‘But you silly man, why didn’t you tell me you liked lots of time for prayer and meditation?’
‘I did tell you. When I was trying to explain about Betty, I –’
‘You did drop a vague hint, yes, but you gave me no idea what you really meant. Now let’s get this straight,’ said Anne, drying her eyes and taking refuge in her most businesslike manner. ‘How much time do you need and when do you need it?’
‘Darling, you mustn’t let it worry you – I’m prepared to compromise – I do realize that now I’m no longer in a monastery I can’t expect to –’
‘How much and when?’
‘Well, I like to get up at five-thirty and pray, read and meditate for two hours before breakfast –’
‘Why on earth didn’t you say so? And why haven’t you been doing this since the start of the honeymoon?’
I did not like to say I had needed the extra sleep after making love to her so frequently. That would have reminded her of my age. ‘Well, it was awkward – sharing a room – I didn’t want to be a bore or a nuisance –’
‘Now look here,’ said Anne, ‘I don’t know why you felt you couldn’t talk to me about this but I can’t have you not being honest and tying us both up in some fantastic knot. You must take as much time for prayer and meditation as you need each day and I promise I shan’t complain – I shall only complain if you starve yourself of solitude for my sake and then disappear into the blue for eight hours in order to make up for lost time.’
‘My darling Anne, I can’t apologize enough –’
‘Did you think I wouldn’t understand about your need for
solitude? But why? I like to spend time on my own too!’
‘Do you? Truthfully?’
‘Of course! After all, I’ve been on my own for six years; do you think I haven’t learnt how to be happy with my own company?’
After a pause I said: ‘Betty never learnt.’
‘But I’m not Betty, am I?’
I merely embraced her, and as I did so the evening sunlight began to slant through the window into the room. In the distance the sea was a calm soothing blue.
Suddenly Anne whispered: ‘Do you want to? You can if you like,’ but when she saw my astonished expression she was overcome with confusion. ‘Some men don’t care about the curse, I know,’ I heard her mumble, and I knew the oaf of a fiancé had been wreaking havoc here too, trampling on her needs in order to satisfy his own. ‘But obviously if you find the idea repulsive –’
‘It’s not a question of repulsion; God made us as we are, bodily functions and all, but I do feel some private acts of the body aren’t suitable for sharing, and my respect for privacy is such that I’ve always believed a man has a duty not to intrude on a woman at such times,’ I said, but although this speech reflected my feelings honestly enough, only some of my feelings were being revealed. I had been brought up amidst the peculiarly Victorian ethos which dictated that decent middle-class women, particularly the women of one’s own family, should be set upon metaphorical pedestals, treated with reverence and protected from any sordid fact of life which might soil their carefully nurtured purity. When I had finally escaped from the monastic atmosphere of my public school and the extreme propriety of my home I had been amazed to discover that women from other classes behaved as if this ethos had nothing to do with the facts of life and even regarded their middle-class sisters with pity. Betty in particular had had great fun puncturing any prim notions of femininity which remained to me after three years up at Cambridge, and part of her fun had derived from periodically seducing me during those times when any middle-class woman would have had the refined sensibility to withdraw into a
self-imposed purdah. Thus Anne was now, without knowing it, seeking an intimacy which aroused both inhibiting memories of my middle-class upbringing and unsavoury memories of Betty’s perverse exercise in power.
But there were other reasons why I had no desire for intimacy at that moment. The first was that after achieving intense spiritual satisfaction from an ascetic retreat I was reluctant to conclude the day by plunging into sensuality; such behaviour would have resembled following a glass of pure spring water with a slice of cream-cake. And the second reason why I wanted to abstain from intimacy was because I needed to; I had spent ten days living at a sexual pace more suitable for a man half my age, and the dread of impotence, never far from the surface of my mind, prompted an awareness that I should husband my resources more carefully.
‘I’m sorry,’ Anne was saying in a rush. ‘You obviously think I’m behaving like a female sex maniac’
‘Nonsense!’ I said firmly. ‘A healthy desire for marital intimacy is entirely right and proper!’
‘Even for a clergyman’s wife?’
‘Especially for a clergyman’s wife. People entirely misunderstand Christianity when they think it’s against sex. It’s against the abuse of sex, which is quite different,’ I said, but as I spoke I was experiencing a revelation and it was not a pleasant one. I saw that by healing her I might have wrecked some hidden equilibrium which would have kept our relationship finely tuned not now, when I was an active sixty, but later when I was an ageing septuagenarian. However that glimpse of the future was too disturbing to contemplate, and at once I scrabbled to scrub it from my mind.
‘Let’s go to bed.’
‘But you said –’
‘Never mind what I said. I want you. If you want me –’ Victorian inhibitions, Betty’s memory, ascetic inclinations and the dread of impotence – all were swept aside. I only knew I had a young wife who had to be satisfied; I only knew I had to fight with all my power to keep old age at bay.
Afterwards, when Anne had slipped away for a quick bath before dinner, I crawled off the bed and limped to the basin to wash. Both my legs were aching, a pulled muscle was throbbing in my back and I felt stupefied by tiredness. Old age leered at me from the glass above the basin, and shuddering I looked away.
Anne eventually returned to the room. She seemed so young, so fresh, so brimful of vitality that I felt as if someone had plunged a knife into my psyche, and at once intense fear overwhelmed me again. As she wandered past I grabbed her so abruptly that she gasped, imprisoned her in the tightest of embraces and whispered: ‘Don’t leave me.’
‘Jon!’ She was shocked as well as astonished, and as I slackened my grip she reached up to cradle my face between her hands. ‘That’s the second time you’ve said that. Why on earth should you think –’
‘I’m so old. Supposing I have a stroke and become a vegetable. Supposing I can’t make love to you any more. Supposing you get tired of me, turn to someone else, go away, never come back –’
Anne said violently: I should never do such dreadful things. I shall always love you, even if you wind up a vegetable. Please stop being so silly this instant.’ She sounded shattered.
At once I struggled to pull myself together. To have an elderly husband was bad enough; to have a silly elderly husband would be intolerable. ‘I’m sorry,’ said my voice, ‘what an un-Christian panic! Of course I must face the future with hope and faith, not sink into an ignominious despair.’ The crucial word here was ‘ignominious’. My pride had come to my rescue when hope and faith had failed.
‘Dearest Jon,’ said Anne kissing me, ‘you don’t have to apologize – I suppose we all have our irrational fears, even people like you who seem so wonderfully well balanced, but I
must say I do find it unnerving when you become so peculiar. It’s as if you stop being the man I love and become someone else altogether.’
There was a deep silence as I digested this speech and she tranquilly began to brush her hair. I saw so clearly then that in order to maintain her love I had to protect her from my irrational peculiarities. I had to be the kind of husband she wanted me to be: youthful, strong, sane, wise, authoritative, confident, fearless, sexually accomplished – and bewitchingly endowed with all manner of glamorous powers.
I began to think again of a ministry of healing.
‘(There exists) in the English Church an intense repugnance against the priestcraft of the Roman hierarchy.’
W. R. INGE
Dean of St Paul’s 1911–1934
Outspoken Essays
Three days later we returned to Starrington Magna and the regular arrival of the newspapers which we had tried to avoid on our honeymoon. However even in the depths of Dorset without either a wireless or a newspaper we had heard that the battering of London had been continuing night after night: one hundred thousand books had been destroyed in the University College Library and a bomb, crashing through the roof of St Paul’s, had destroyed the High Altar. ‘Our ordeal continues,’ wrote Francis. ‘Just as we were congratulating ourselves on having survived the threat of a summer invasion, Anti-Christ plunges us into hell again with his “Donner-und-Blitzen” tactics.’ And suddenly I saw that I had been so busy congratulating myself on finding not only the chapel of my vision but the woman of my dreams that I had overlooked the fact that a new and possibly more demanding phase of my return to the world was just about to begin.
My most immediate difficulty was that although I had to think of the Manor as my home I was still gripped by the desire to shun the main reception rooms as much as possible in order to avoid the servants. However I did realize I could hardly conduct my married life while hiding in corners, and it occurred to me that if I were to acquire at least one room where no
servant would ever go, the knowledge that I had a bolt-hole would give me the necessary mental stamina to survive the intrusions of the servants elsewhere. Reluctantly I broached the subject with Anne, but she was very sympathetic and suggested that I might like to annex the large dressing-room next door to our bedchamber. This pleased me but trouble surfaced when I began to strip the room naked by hauling out all the wardrobes and tallboys. Apparently this ugly clutter had belonged to DADDY and when Anne wanted to know why I was unable to be satisfied with the furniture of a country gentleman I felt exactly like the parlourmaid’s son that I was.
‘I’ll choose another room,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I should be banished to an attic? Then you wouldn’t have to worry about me not behaving like a country gentleman.’
‘Oh, shut up – stop being so prickly and proud!’ cried Anne, much upset, and at once I panicked, apologized profusely and said it would be an honour to live with Mr Barton-Woods’ venerable wardrobes and tallboys.
‘Now don’t start being dishonest!’ said Anne, becoming crosser than ever. ‘Why say it would be an honour when you’ve made it quite clear it would be a thundering bore? Chuck everything out and for goodness’ sake make yourself thoroughly at home!’
When the bolt-hole was bare I imported a small chest of drawers from one of the spare-rooms and constructed a cupboard between the chimneypiece and the window so that I would have no need of a wardrobe. In the attics I found a table and chair, both broken, but they were easily mended and when I placed them by the window I thought they looked well. I put up a couple of shelves in the hope of increasing my book collection (I had already ordered the new edition of St Augustine’s
De Civitate Dei)
and built myself a small plain oratory in a corner. Before this refurbishment I had cast out the carpet and curtains and painted the room white; the blackout blind provided all the covering the window needed, and the revarnished floorboards were quite handsome enough to render any rug superfluous.
‘Funny man!’ said Anne when she was finally allowed to inspect the alterations. ‘You’ve created a monk’s cell! But never mind – here’s something which will soften the austerity,’ and she gave me the engraving of Starbridge Cathedral which I had admired when I had boarded in her spare-room.
This gesture was without doubt both kind and generous, but I had been dreaming of a room where there would be no pictures to distract me and although I admired the engraving I found I was still reluctant to abandon my dreams. Having accepted the gift with fulsome gratitude I hid the picture in the cupboard as soon as Anne had left the room. Later, of course, she found out. Our consequent altercation could hardly be described as a row but it was definitely a tiff and afterwards I regret to record that I sulked. However eventually I remembered that I was a married man who should be prepared to compromise, not an abbot with a licence to do as he pleased, so before I went to bed that night I hung the engraving over the fireplace. I always think St Paul’s admonition: ‘Let not the sun go down on thy wrath,’ should be permanently inscribed on the memories of all married couples.
I had barely succeeded in working myself into a position where I could regard at least a small corner of the Manor as ‘home’ when the next problem loomed on the horizon: I had to revise my view that it was quite unnecessary for me to know anything about Anne’s money. I had already made it clear that I did not want to take a penny of it for my own needs, that I wished to contribute, albeit in a modest way, to the cost of running the household, and that she was to continue to manage her financial affairs as if I did not exist, but in fact, as I now discovered, I had been insensitive. Anne wanted to share her money with me; she saw the sharing as a gesture of loving trust, and when I had repudiated it so peremptorily she had felt hurt. As soon as I realized my mistake I changed course. I agreed to be briefed on her financial affairs, but I still could not bring myself to accept her offer of a joint bank account and when she tried to give me an absurdly large sum of money I was quite unable to conceal my horror of being ‘kept’.