Glamorous Powers, page 30
I wondered if Martin would write a letter which was equally unspeakable, but to my relief he failed to reply.
However Francis was hardly the man to abandon me to my fate without comment. He took longer to respond than Ruth but I knew the delay arose because he had been praying and meditating on the problems I had posed him. Finally he wrote:
‘My dear Jon: Did I really expect you to wait until you had been in the world for six months? Probably not. But I felt I had to set you a goal, even if it proved to be a goal which you chose to repudiate. You would not have respected me, I think, if I had murmured indulgently: “Yes, yes – marry the lady tomorrow!” and you would not respect me now if I were to respond to your news by writing: “Bless you, my friend – run off and live happily ever after!” But before I start making you uncomfortable, let me congratulate you on abandoning your earlier conviction that you should live the rest of your life as a celibate. I myself have always been convinced that despite your sad past you should live in the world as a married man, and therefore I’m delighted that you’ve coaxed an apparently sympathetic, compatible woman to promise to accompany you to the altar.
‘My main anxiety – and this is where I start to make you uncomfortable – is not that you’re rushing to the altar in such haste. I think you’re being precipitate, certainly, but after all you’re a man of considerable experience and you should be granted at least some liberty to act with an incisiveness which in a young man would deserve the description “hot-headed folly”. No, my main anxiety is that you may be busy glossing over all the difficulties which inevitably surround your situation. I’m just an ignorant old bachelor, of course, but I seem to remember hearing somewhere that a honeymoon can be a time of profound disillusionment if either partner has failed to be as honest as the rules of the game require.
‘Let me complete your discomfort by asking you a series of questions: (I) Have you talked frankly to your fiancée about why your marriage went so wrong that you felt you could never marry again” (2) Have you explained why the subject of parenthood is peculiarly painful to you? (3) Have you even discussed the subject of parenthood? (4) Have you made any attempt to describe Ruth and Martin in terms which bear at least a passing resemblance to reality? (5) Have you talked to your fiancée in detail about your spiritual needs so that she has a true idea of the amount of time you devote daily to prayer, meditation and devotional reading? (6) Have you warned her that in order to satisfy your spiritual needs you’re obliged to spend much time being what the world deems unsociable? (7) Have you discussed the contribution she might make to your work in the parish? (8) Will she in fact be able to give you the support you need when she’s busy running her estate? (9) How are you going to resolve the conflict arising from the fact that you belong to different wings of the Church of England? (10) Have you had a frank conversation with her about money? (n) Have you had a conversation with her, frank or otherwise, about marital intimacy, a matter which could create grave difficulties if the emotional damage proves hard to heal? (12) Have you in truth paused long enough to imagine what this marriage will really be like, or are you at present only capable of imagining how charming Miss Barton-Woods will look in her nightgown? (13) –
‘But no. Twelve awkward questions are quite enough, and meanwhile I trust I’ve made my point: when one’s in love one’s instinct is to present oneself in the best possible light, but I can’t counsel you too strongly to present yourself “warts and all” to Miss Barton-Woods at the earliest opportunity. But perhaps you’ve already done so. In which case I humbly beg your pardon and offer you my sincere congratulations.
‘There’s a great deal I could say to you about your sinister acquisition of the curacy, but I’d prefer to explore the spiritual dimensions of this when we meet – and I trust we can meet soon. You will, of course, be as keenly aware as I am that there’s much you need to discuss before the wedding, so I beg you to write by return to suggest a date for your visit. Meanwhile …’ And he concluded with the formal reference to prayers and blessings before signing himself my devoted friend and brother in Christ.
I could not help thinking that this letter was a masterly example of how to conceal rampant disapproval beneath a diplomatic expression of trenchant common sense. Indeed it took me some hours to rouse myself from my admiration but at last I composed a reply which read:
‘My dear Francis: As usual you’ve given me excellent advice and I must thank you for it. I must also thank you for your support of my decision to marry. In the circumstances I regard this as very generous.
‘I find your reference to the curacy somewhat strange. I hardly think the spiritual dimensions of its acquisition are so pregnant with menace that I need to be hauled immediately to London! In fact it’s extremely difficult for me to get away at present as there’s so much to do before the wedding, and indeed I may be obliged to postpone my next visit to you until after the honeymoon. However please don’t think I intend to approach my wedding in a murky spiritual state; Starwater Abbey’s no more than fifteen miles from here, and I shall see Cyril soon to make my confession.
‘May I thank you again for your letter and repeat how much I value your advice.’
I did not expect a swift reply, but Francis, meticulous as ever in his pastoral care, wrote back promptly: ‘My dear Jon: So be it! But may I leave you with two more questions to consider during your very limited spare time? (I) What was your exact motive for seeking this curacy, and (2) precisely how did you obtain it? The second question is the interesting one, of course; I fear the answer to the first is painfully obvious. As a churchman experienced in financial matters I can only regard your success in coaxing the Bishop to produce a stipend out of thin air as miraculous – in fact I’d have been less surprised if you’d told me that he’d produced six white rabbits out of his lawn-sleeves! Of course we all know that dear old Ottershaw, like our own late Abbot James, finds it almost impossible to say no to anyone, but nevertheless I can’t help thinking that this latest triumph of yours puts even stopping watches in the shade. My dear Jon, beware of those “glamorous powers”! Once you start twisting bishops around your little finger you stand at the top of a very slippery slope indeed, so step back from the brink, I beg of you, by reminding yourself of the truth no priest can afford to forget: we’re here to serve God, not ourselves.’
I sat thinking about this letter for a long time. Then I wrote to Abbot Cyril to suggest a date when I could visit Starwater to make my confession.
III
‘I’m rather worried about all these Anglo-Catholic habits of yours,’ confessed Anne when I told her of my decision to visit Starwater, and in a rush she added: ‘Are you secretly cross because I don’t want to go to confession too?’
‘Good heavens, no! Anyway, you’ve made your confession – to me. And even if you hadn’t you have a perfect right, as a member of the Church of England, to abstain from confession to a priest.’
‘Yes, but since you’re always doing it –’
‘My case is quite different from yours. I’ve spent many years living in an environment where a weekly confession was built into the structure of my spiritual life, and in returning to the world I’m certain to have problems which could lead to spiritual debility unless they’re regularly aired with someone skilled in giving advice.’
I paused. We were in the chapel some hours after I had received Francis’ second letter. I had been working on the new altar-table, and Anne, arriving home from the estate-office, had walked through the grounds to exchange news with me before I returned to the village for my evening meal. We were now sitting hand in hand in the front pew.
‘Anne, talking of confessions –’ I stopped, took a deep breath and began again. Talking of confessions I really must tell you all about Betty and my children,’ I said with commendable determination, but then found to my horror that I was unable to continue. This ordeal was much worse than merely confessing my age, and as Anne waited, the model of patience and tact, I realized that part of my difficulty lay in the fact that I could not discuss Betty frankly without referring to the one subject on which Anne was so painfully sensitive; it would hardly be good for either her morale or my honeymoon prospects if I were now to reveal that her predecessor’s ‘forte’ had been sexual intercourse.
In panic I scraped together a few pale platitudes. ‘It was a typical romance of youth,’ I said. I was attracted by her looks but in fact we were utterly mismatched and made each other very miserable. I did my best to be a good husband –’ The terrible half-truths ran on and on’ – but life was difficult. One of the reasons why it was difficult was because –’ I reached for the whole truth but knew it was going to slither through my hands; I was too afraid she might think me an Anglo-Catholic fanatic ‘– was because I need a certain amount of time alone for prayer and meditation and devotional reading, and Betty could neither understand nor accept that.’ I hesitated, knowing I should specify the amount of time I needed, but the next moment my voice was saying: ‘However the situation was eased when I felt called to serve at sea.’ I told myself I really could not let the lie about a call pass. But I did. I was too frightened of being judged a deserting husband who had walked out on his loving wife.
‘Once I was no longer at home all the time we got on much better,’ said my voice with despicable glibness. ‘It was a case of “absence makes the heart grow fonder”. However nothing could change the fact that the marriage produced tensions which interfered with my spiritual life, and when Betty died I knew I could serve God best as an unmarried man. I wanted to be a monk straight away but of course I had to stay in the world to provide for my children.’ Too late I corrected myself by saying: ‘To care for my children.’ Sweat prickled the nape of my neck. I dared not look at her. ‘However when they were grown up and going their own way in the world –’ I told myself I really could not gloss over my difficult years as a widower. But I did. I was terrified that she might recoil when she heard how I had not only failed to live as a priest should but had even jilted the woman who loved me.’ – when my children no longer needed me, I joined the Fordites. For years I remained convinced that I should be celibate, but recently when I was called to leave the Order I realized that my marital unhappiness had arisen not because I was unsuited to marriage but because I’d married the wrong woman when I was too young to know better.’
I told myself I could go no further, but in my imagination Father Darcy was looking at me with contempt and at last my pride came to my rescue. I really could not allow myself to be such a coward. Making a mighty effort I said: ‘That’s not much of a confession. The truth’s far darker than that. I was haunted by guilt that I couldn’t love Betty as she loved me and I conceived of becoming a monk as a form of atonement. Later I did fall in love but I rejected the woman by entering the Order. I’ve done appalling things, Anne. I hurt my wife. I hurt my –’ Balking at the word ‘mistress’ I grabbed a term which in my youth had been capable of an innocent meaning’ – my lover. And of course I hurt my –’ But at that point cowardice reclaimed me. My courage was exhausted and I could not utter the word ‘children’.
In the silence which followed, Anne’s fingers intertwined comfortingly with mine and I felt so grateful for her silent sympathy that a few shreds of my courage rose phoenix-like from the ashes. Remembering Francis’ letter I resolved to embark on a realistic description of Ruth and Martin.
‘Of course my difficulties have affected my children,’ I said in a resolute voice, the voice of a man determined to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, ‘and they’ve been through certain awkward times. But I couldn’t wish for a more devoted son and daughter and I really am tremendously proud of them. I know Ruth’s being silly about the wedding, but-she’s only acting out of a misguided concern for my welfare. And I know Martin should have replied to my letter by now, but I can only conclude that for some reason he hasn’t received it. Martin always replies to my letters – and replies very amusingly too, I might add. He’s got an excellent sense of humour, and women always seem to find him very attractive and charming.’
I stopped speaking, and gradually as the silence lengthened I became aware that I was staring at Anne’s engagement ring, a Victorian circle of gold set with garnets, which I had bought at a small jeweller’s shop in Starbridge. The ring was so pretty that I had not felt ashamed that it was cheap, and at the time of the purchase I had thought the garnets symbolized the fire of love. Now I was aware only that they were the colour of blood. I felt as if I were suffering some profound haemorrhage.
‘Darling!’ said Anne warmly, and suddenly the garnets flashed past my eyes as she slipped her arms around my neck. ‘How lucky your children are to have a father who obviously cares so much for them!’
Shame nearly annihilated me. ‘Anne, I really can’t let you believe … you really must understand that I … I mean, I can’t possibly let this conversation end without stressing my terrible faults and weaknesses –’
‘Silly man, I don’t expect you to be a saint!’
‘But I have such crippling peculiarities –’
‘My dear Jon, if I’d wanted to marry the dead-norm of English manhood, would I have looked twice at anyone who’d just spent seventeen years being a monk?’
‘But maybe you’d be a great deal happier with the dead-norm of English manhood –’
‘Absolutely not! It was a man claiming to be the dead-norm of English manhood who jilted me! Now stop agonizing about yourself in this morbid fashion and come up to the house for a drink before you sail back to your doting post-mistress – I think you need a very stiff sherry to set you back on the rails of optimism …’
IV
That night I reflected for a long time on this harrowing conversation with Anne but eventually I told myself it was neither possible nor desirable to attain an absolute honesty in a single interview. There was too much emotional constraint on my side and too much emotional vulnerability on hers. To subject her to a single prolonged and inevitably turgid confession of my failures would only upset her, and it seemed to me that I had a moral duty not to strain her love by wallowing self-indulgently in guilt. ‘Stop agonizing about yourself in this morbid fashion,’ she had said, and I was neither so stupid nor so insensitive that I could not detect her antipathy. Women, I knew, did not like self-indulgent wallowing. It filled them with impatience and contempt.
‘Thank God your father’s not the complaining sort,’ said my mother in my memory. ‘I can’t abide men who moan and groan.’
‘You won’t believe this,’ said my father to me lightly, years after her death, ‘but because I was so much older than your mother I was always haunted by the dread that she might find me an elderly bore. Silly of me, wasn’t it? Of course she was as devoted to me as I was to her, I can see that now, but I always guarded my tongue to ensure we never exchanged a cross word – with the result that despite the differences in our age and rank we were able to live happily ever after, as of course you remember.’
I shuddered suddenly, then cast the memory aside, but that night I dreamt that William the tabby-cat had disappeared, abandoning those who loved him to a hell of loneliness and desolation, and my mother was saying severely: ‘You’ve no one to blame but yourself. You shouldn’t have moaned and groaned about your past like that,’ while my father said urgently: ‘Guard your tongue. Never exchange a cross word. Never complain.’
I awoke sweating in the dark.
After a long while I repeated to myself that I would, of course, tell Anne everything; it was unthinkable that I should even consider not telling her everything; but I would not tell her everything just yet. The revelations had to be made little by little at carefully judged intervals, and meanwhile a long healing silence seemed called for.
Drifting back into sleep I found to my relief that William was purring peacefully in my arms.
V
The next morning I forced myself to reread Francis’ letter in order to confirm that I had addressed myself to all of the many problems he had listed.
I had dealt with question (I), my unhappiness with Betty. The subject of parenthood, which had occupied questions (2), (3) and (4), would have to wait. I examined question (5). Had I talked to my fiancée in detail about my spiritual needs? No, but I had made it plain that I required time to satisfy them and Anne had appeared to accept this without complaint; after all, unlike Betty she had her work to occupy her and would not expect my undivided attention twenty-four hours a day. Had I warned her that my spiritual needs often made me unsociable? No, but that was of no consequence since Anne was hardly a social butterfly, cramming her calendar with frivolous engagements. Had we discussed the contribution she might make to my work in the parish? No, but I had already decided that the nature of her contribution should be given time to evolve; I had no wish to burden her immediately with parish matters when her war-work was so important. Nevertheless, in answer to question (8), I felt confident that she would eventually support me to the best of her ability, just as a good wife should.
How was I going to resolve the conflict arising from the fact that we belonged to different wings of the Church? There was no conflict. She was willing to learn about Anglo-Catholicism and eventually I would educate her to share my point of view.
Had I had a frank discussion with her about money? No, but what was there to say? She would manage her money and I would manage mine and naturally I would not dream of interfering in her financial affairs. Had I had a conversation with her about intimacy? Yes, and further conversation would at this stage be inappropriate. Any sexual problems could be sorted out on the honeymoon; Had I paused long enough to imagine what this marriage would really be like or was I at present only capable of imagining how charming Anne would look in her nightgown? How impertinent! But Francis had merely been trying to needle me into confronting the difficulties, and now that I had indeed confronted them this final question did not require a serious answer.
