations" from which the novel "accretes" i t s meaning. In as much as Greene i s concerned with the s p i r i t u a l , as well as the human aspects of existence, questions which touch upon the s p i r i t u a l motivation of man do have t h e i r place i n his novel. I f these questions happen to be Catholic, i t i s only that t h i s i s part of the a r t i s t ' s donne'e as Henry James puts i t i n "The Art of F i c t i o n . " ^ James sees the main concern of an author to consist i n his attempt to represent l i f e . In doing t h i s , the author must be granted his subject, his idea, his "donnee." What i s l e f t to c r i t i c i s m i s the use the a r t i s t makes of these. We do not have to be Catholic to see that, i n Scobie, Greene has presented a man acting i n c o n f l i c t with his own nature. The Catholic overtones are part of the context which Greene has had to create i n order to concretize the i n t e r n a l and external forces which are i n opposition. The Heart of the Matter i s neither Greene's a r t i c l e of f a i t h nor his attempt to re-create a C h r i s t or a Prometheus; neither i s i t his attempt to present the anatomy of cowardice. The Christ image, the Prometheus image, and the image of the despairing coward, along with the Catholic element i n the novel, are a l l part of the created context and must be examined, not singly , but as they relate to each other. I t i s l e f t to us only to "see," as Henry James uses the term, what "use" Greene makes of the various l i t e r a r y and other elements which comprise The Heart of the Matter. In t h i s novel, Major Scobie, the protagonist, i s caught between his highly compassionate nature and his concern over the d i s p o s i t i o n of his soul a f t e r death. His solution to t h i s problem i s an act of s e l f - s a c r i f i c e and of despair. It i s the balance which Greene maintains between Scobie's act as " s a c r i f i c e " and as "despair" which decides for us Scobie's moral stature. The C h r i s t - f i g u r e image i s evoked i f Scobie's choice i s a s a c r i f i c e of s e l f . I f Scobie dies s a c r i f i c i n g himself i n defiance of an established order which he questions, he i s a heroic, Promethean f i g u r e . If he commits suicide i n despair under overpowering s o c i a l circumstances, he becomes perhaps a coward, perhaps the unfortunate victim of these c i r -cumstances. I f seen only as a v i c t i m of s o c i a l pressures, Scobie i s a pathetic figure who does not a t t a i n the stature of a tragic figure who has made a s e l f - a s s e r t i v e choice. Greene has so c a r e f u l l y characterized Scobie as a man w i l l i n g to shoulder his r e s p o n s i b i l i t i e s , however, that the question that 9 3 s o c i e t a l influences are so l e l y , or even mainly responsible for Scobie's f i n a l act must be ruled out. Scobie's despair stems mainly from sources c l o s e l y related to the image of him as a C h r i s t - f i g u r e , and as a Prometheus. His despair stems from the c o n f l i c t between his C h r i s t - l i k e compassion, and his human l i m i t a t i o n s . The tragic irony i s that Scobie's C h r i s t - l i k e compassion and his sense of r e s p o n s i b i l i t y cause h i s downfall. Because of his compassion and h i s sense of duty, Scobie attempts what, f o r a human being, i s an impossible task: he wants to secure happiness f o r a l l . An increasing awareness of the im p o s s i b i l i t y of t h i s task forces Scobie to question the need for human suff e r i n g , and leads him to the depths of despair and the r i s k of damnation. But despair such as Scobie experiences, i s r e a l i z e d only by the "good." Scobie i s seen by his superior, the Commissioner who i s soon to r e t i r e , as "Arist i d e s the Just" (p. 18). Wilson, a man who hates and envies Scobie, sees him as being "too damned honest to l i v e " (p. 126). Yusef, the d e v i l archetype i n the novel, speaks of Scobie as "a Daniel" (p. 87). To Helen, his mistress, Scobie i s "good." Scobie i s a man who "had always been prepared to accept r e s p o n s i b i l i t y f o r his actions" (p. 58). Scobie's commendable, but impossible aim to secure happiness for others i s bound to f a i l , however, because "no human being can r e a l l y understand another," and "no one can arrange another's happiness" (p. 81). At the same time, Scobie does t r y even to the point of despair and suicide . His e f f o r t , and the r e s u l t i n g despair, set him above the e v i l man and mark him as a man of high moral stature. This i s so because, although Father Clay suggests that suicide i s the unforgivable s i n (p. 84), and although "one i s t o l d " that despair, too, i s an "unforgivable s i n " (p. 58) , Greene's au t h o r i a l comment on despair i s that despair i s "a s i n the corrupt or e v i l man never practises." The e v i l man "never reaches the freezing point of absolute f a i l u r e . Only the man of goodwill c a r r i e s always i n his heart this capacity for damnation" (p. 59) . The question of damnation places Scobie beyond human judgment because, as Father Rank says to Louise, no one, not even a p r i e s t , knows "a thing about God's mercy" (p. 263). B r i e f l y , the plot deals with Major Scobie, a Deputy Commissioner of Police i n Si e r r a Leone during wartime. On the pending retirement of the Commissioner, Scobie his Deputy, has been overlooked as his successor. This does not bother Scobie, but Louise, his wife, considers t h i s r e j e c t i o n a blow to her s o c i a l image. She fe e l s compelled to leave the colony for South A f r i c a u n t i l she again feels capable of facing the malicious gossip of her "friends." In an e f f o r t to please her, Scobie, who up to thi s time had been an incorruptible o f f i c i a l , borrows money from Yusef, a Syrian suspected of i l l e g a l dealings. During Louise's absence from the colony, Scobie forms an adulterous r e l a t i o n s h i p with Helen Rolt, a woman t h i r t y years h i s junior. Helen i s nineteen. On Louise's return, Scobie i s harassed by h i s sense of loy a l t y and r e s p o n s i b i l i t y to each of these two women. Scobie f i n a l l y decides on suicide, a f t e r anguished probing of the need f o r man's s u f f e r i n g . Catholicism, i n t h i s novel, a c t u a l l y assumes the pro-portions of an adversary, and i s the pivot around which many of the main questions i n the novel revolve. From the Church's point-of-vlew, Scobie's despair, and his suicide, are unfor-givable s i n s . From the Church's point-of-vlew, i t would appear that Scobie i s damned. Because of t h i s , the view of Scobie as a scapegoat figure i s invalidated. Again, at the end of the novel, Father Rank re-establishes the position of the Church as the centre of s p i r i t u a l guidance: "The Church knows a l l the r u l e s " (p. 26k), But here, Father Rank admits that the Church "doesn't know what goes on i n a single human heart." Only God can know t h i s , and no one knows "a thing about God's mercy." The question, then, i s whether or not God bends the rules for humane and merciful reasons. In part, Scobie dies o f f e r i n g h i s own damnation to God as p r o p i t i a t i o n for the " s i n s " — t h e i r g u i l t i s part of the heritage of the Or i g i n a l F a l l — o f those whom he loves. Although Scobie dies convinced of his own damnation, there i s the suggestion that God's mercy does transcend the rules of the Church, and that perhaps Scobie has secured his pardon because of his basic goodness and because of his s e l f l e s s , C h r i s t - l i k e s a c r i f i c e . When Scobie f a l l s to the f l o o r i n death he i s "the saint whose name nobody could remember" (p. 257)• The setting of the novel i s a f a l l e n world peopled by corrupt o f f i c i a l s , corrupt natives, and s o c i a l snobs. The recurring imagery of vultures scavenging at w i l l r e f l e c t s the human environment. The colony i s "the o r i g i n a l tower of Babel" (p. 14). Against t h i s environment, Scobie stands out as a man of i n t e g r i t y who consciously withdraws from th i s atmosphere of spying, gossip, and r i v a l r y . He longs for peace, and wonders why he loves the colony as much as he does. His tentative answer i s a comment both on the colony and the f a l l e n world i n general: Is i t because here human nature hasn't had time to disguise i t s e l f ? Nobody here could ever t a l k about a heaven on earth. Heaven remained r i g i d l y i n i t s proper place on the other side of death, and on t h i s side flourished the i n j u s t i c e s , the c r u e l t i e s , the meanness that elsewhere people so cl e v e r l y hushed up (p. 35). Scobie i s a man who, although he i s acutely aware of man's sinfulness, thinks that despite his sinfulness, or perhaps because of i t , man i s deserving of p i t y . When Scobie gives a l i f t to Yusef, i t i s our f i r s t i n d i c a t i o n that Scobie values a humane act more than he does s o c i a l image and promotion. Scobie i s aware of Yusef's reputation for shady dealings and 97 bribery, but he sees Yusef as a man i n need of help, and he offers i t . This act of compassion, l i k e every act of com-passion which Scobie performs i n the course of the novel, leads to a destructive r e l a t i o n s h i p . Scobie's acts draw him into the stream of l i f e . Previously, Scobie had been a man of v i r t u e who attempted, by keeping a diary, to secure an ordered course of peaceful, routine existence that i s divorced from the e v i l around him. This peace and order f o r which Scobie yearns are, however, inconsistent with h i s desire to secure happiness for others. As long as he continues to reject the challenges of l i f e , Scobie w i l l always remain a man u n f u l -f i l l e d . As Greene sees i t , Scobie w i l l never exercise h i s poten t i a l for heroism: the heroism of te s t i n g one's moral courage and moral worth. In terms of the novel, the conditions for t h i s t e s t i n g are adverse because t h i s i s a f a l l e n world, but Greene puts his "hero" to the t e s t . It i s when Scobie has faced the dangers of e v i l that he achieves enlightenment, as w i l l be shown. By the end of the f i r s t part of Book I of the novel, Scobie has committed another s e l f l e s s a ct. Again, t h i s i s an act of compassion. He f a i l s to report a concealed l e t t e r which he finds on a Portuguese ship. The Captain claims that the l e t t e r i s a harmless one to his daughter. But she i s i n war-time enemy t e r r i t o r y , Germany, so the l e t t e r should be censored. The Captain, i n fear of being " b l a c k l i s t e d , " appeals 98 to Scobie's mercy. Scobie does not promise to withhold the l e t t e r from censorship, and he rejects the attempted bribe. By the time he reaches his o f f i c e , however, he i s swayedo He secretly opens, reads, and destroys the l e t t e r . It i s immaterial to Greene's greater purpose that the l e t t e r proves to be harmless. In his c a r e f u l characterization of Scobie, Greene e x p l i c i t l y comments on the significance of Scobie's act. He shows that Scobie's seemingly perfect i n t e g r i t y i s edged by the kind of compassion which causes him to break o f f i c i a l orders: The act was irrevocable, for no one i n t h i s c i t y had the r i g h t to open clandestine mail. A microphotograph might be concealed i n the gum of an envelope . . • Scobie against the s t r i c t e s t orders was exercising h i s own imperfect judgement (pp. 5 1 - 5 2 ) . In much the same way, Scobie's compassion for the suffering of others i s to cause him to question the God who permits the suf f e r i n g of human beings. At the same time that Greene shows Scobie's breach of his o f f i c i a l authority, he secures our sympathy for h i s hero by i n d i c a t i n g that Scobie's act was t o t a l l y devoid of s e l f - i n t e r e s t . Other o f f i c i a l s who had broken the r u l e s , had done so f o r gain. Unlike Scobie, "they had been corrupted by money, and he had been corrupted by sentiment" (p. 5 3 ) . Their destructive element was greed, Scobie's i s sentiment, and of the two "sentiment was the more dangerous because you couldn't name i t s p r i c e . " Scobie's destructive element i s p i t y , and because he continues to submit to i t , the price to him i s mental anguish and death. For Scobie, pi t y i s a destructive element because i t i s so akin to love that i t can cause him to f e e l that h i s motivation i s love. Scobie can "love'* (pity) everyone who i s p i t i a b l e , but this prevents him from seeing that only God can love everybody. Scobie confuses a general charity f or everyone with love. He can thus consider himself a "just man" (p. 236) without r e a l i z i n g the self-deception which t h i s can lead to. As was the case with Arthur Rowe, Scobie i s to come to r e a l i z e that he did not r e a l l y know what "boys are" (p. 236). This suggests that up to t h i s time Scobie was immature. Pity, as we saw i n The Ministry of Fear, i s the immature equivalent of love. The positive value i n p i t y , compassion, should be nurtured, and one should always be aware of the e v i l that i s intermixed with goodness i n the human being since the F a l l . The e t h i c a l balance of good over e v i l should be maintained. B a s i c a l l y , t h i s i s a r e l i g i o u s , C h r i s t i a n e t h i c . But Greene's C h r i s t i a n i t y has a firm humanistic bent. Greene's i s not an abstract philosophy, but i s , at least i n his novels, a matter simply of moral existence. The point i s that once e v i l gets the upper hand, moral existence becomes impossible. This i s where Scobie stands as an expanded symbol. Scobie, even with-out r e a l i z i n g i t , becomes an accomplice of the d e v i l , Yusef. Scobie allows h i s compassion to cause him to compromise h i s Integrity. With the compromise of his i n t e g r i t y , Scobie loses trust even i n his f a i t h f u l servant A l l . Yusef preys on t h i s 100 to the point of making Scobie a t a c i t accomplice i n the murder of A l i . Pemberton's suicide at Bamba, which Scobie has been sent to investigate, Introduces the Issues of despair, damnation, and the Catholic's attitude to suicid e . This i n turn points out the sign i f i c a n c e of Scobie's f i n a l choice. Father Clay wonders i f there i s a p o s s i b i l i t y that Pemberton's death could have been murder rather than suic i d e . Suicide, he thinks, "puts a man outside mercy. M Scobie makes the d i s t i n c t i o n between Pemberton, a non-Catholic on the one hand, and himself and Father Clay on the other. Scobie does not consider Pemberton's suicide a damnable act because the awareness which would make thi s an e t h i c a l and/or r e l i g i o u s choice was absent. 'You are not going to t e l l me there's anything unforgivable here, Father. If you or I did i t , i t would be d e s p a i r — I grant you anything with us. We'd be damned a l l r i g h t because we know, but he doesn't know a thing.' 'The Church's teaching . . . .' 'Even the Church can't teach me that God doesn't pit y the young . . . * (p. 84) Here, we f i n d Scobie questioning the teaching of the Church i n favour of hi s view that, perhaps, God does bend the rules as He sees f i t f o r merciful reasons. Scobie's f i n a l choice i s i r o n i c a l l y foreshadowed here, too, because he claims that any such act by him would be damnable. The c o n f l i c t here i s between Church doctrine and Scobie's basic humanism. In his fevered dream at Bamba, Scobie rejects the p o s s i b i l i t y of suicide for himself. To t h i s point he has not f u l l y engaged himself i n l i f e and "no cause was important enough" to him (p. 89). Louise makes a matter-of-fact observation i n Scobie's dream that no such thing as Pemberton's suicide could ever happen to them. This serves to deepen the irony and reinforce the Catholic attitude to s u i c i d e . Louise's Catholicism and her desire for a favourable s o c i a l image play a b i t part i n the web of circumstances which test Scobie's compassion. She i s acutely unhappy because Scobie has been overlooked for the Commissionership. Even before th i s event, she i s a figure of r i d i c u l e to her Club-members. They secre t l y c a l l her "Literary Louise" because of her d i l e t t a n t e interest in l i t e r a t u r e . She a c t i v e l y t r i e s to c u l t i v a t e friendships, but succeeds only i n a l i e n a t i n g the others from her. I f Scobie had succeeded i n obtaining pro-motion, her s o c i a l p o s i t i o n would have been enhanced. She considers the present s i t u a t i o n an unbearable blow to her s o c i a l image. She f e e l s compelled to take a t r i p u n t i l she can again face the gossips. In an attempt to secure Louise's happiness—his " r e s p o n s i b i l i t y " — S c o b i e compromises his Integrity. He i s unable to secure a loan at the bank, so he borrows from Yusef, who has been obsessively o f f e r i n g his friendship. This i s a deliberate, s e l f l e s s act performed i n f u l l knowledge of the implications. Scobie knows that Yusef "was a man he must not borrow from. I t would have been safer to accept the Portuguese Captain's bribe." Scobie was not forced into 'the loan because Louise had offered to release him from this r e s p o n s i b i l i t y . He r e a l i z e d , however, that she would s t i l l be unhappy. The loan, although i t does not constitute corruption, puts Scobie on f r i e n d l y terms with Yusef. Scobie t r i e s his best to maintain h i s distance from Yusef and makes i t clear that t h e i r r e l a t i o n s h i p i s to be on a business b a s i s — a four percent loan. He r e s i s t s Yusef's increasing offers of closer friendship and of g i f t s , but i t i s not long before Yusef presumes on t h e i r friendship and uses Scobie as a pawn i n framing his r i v a l Syrian, T a l l i t . The loan, too, f a c i l i t a t e s Scobie's adulterous r e l a t i o n s h i p with Helen Rolt becuase i t i s i n Louise's absence from the colony that she becomes Scobie's neighbour. A l l of these related factors seem to be beyond Scobie's c o n t r o l , but they are, c e r t a i n l y , the re s u l t of a conscious act: Scobie's attempt to secure Louise's happiness. Greene puts t h i s act i n i t s correct perspective: i t was "the enormous breach pity had blasted through Scobie's i n t e g r i t y " (p. 109). The suffering which Scobie witnesses among the survivors of forty days at sea i n an open boat causes him to question, for the f i r s t time, man's rel a t i o n s h i p to God. Previously, saying his prayers had been as much of a habit to him as writing i n his diary. To him " i t was a formality, not because he f e l t h i m s e l f f r e e from s e r i o u s s i n but because i t had never o c c u r r e d to him th a t h i s l i f e was important enough one way or another" (p. 109). Before h i s c r i s i s , C o n f e s s i o n had f o r him "the awful langour of r o u t i n e " (p. 14-5). Perhaps he had taken i t f o r granted t h a t God "was human enough to love what he had c r e a t e d " (p. 114). Now he sees the s u f f e r i n g s i x - y e a r o l d g i r l near death. Scobie does not q u e s t i o n the f a c t t h a t she w i l l d i e , but he does q u e s t i o n the Providence t h a t a l l o w s her to s u f f e r through f o r t y days and n i g h t s i n an open boat. He f i n d s t h i s d i f f i c u l t to r e c o n c i l e with the lov e of God. Here, the o f f i c e r ' s i n f o r m a t i o n that the others i n the boat had g i v e n up t h e i r share of water to her, o f f e r s , to Scobie, "the h i n t of an e x p l a n a t i o n — t o o f a i n t to be grasped" (p. 114). T h i s h i n t of an e x p l a n a t i o n i s a foreshadowing of the paradox of Scobie's f u t u r e t r a g i c a c t i o n . P a r a d o x i c a l l y , the others prolonged the c h i l d ' s l i f e by endangering t h e i r own. But by thus p r o l o n g i n g her l i f e , they prolonged her s u f f e r i n g . T h e i r a c t i o n "gave them something to t h i n k about" (p. 114). W i l l t h e i r s a c r i f i c e be i n v a i n ? Scobie too, through p i t y , i s to make the supreme s a c r i f i c e f o r L o u i s e and Helen. The i r o n y i s t h a t L o u i s e i s embittered when Wilson convinces her tha t Scobie had committed s u i c i d e . F o r Helen, l i f e becomes meaningless a f t e r Scobie's death. But i s h i s s a c r i f i c e worthless i n the s i g h t of God? Helen had been one of the survivors i n the boat. She, too, showed the ravages of such priv a t i o n and her fate i s i n doubt. She l i v e s , however, and i s sent to the c a p i t a l to convalesce and await transportation back to England i f she so desires. She becomes Scobie's neighbour, and her careless showing of a l i g h t during the black-out brings him over to warn her. He recognizes her, although she had been too i l l at Penda to have taken note of him. Scobie expresses concern over her comfort and, since his concern Is sincere and i s unlike that of the well-wishers who only see her as a survivor i n need of sympathy, she feels comfortable i n his presence. She talks f r e e l y about h e r s e l f , her school l i f e , and, more importantly to the kind of person that Scobie i s , Helen talks of her inadequacy for s e l f provision. This secures a second v i s i t from Scobie, by which time they become friends. "It was astonishing to him how e a s i l y and quickly they had become friends" (p. 148), and " i t seemed to him that he had not f e l t so much at ease with another human being for years" (p. 152). I r o n i c a l l y , Scobie thinks that they are safe from any destructive r e l a t i o n s h i p because of t h e i r age difference, and because he thinks that his body has l o s t the sense of l u s t . Greene de l i b e r a t e l y shrouds t h e i r i n i t i a l adulterous act i n mysterys "what they had both thought was safety proved to have been the camouflage of an enemy who works i n terms of friendship trust and p i t y " (p. 153). Whether or not th i s "enemy" i s l u s t 105 or love, Scobie i s w i l l i n g to accept Helen's future happiness as his r e s p o n s i b i l i t y . In his r e l a t i o n s h i p to Helen and Louise, Scobie seems to equate pity with love. He cannot d i s -tinguish between pity and love. Later, we are to see his attempts to weigh against each other his love and/or pit y for Helen and Louise. During the seven months that Louise i s i n South A f r i c a , the r e l a t i o n s h i p between Scobie and Helen blossoms into what seems to be a passionate love a f f a i r . For the f i r s t time Scobie shows concern for s o c i a l opinion. His amateurish, unsuccessful attempts at secrecy are aimed at preserving Helen's reputation and keeping the knowledge of his a f f a i r from Louise's friends. He succeeds only i n making Helen jealous because she thinks that his secrecy i s only to protect Louise. There i s a lover's quarrel, and Helen sends him away. At t h i s point Scobie probably could have ended the a f f a i r without accepting any further r e s p o n s i b i l i t y . Despite his l e t t e r of protestation of love, Scobie i s not presented as a lover pi t y i n g himself. His concern, rather, i s for Helen's happiness: I would never go back there, to the Nissen hut, i f that meant she was happy and I suffered . . . . Inexorably the other's point of view rose on the path l i k e a murdered innocent (p. 173). In his e f f o r t to pacify Helen, Scobie's l e t t e r expresses love for her which exceeds his love for Louise and for God: I love you more than myself, more than my wife, more than God I think . . . . I want more than anything i n the world to make you happy (p. 173). 106 Scobie's rash and unnecessary inclusion of God In t h i s context--unnecessary because Helen "would have been s a t i s f i e d with 'more than Louise'" (p. 173)—shows that Scobie i s w i l l i n g to commit sacrilege for another's peace of mind. Father Rank's v i s i t which immediately follows Scobie's writing of the l e t t e r , serves to show that Scobie i s aware that Father Rank i s unable to bear for Scobie the burden of his g u i l t . Father Rank's v i s i t p recisely at t h i s point main-tains the tension between the Church's abstract view and Scobie's deep, personal concern. Father Rank w i l l give Scobie the answers which he already knows. He w i l l give Scobie the Church's view which Scobie w i l l not be able to reconcile to his own nature. The Church's view i s that "one should look a f t e r one's own soul at whatever cost to another" (p. 176)• Scobie finds that he cannot, and w i l l "never be able to do" t h i s (p. 176). In the long run, then, when Scobie i s faced with h i s choice he w i l l have to make his appeal d i r e c t l y to God and j u s t i f y his choice to Him. Another of the ironies which surround Scobie's major actions i n the novel i s related to t h i s l e t t e r . Helen and he are reconciled to each other although Helen does not receive the l e t t e r which Scobie had pushed under her door. The l e t t e r comes into Yusef*s hands, and he uses i t to blackmail Scobie into becoming his accomplice i n smuggling a packet of "gem stones." Scobie now further compromises his i n t e g r i t y to regain the l e t t e r which Yusef threatens to give to Louise on her return. 10? Just when Scobie and Helen are happy i n th e i r r e l a t i o n -ship, Louise returns. I r o n i c a l l y , again, Scobie i s unaware that the gossips had reached her i n South A f r i c a and that the knowledge of his a f f a i r had shortened her v i s i t . The question might be raised: Was Scobie's complicity i n the smuggling of the diamonds his f i r s t s e l f i s h act? Was i t moral cowardice? I am convinced that Greene did not intend t h i s because of the dramatic irony which he maintains. We know that Louise suspects Scobie's a f f a i r , but Scobie i s not aware of her suspicions. He i s anxious, therefore, to preserve for her the happiness of ignorance. Further, Scobie does not consider that the smuggling of these gems w i l l constitute any great harm. Greene intends t h i s as yet another rung i n Scobie's f a l l from an untested v i r t u e , not from selfishness or from pride, but from his destructive " v i r t u e . " By having Helen release Scobie from his promise to her, Greene again spotlights Scobie's sense of r e s p o n s i b i l i t y thus making Scobie's f i n a l decision a conscious choice and not the act of a moral coward who cannot bear the consequences of his actions. Helen, i n i t i a l l y angry at the news of Louise's return, l a t e r writes to Scobie of f e r i n g him complete freedom from his previous promises to her. As an al t e r n a t i v e , she offers to be hi s mistress at his convenience. By t h i s l e t t e r , she intends to make no claims on him. This succeeds only i n further binding Scobie to her. Noif, Louise returns with the resolution that "everything w i l l be d i f f e r e n t " (p. 198). She t e l l s Scobie of her decision 108 to attempt to make him happy. More than ever, t h i s draws Scobie c l o s e r to L o u i s e , a l s o . We see Scobie's ambivalence and h i s i n a b i l i t y to decide whether what he f e e l s f o r L o u i s e and f o r Helen i s the emotion of love or the sentiment of p i t y . F or, S c o b i e , these two, l o v e and p i t y , seem to demand equal r e s p o n s i b i l i t y and concern. Can I r e a l l y l o v e her [HelenJ more than Louise? Do I , i n my h e a r t of h e a r t s , l o v e e i t h e r of them, or i s i t only t h a t t h i s automatic t e r r i b l e p i t y goes out to any human need--and makes i t worse? (p. 198). Scobie here i s on the verge of a major enlightenment. He does not pursue i t and, be i t p i t y or l o v e , h i s a c t i o n s show t h a t he c o n s i d e r s both L o u i s e and Helen e q u a l l y worthy of p r o t e c t i o n . I n an e f f o r t to b r i n g matters i n t o the open without t e l l i n g Scobie of her s u s p i c i o n s , or perhaps because she hopes to end the a f f a i r , L o u i s e i n s i s t s on Scobie's accompanying her to Communion. As a C a t h o l i c , she knows t h a t he has to go to C o n f e s s i o n b e f o r e he can take the Sacrament. She a l s o knows what w i l l be the C o n f e s s i o n a l p r i e s t ' s a d v i c e to Scobies he w i l l a d v i s e Scobie to g i v e up h i s m i s t r e s s . I f Scobie r e f u s e s to go to Communion wit h her, she w i l l know t h a t t h e r e i s a s e r i o u s reason. Scobie, unaware, avoids Communion by p l e a d i n g i l l n e s s f o r as long as prudence permits. Scobie now has to make a d e c i s i o n . We know that he can take the easy way out and abandon Helen i n favour of L o u i s e . He can s a l v e h i s conscience by Helen's o f f e r to r e l e a s e him from h i s promises. We a l s o know that being the man Greene has 109 so c a r e f u l l y characterized, Scobie w i l l not do so. For Helen, Scobie has a combination of p i t y , love, and h i s sense of r e s p o n s i b i l i t y . On the other hand, Scobie can leave Louise i n favour.of Helen. Here again, t h i s decision w i l l be incon-sis t e n t with his nature. He refuses to hurt either of them, so he decides to keep them both. He can s a t i s f y Louise's Catholic mind by going to Communion. We see Scobie as a man tortured, a man i n the throes of heart-rending anguish over the complications of his choice. At the Confessional, he cannot promise to desert Helen as the p r i e s t advises. His love of God w i l l not permit him to make such a promise. To make such a promise a f t e r his decision would mean that he would have to do as other people who, presumably, "promised and went away and came back again" (p. 213). Scobie sees this as cheating God. He decides that he i s not going to cheat him-s e l f or God by making such a promise. Because of t h i s , he refuses, at the Confessional, to promise to leave Helen. The crux of Scobie's anguish i s two-fold. He cannot bring himself to f a i l i n what he considers to be his duty. For love of God, he finds that he cannot cheat God. Only a miracle can solve his problem, and he asks f o r one. But supernatural i n t e r -vention has no place i n t h i s novel. Greene dispenses with melodrama i n t h i s a r r i d drama. As Greene sees i t , supernatural intervention takes the choice out of Scobie's hands. His act of w i l l would then become less meaningful and would not be a moral choice. 110 Louise i n s i s t s on t h e i r going to Mass, and even without having had the Absolution, Scobie decides to go with her. Once and f o r a l l now atwhatever eternal cost, he was determined that he would clear himself i n her eyes and give her the reassurance she needed. (p. 215) We see Scobie as a man i n anguish. His act cannot be taken l i g h t l y because he knows that i t i s sacri l e g e . He prepares to take the Sacrament "with fear and shame" that " c h i l l e d h is brain" (p. 215). It i s clear that Scobie i s a God-fearing man. Yet he i s "desecrating God because he loved a woman— was i t even love, or was i t just a f e e l i n g of pit y and r e s p o n s i b i l i t y ? " (p. 215). He cannot look only a f t e r himself because he i s the responsible man, the policeman whose job i t i s to look a f t e r the others. In f i n a l anguished despair, Scobie looks at Christ's cross on the a l t a r and blames C h r i s t — God—for his predicament. His agony, his despair, and his sense of f u t i l i t y have not been determined by his environment, but by his very nature: "looking up towards the Cross on the a l t a r he thought savagely: Take your sponge of g a l l . You made me what I am. Take the spear thrust" (p. 216). Scobie sees himself as the Cross on which once more God i s going to be c r u c i f i e d . God has moulded his nature, and according to this nature he has made his choice. God has not performed a miracle to save him, so God has f a i l e d i n his r e s p o n s i b i l i t y . Scobie has l o s t f a i t h i n God's Providence. Here, Scobie i s presented as the Prometheus who i s going to battle for man. I l l In the same way that he i s prepared to accept r e s p o n s i b i l i t y for his actions, God must now take the r e s p o n s i b i l i t y f o r His f a i l u r e . Scobie's fear i s that because God has f a i l e d him by not miraculously saving him from his sacrilegious choice, perhaps He w i l l also f a i l the others. The God Scobie sees while he i s at the a l t a r r a i l i s a God of vengeance, a God of wars "he saw only the priest's s k i r t l i k e the s k i r t of the medieval war-horse bearing down upon him: the flapping of feet: the charge of God. I f only the archers would l e t f l y from ambush" (p. 217). Yet, to the l a s t , he hopes. He "dreamed that the Priest's step had f a l t e r e d " (p. 217), that the miracle had occurred. But i t has not; God i s indeed a God of vengeance who demands expiation, i t seems to Scobie. To t h i s point, Scobie's act of sacrilege i s an act of s e l f -immolation for those whom he loves. I t had previously become clear that Scobie believes i n o r i g i n a l s i n and redemption: " i t seemed to Scobie that l i f e was immeasurably long. Couldn't the test of man have been car r i e d out i n fewer years? Couldn't we have committed our f i r s t major s i n at seven, have ruined ourselves for love or hate at ten, have clutched at redemption on a fifteen-year-old death bed?" (p. 51) . Now he offers his damnation to a demanding God i n expiation for Helen and Louise: "0 God, I o f f e r my damnation to you. Take i t . Use i t for them" (p. 217). 1 In the f i n a l days before his suicide we see Scobie as a man who acutely feels that he is damned. His torment i s very r e a l because, as he t e l l s Helen, he believes that there i s a H e l l . We see Scobie now, as a man alone i n s p i r i t , unaccommodated. As a policeman, he has committed sacrilege. Scobie feels that he has put himself beyond God's reach forever. He thinks of God i n terms of an alienated fr i e n d who i s now an "enemy—there was bitterness between them" (p. 226). Immediately following his act of sacrilege, Scobie begins to lay plans for his suicide. He i s prepared to go to the ultimate to secure happiness for Louise and Helen. Having provided for t h e i r welfare with God, Scobie now pre-pares to provide for t h e i r happiness on earth by removing himself, the object of c o n f l i c t . Then, too, he thinks that his continued existence i n h i s damned state causes pain to God. In t h i s sense, Scobie i s also dying for love of God. Scobie c a r e f u l l y plans his suicide to make his death seem natural. His death has to seem natural because Louise, as a Catholic, w i l l be unhappy i f she knows that he has committed su i c i d e . To t h i s point, Scobie i s a tragic pro-tagonist who, by his r i s k of damnation for the sake of others has acted i n the conviction that he i s r i g h t , and he accepts r e s p o n s i b i l i t y f o r that ac t i o n . As such, he i s a moral, responsible agent. The irony of h i s being offered the Commissionership only a f t e r he has compromised his i n t e g r i t y serves to deepen the pathos of Scobie's p l i g h t . His stand i s irrevocable by this time, because he has already l o s t more than the Commissionership: eternal peace. A l i ' s murder i s the regenerative action i n the novel; Just p r i o r to A l i ' s murder, Scobie was engaged with Yusef i n a discussion of " t r u s t , " and i t i s s i g n i f i c a n t that Yusef orders A l i ' s murder mainly as a res u l t of Scobie's unreasonable loss of trust i n A l i . When Scobie finds A l i ' s murdered body, he comes to r e a l i z e that h i s own " k i l l i n g " of God was an act more of loss of f a i t h than of defiance, because then, he thinks: Oh God : . . I've k i l l e d you: You've saved me a l l these years and I've k i l l e d you at the end of them. God lay under the petrol drums (pp. 238-239). When Scobie searches for his rosary at the murder-scene, t h i s i s symbolic of his searching for his moral and s p i r i t u a l strength. It symbolizes that Scobie now knows what was missing h i s t r u s t . This i s the point, too, of Scobie's greatest despair because here he r e a l i z e s that h i s untested virtue has been victimized. This i s where Scobie r e a l i z e s the f u l l impact of h i s sacrilegious act; He had attempted to test God by ask-ing for a miracle to solve his problems when he should have had f a i t h i n God's Providence. In much the same way, he should have trusted A l i who had served him so f a i t h f u l l y over the years. Later, i n his mental monologue which i s r e a l l y an examination of his conscience, Scobie's "other voice," the 114 voice of his f a i t h , asks him, "can't you trust me as you'd trust a f a i t h f u l dog?" (p. 250). Scobie answers that he loved God but had never trusted Him. But can there be love without trust? In terms of the novel, the answer i s , no. A l l ' s death i s the case i n point for Scobie and signals his enlightenment. From t h i s view, A l l , the f a i t h f u l servant becomes the instrument of Providence for Scobie because i t i s through A l l ' s death that Scobie sees his f a u l t . On seeing A l l ' s body, Scobie says, "I love him" (p. 239), and s i g n i f i c a n t -l y , A l i ' s i s the l a s t name which Scobie c a l l s just prior to utte r i n g his dying words, "Dear God, I love . . . " Scobie's tortured attempts to search his conscience i n his f i n a l minutes of l i f e , i s an e f f o r t to f i n d God again before he dies. He i s humble and he i s repentant. E a r l i e r , he had voiced his repentance "0 God . . . . My God, y o u ' l l never have more complete c o n t r i t i o n " (p; 243). Scobie's suicide, then, i s an act of despair which re-establishes the mystery of the God-Man re l a t i o n s h i p . Like everyone else, Scobie i s ignorant about the depth of God's mercy. He can be seen as a heroic, Promethean figure who challenges his Superior for those whom he loves, and suffers for them the r i s k of damnation. When he dies, however, he dies for love of God, because, as he sees i t , h is continued existence i n a state of damnation causes pain to God. As such, he can be seen as a repentant Prodigal Son. Because his suicide i s a s e l f l e s s s a c r i f i c e for God, Helen, and Louise, Scobie can be seen as a C h r i s t - f i g u r e . A l l three views are consistent with Scobie's nature. Scobie has not solved the mystery of e x i s t -ence, neither i s his suicide an affirmation of knowledge of God's ways. In Greene's view, Scobie's heroism consists i n his having grasped the opportunity for heroic action. The tragic tone of the novel i s c l o s e l y related to the concept of the Fortunate F a l l . Because of his s a c r i f i c e Scobie attains heroic stature. His s a c r i f i c e i s made at the r i s k of damnation. As spectators of his drama we view his questioning of God's Providence, his questioning of the Church's teaching, and his s a c r i f i c e as positive actions. At the same time, however, we fear that i f God i s indeed a God of vengeance, much of the hope offered by Christ's s a c r i f i c e would be l o s t , the meaning of Love would be l o s t . A r t i s t i c a l l y , Greene provides a regenerative pattern i n the death of A l l . A l l ' s murder, which occurs p a r t l y because of Scobie's d i s t r u s t , suggests to Scobie that he has been wrong not to trust God's Providence. Symbolically, A l i ' s death l i n k s the human and the s p i r i t u a l . I t symbolizes that human love, l i k e love of God, should be based on t r u s t . Scobie's " f a l l " r e s u l t s i n a good for us, the spectators, because the drama of his experience and h i s enlightenment reaffirms positive human and s p i r i t u a l a t t i t u d e s . When Father Rank says that not even the Church knows the extent of God's mercy, he too, reaffirms the 116 surpassing glory of the mercy of God. In The Heart of the  Matter, then, we have the kind of tragedy which Weisinger defines In The Agony and the Triumph:35 "tragedy . . . occurs when the accepted order of things i s fundamentally questioned only to he the more triumphantly reaffirmed." What i s r e -affirmed here, i s the mystery of man's r e l a t i o n s h i p to his Maker. As i s customary with Greene, the t i t l e of his novel i s open to i r o n i c i nterpretation. Scobie i s not a hero because he has successfully probed the heart of the matter. The heart of the matter l i e s i n what we make of Greene's equivocal presentation. As myth, The Heart of the Matter i n some ways, r e f l e c t s the essence of the myth of Eden. God, who foresaw the f a l l of man, i n His Providence decides to turn the e v i l of the d e v i l into "a greater good": man's greater r e a l i z a t i o n of existence. This, i n b r i e f , i s the basis of the archetype of the Fortunate F a l l . Man i s tempted to e v i l , he f a l l s , but he s t i l l retains a degree of d i v i n i t y . His degree of d i v i n i t y and h i s e f f o r t i n nurturing t h i s d i v i n i t y are the key to his regeneration; The p o s s i b i l i t y of regeneration had been secured for man through Christ's s a c r i f i c e . Regeneration consists i n the wisdom gained through s i n . The F a l l i s Fortunate then, because, with this added wisdom, man i s better able to withstand s i n . In t h i s sense, the d e v i l i s God's instrument. In the novel, 117 Yusef is the d e v i l archetype. He persistently tempts Scobie u n t i l Scobie succumbs. But Yusef, too, i s the instrument of Providence for Scobie's regeneration. Yusef has A l l murdered, but A l i ' s murder leads to Scobie's enlightenment. This i s i n keeping with Greene's basic archetype of regeneration through experience, because, had Scobie not succumbed to his destructive v i r t u e , he would never have achieved heroic stature. Yusef becomes the r e f l e c t i o n of the e v i l that i s Intermixed with Scobie's goodness. The Heart of the Matter brings together much of the symbolism of the two entertainments, and the novel, The Power  and the Glory, which Immediately precede i t . In Scobie, we see much the same conscious awareness of sinfulness we saw i n "D" of The Confidential Agent. This entertainment, because of i t s mode, deals with the theme of the need for love and trust only on the human l e v e l while The Heart of the Matter operates on both a human and a s p i r i t u a l l e v e l . *'DM finds that human love and trust can p a r t i a l l y f i l l the void caused by seeing the world as wholly e v i l . I t i s meaningful involve-ment which shows the goodness that exists side by side with e v i l . Scobie finds that love operates on trust as much as i t operates on ch a r i t y . The Heart of the Matter Is even more cl o s e l y related to The Ministry of Fear, the second of the two entertainments discussed here. I am convinced that despite the p a r t i a l l y happy ending demanded by the comic mode of thi s 118 entertainment, Greene was not s a t i s f i e d that the l a s t word had been said on pity i n The Ministry of Fear. The fact that Greene uses the theme of pity i n The Heart of the Matter could show that he was s t i l l grappling with the concept and was pre-senting another stance with a broader scope. In some ways, The Heart of the Matter deals with some questions which are l e f t hanging i n The Ministry of Fear. Rowe, l i k e Scobie cannot bear to see others s u f f e r . Scobie's solution i s suicide. I f Rowe could not bear to see his wife suf f e r , would i t have been more acceptable to have committed suicide? Next, there i s the question posed by Rowe which i s Important i n The Heart of the  Matters should one commit e v i l that good may come? Rowe's answer that one should, i f necessary, r i s k damnation for the sake of those whom one loves seems to sig n a l Scobie's decision. Such p a r a l l e l s between th i s novel and this entertainment recur. For instance, both Rowe and Scobie suffer as a r e s u l t of acts motivated by compassion. The novel and the entertainment vary c h i e f l y i n the broader scope of The Heart of the Matter. They vary also i n mode and, consequently, In t h e i r plot r esolution. The a r t i s t i c and modal difference between The Heart of the  Matter, the t r a g i c , and The Ministry of Fear, the comic, l i e s i n what Susanne Langer has observed about tragedy and comedy i n her Feeling and Forms 36 "comedy presents the v i t a l rhythm of self-preservation, tragedy exhibits that of s e l f -consummation." The earth-bound entertainment has been provided 119 with a p a r t i a l l y happy-ending. Because The Heart of the Matter i s i n the tragic mode and ends i n "self-consummation," Scobie's drama w i l l have i t s ending In what happens to his soul when he faces the mercy of God. Its function as art w i l l be r e a l i z e d i n what the reader can make of Greene's paradox. Apart from the fa c t that Catholicism i s part of the context of both The Power and the Glory and The Heart of the  Matter, there is yet another obvious s i m i l a r i t y . Scobie i s a policeman by vocation. The p r i e s t of The Power and the  Glory i s also a "policeman" of the soul. This i s why he feels "that i f there's ever been a single man i n his state damned," he w i l l be "damned too" (p. 269). The Power and the Glory, however, does not present the terr o r of unavoidable tragedy which i s so s t r i k i n g i n The Heart of the Matter. The whiskey priest at least has the duty to look a f t e r the welfare of the sinner's soul. He, l i k e Father Rank of The Heart of the Matter admits that he knows nothing of the mercy of God, but at least he has to have a c e r t a i n f a i t h i n the mercy of God, and through-out the novel, t h i s f a i t h remains unshakable. We know t h i s i s so, because his granting of absolution, i n the name of God, and his performing the Mass, would be meaningless without t h i s f a i t h . Scobie, however, as a policeman, compromises his vocation; as a God-fearing man, he commits sacr i l e g e . Yet these acts are the r e s u l t of his sense of r e s p o n s i b i l i t y and his innate compassion which are themselves positive values. 120 In his despair, he can blame only God for his predicament: "You made me what I am." Greene's key i n presenting his "heroes" i s r e a l l y a plea to "know thyself.". Greene's heroes are " f a l l e n " heroes. They suffer through t h i s f a l l . But i t i s through s u f f e r i n g that they acquire wisdom. As such, t h e i r sins become "splendid" sins and rea f f i r m the meaning of the Fortunate F a l l . In the entertainments, t h i s archetype oper-ates c h i e f l y on the human l e v e l ; i n the novels, the archetype operates on the human and s p i r i t u a l l e v e l s . Greene's heroes are symbols of a need f o r insight even when one is "virtuous." The innocence of Idealism and the innocence of childhood are a n t i t h e t i c a l examples of the Greene hero, because neither the i d e a l i s t , nor the c h i l d , has developed the right "attitude" towards l i f e . Maturity comes with awareness. The mature awareness which Greene pleads f o r , i s the awareness that good and e v i l coexist i n this world and i n every i n d i v i d u a l human being. The s p i r i t u a l l y mature person i s the one who i s neither revolted by e v i l nor f a l l s prey to i t . The s p i r i t -u a l l y mature person, rather, nurtures goodness i n himself and in others. Complacency, and pride have no place i n thi s view, because, as Greene says i n The Lost Childhood, "the sense of doom . . . l i e s over success—the f e e l i n g that the pendulum i s about ready to swing." Greene's i s a r e a l i s t i c view of l i f e : e v i l i s a fact of existence, and existence becomes impossible i f one turns away from th i s e v i l and i f one i s engulfed "by i t ! As WD M, and Rowe found, human love and trust make l i f e possible, bearable. The whiskey p r i e s t , through love f o r his daughter, finds that l i f e sometimes becomes impossible because of love. Scobie, too, finds l i f e unbearable because of love. Yet, to them, and to us who view t h e i r drama, t h e i r l i v e s are meaningful. As symbols of experience, they force us to consider the meaning of existence. NOTES Arthur CaIder-Marshall, "The Works of Graham Greene," Horizon 1, No. 5 (May 1 9 4 0 ) , p. 372. Walter A l l e n , "Graham Greene," Writers of Today, ed. Denys Val Baker (London; Sidgwick and Jackson, 1946), p. 22. ^C. G. Jung, Psychology and Literature of The Collected  Works, trans. R. P. C. H u l l (London: Keegan Paul, Ltd., 19567, pp. 189-190. ^ I b i d . , p. 190. 5c. G. Jung, The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche of The Collected Works, p. 52. ^Graham Greene, The Lost Childhood and Other Essays (Penguin Books, 1 9 6 2 ) , p. 15. 7John Atkins, Graham Greene (London: Calder & Boyars, 1966), p. 244. 8 A t k i n s , p. 135. ^Lord Raglan, The Hero: A Study i n Tr a d i t i o n . Myth and  Drama (London: Metheun & Co. Ltd., 1 9 3 6 ) , pp.. 178-80. See also Joseph Campbell, The Hero with A Thousand Faces (Meridian Books, i 9 6 0 ) . 1 0Jolande Jacobi, The Way of Individuation, trans. R. F. C. H u l l (New York: Harcourt Brace & World, Inc., 1965), p. 71 . ^Ijung, The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche, pp. 221-222. 12 Herbert Weisinger, The Agony and the Triumph: Papers on  the Use and Abuse of Myth (Michigan State University Press, 1 9 6 4 ) , pp. 9 6 - 9 7 . See also his Tragedy and the Paradox of  the Fortunate F a l l (London: Routledge & Paul, 1 9 5 3 ) . • ^ i n The Lost Childhood Greene says that his "pattern" was established before r e l i g i o n explained the presence of e v i l to him " i n other terms" (p. 15) . 122 123 1 4 •^Maud Bodkins, Archetypal Patterns i n Poetry; Psychological  Studies of Imagination (London: Oxford University Press, 1965)» p. 223. The discussion here i s on Othello: Iago as a d e v i l archetype. •^Northrop Prye, Anatomy of C r i t i c i s m (New York: Atheneum, 1967), pp. 33-3*+. l 6 « T h e Greeneland Aboriginal," The New Statesman, 13th January 1961, p. 44. ^ J o s eph Campbell, The Hero With A Thousand Faces (Meridian Books, i960), p. 27. l^Paul Rostenne, Graham Greene: temoin des temps tragiques (Paris: Rene J u i l l a r d , 1949), p. 29T "Le couple good-evil evoque des notions qui se rattachent aux fondements m^ me de l a morale, aux racines metaphysiques de l a conduite humaine, tandis que le couple right-wrong s'applique plutbt aux superstructures p a r t i c u l i e r e s et variables des c i v i l i s a t i o n s qui n'engagent pas les ultimes profondeurs de l ' e t r e , 1 ' e s s e n t i e l de l a destinee humaine." 1 Q P r y e , p. 48. 2 0 F r y e , p. 4 ? . 2 1 P r y e , p. 35. 2 2 F r a n c i s Leo Kunkel, The Labyrinthine Ways of Graham Greene (New York, Sheed & Ward, 1959)> p. 58. See also Rostenne, p. l 6 l . "On v o i t apparaitre a i n s i , dans l a plupart des romans de Greene, une femme, ou plussouvent une jeune f i l l e , une adolescente meme, dont l e r o l e , q u ' i l s o i t central ou episodique,. est tou jours l e meme: tenter d'arracher un homme a l a solitude qui l'enferme et l'etouffe . . . . l a mission metaphysique de l a femme" . 23jung, Psychology and Literature, p. 182. ^ F r e d e r i c k R. Kar l , A Reader's Guide to the Contemporary  English Novel (New York: The Noonday Press, 1962), pp. 85-106. 2 5w. H. Auden, "The Heresy of Our Time," Renascence 1 , 1949, pp. 23-24. 2 % . D. H. Parker, The Slave of L i f e . A Study of Shakespeare  and the idea of Justice (London. Chatto & Windus, 1955)> PP. 51-55. 27 Donald P. .Costello, "Graham Greene and the Catholic Press,*' Renascence XII, No. 1 , Autumn 1959» PP- 3-28. 28 Rostenne, p. 1 0 6 . 2 9 W r i t e r s of Today, p. 1 9 . 3°Herbert Weisinger, Tragedy and the Paradox of the  Fortunate F a l l (London: Routledge & Paul, 1953)> P« ^7 and following. ^ D a v i d Lodge, Graham Greene (New York & London, Columbia University, 1 9 6 6 ) , p. 3 0 . 3 2Donald P. Costello, "Greene and the Catholic Press." See also A. A. De V l t i s , "The Church and Major Scobie," Renascence X, No. 3 , Spring 1 9 5 8 , pp. 1 1 5 - 1 2 0 . K. Brown, Rhythm i n the Novel (University of Toronto Press, 1 9 5 0 ) , p. 5 7 . ^Henry James, "The Art of F i c t i o n , " i n The Portable  James. ed. -Vint., Morton Dauwen Zabel (New York: The Viking Press, 1 9 5 8 ) . ^%he Agony and the Triumph, p. 1 0 3 . 3 6 s u s a n n e Langer, Feeling and Form (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1 9 5 3 )» PP. 3 5 1 - 3 6 6 . SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY 1. PRIMARY REFERENCES Greene, Graham. Journey Without Maps. London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1936. . The Comedians. Bantam Books, 1967. F i r s t published by Viking Press, 1966. . The Confidential Agent. Penguin Books, 1965. F i r s t published by Heinemann, 1939. . The End of the A f f a i r . London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1951. The Heart of the Matter. Penguin Books, 1965. F i r s t published by Heinemann, 1948. . The Lost Childhood and Other Essays. Penguin Books, 1962. F i r s t published by Eyre and Spottiswoode, 1951. . The Ministry of Fear. London: William Heinemann Ltd., I 9 4 3 . . The Power and the Glory. Compass Books, 1958. Published by Viking Press 1940 under the t i t l e The Labyrinthine Ways. . The Quiet American. Penguin Books, 1962. F i r s t published by Heinemann, 1955. 2. SECONDARY SOURCES A l l e n , Walter. "Graham Greene," Writers of Today, ed. Denys Val Baker. London: Sidgwick and Jackson, 1946. A l l o t t , Kenneth and F a r r i s , Miriam. The Art of Graham Greene. New York: Russell and Russell, Inc., 1963. Atkins, John. Graham Greene. London: Calder and Boyars, 1966. 125 126 Auden, W. H. "The Heresy of Our Time," Renascence I. 194-9. Bodkina, Miriam. Archetypal Patterns i n Poetry; Psychological  Studies of Imagination. London: Oxford University Press, 1965. Brown, E. K. Rhythm i n the Novel. University of Toronto Press, 1950. Calder-Marshall, Arthur. "The Works of Graham Greene," Horizon 1 . No. 5, May 1940. Campbell, Joseph. The Hero With A Thousand Faces. Meridian Books, i960 . C o s t e l l o , Donald P. "Graham Greene and the Catholic Press," Renascence XII, No. 1 , Autumn 1959. Daiches, David. C r i t i c a l Approaches to L i t e r a t u r e . New York: W. W. Norton & Co. Inc., 1956. De V i t i s , A. A. Graham Greene. New York: Twayne Publishers Inc., 1964. . "The Church and Major Scobie," Renascence X, No. 3 , Spring, 1958. Frye, Northrop. Anatomy of C r i t i c i s m : Four Essays. New York, Atheneum, 1967. Grant, Michael. Myths of the Greeks and Romans. Mentor Books, 1965\ Harrison, Jane. Ancient Art and R i t u a l . London: Williams & Norgate; New York: Henry Holt & Co., I913. Jacobi, Jolande. The Way of Individuation, trans. R. F. C. H u l l . New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, Inc., 1965. James, Henry. "The Art of F i c t i o n , ".-The Portable James. ed. -Vint. Morton Dauwen Zabel. New York: The Viking Press, 1958. Jung, C. G. The Collected Works, trans. R. F. C. H u l l . London: Keegan Paul, Ltd., 1956. K a r l , Frederick R. A Reader's Guide to the Contemporary  English Novel" New York: The Noonday Press, 1962. 127 Kunkel, Francis A. The Labyrinthine Ways of Graham Greene. New York, Sheed & Ward, 1959. Lang, Andrew. Myth, R i t u a l and Religion, Vol. I. London: Longman's Green & Co., 1906. Lariger, Susanne. Feeling and Form. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1953. Lodge, David. Graham Greene. New York and London, 1966. Niebur, Richard H. The Responsible S e l f : An Essay i n C h r i s t i a n  Moral Philosophy. New York: Harper & Row; London: Evanston, I960. Parker, M. D. H. The Slave of L i f e : A Study of Shakespeare and the idea of J u s t i c e . London: Chatto & Windus, 1955* Raglan, Lord. The Hero: A Study i n Tr a d i t i o n , Myth, and Drama. London: Metheun & Co. Ltd., 1936. Rostenne, Paul. Graham Greene: temoins des temps tragiques. Paris: Rene" J u i l l a r d , 1949. Roy, Gregor. Greene's The Power and the Glory and Other Works. New York: Monarch Press, Inc., 1966. Scott, Wilbur. Five Approaches to Literary C r i t i c i s m . New York: C o l l i e r Books, 1962. Stra t f o r d , P h i l i p . F a i t h and F i c t i o n : Creative Process i n  Greene and Maurlac. Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press, 1964. "The Greenelahd Aboriginal" i n The New Statesman, 13th January, 1961. Tragedy, V i s i o n and Form, ed. Robert W. Corrigan. New York: Chandler Publishing Co., I965. T u r n e l l , Martin. Graham Greene. Michigan: William B. Eerdmans, 1967. Weisinger, Herbert. - The Agony and the Triumph: Papers on the  Use and Abuse of Myth. Michigan State University Press, 1964. . Tragedy and the Paradox of the Fortunate F a l l . London: Routledge & Paul, 1953. 128 Weston, Jessie L. From R i t u a l to Romance. New York: Doubleday Anchor Books, 1957* Wyndham, Francis. Graham Greene. London: Longmans, 1962. Zabel, Morton Dauwen. "Graham Greene," Forms of Modern F i c t i o n , ed. W. Van O'Connor. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press; London: Geoffrey Cumberlege, 1948. 

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