Old Men in Love

by Alasdair Gray

  Henry slightly smiled and slightly shook his head.

  “Good. Now, I have no wish to hurt your feelin’s but I hear that compared with your impromptu prayers, your sermons are, shall I say – less adequate?”

  “I have had little pulpit experience, sir.”

  “Most of us are shaky at the start. I certainly was. On preachin’ my first sermon before a Bishop I tried to impress him by sayin’ it all without notes. Result: young Ollivant dries up halfway through and stumbles as fast as he can into the blessin’. A disgustin’ performance. I see you pull a wry face at the word performance. Is that because it suggests play actin’?”

  Henry nodded.

  “No matter. An honest intelligent clergyman can learn to do better from the theatre. Well, the Bishop was a good old soul and a relative of mine. Over dinner afterward he said what I have never forgotten and will now pass on to you. Every old rectory and vicarage in England, said he, has a shelf of sermons, the best of them written by great clerics who founded the Anglican church when English prose was at its best, as is proved by our prayer book and the King James authorized Bible. Read those sermons. Memorize passages whose truth and beauty strikes you. Of course, you have six days a week to write sermons of your own, but few vicars of Christ preached as mightily as Latimer, for example. When your pulpit eloquence falters you should find support in the words of men who were (dare I say this to you Prince? Yes . . .) men who were wiser and wittier than you will ever be. I put that to you, Prince, and leave it with you.”

  “Thank you sir. Good day,” said Prince. He stood, bowed slightly and turned to the door. Before reaching it he heard Ollivant chuckle and turned enquiringly.

  “Forgive me Prince, but I’ve remembered somethin’ funny. Know anythin’ about Carlyle? Thomas Carlyle?”

  “No sir.”

  “I’m glad. He’s a Scotch Radical pamphleteer who’s all for the French Revolution. London society tolerates him because his wife is both pretty and witty. In their younger days the Carlyles and Edward Irving were so close that the present Mrs Carlyle nearly became Mrs Irving. A pity she did not. She has since been heard to say, If Irving had married me there would have been no gift of tongues. Good, isn’t it haha? If Irving had married me there would have been no gift of tongues. I am sure Mrs Prince is also a sensible woman.”

  Charlinch lay in a valley between dark green wooded hills, the fields on lower ground divided by thick hedges and narrow winding roads. The village, never large, had shrunk smaller around 1800 when the chief landowner enclosed the common, evicted smallholders and let their fields to richer farmers. It was now a crossroads with cottages housing families of ploughmen, a shop that was also the Post Office, a dame’s school and a small, dilapidated church on a hill. The dilapidation had happened because local gentry who owned carriages now attended larger churches further away. The churchyard had become a wilderness of overgrown plots with broken and sinking stones. There was a path through it to the adjacent rectory which was large and well-built, in a garden with high walls sheltered by trees. Here Brother Prince began his new life as a country priest under the guidance of the Holy Spirit, and here his forty-five year old wife spent the unhappiest months of her life.

  The rectory was rent free, well furnished, well carpeted, with cupboards of fine linen and bedclothes. This was fortunate as the curate’s stipend was small. Income from Martha’s investments let them hire local women as cook, house-maid and laundry-maid, but they could not afford a housekeeper and Martha had no experience of household management. She saw rooms were not being thoroughly cleaned, that Henry’s shirts were badly starched and clumsily folded, that under-cooked cutlets and over-boiled vegetables were served on stone-cold plates, but could not tell her servants how to do better – they seemed to understand her instructions as little as she understood their dialect. She might have resigned herself to these misfortunes had they not hurt Henry. The Spirit guiding him accepted badly-served food and badly-laundered linen as minor forms of crucifixion, but his wife knew how much better his mother managed a household so his almost inaudible sighs, sometimes with eyes closed in prayer, struck Martha like rebukes. Pains she had patiently suffered in Widdicombe Crescent worsened. One night after a dinner where both had eaten only a few mouthfuls she openly wept. He sat by her, patted her hand, said in the soft, remote voice habitual with him, “Perhaps you should send for mother.”

  Mrs Prince arrived in an irritable mood that she hid from her son but not from her daughter-in-law. She spoke severely to housemaid and laundry-maid, dismissed the cook, hired in her place another local woman and severely lectured her also before returning to Bath. For a while the house was managed a little better, though not much better. Martha still had cause for tears, Henry for sighs and silent prayers, and his sufferings had a more than domestic cause. Despite marriage he found Charlinch an even more miserable place than London where, a lonely medical student, his fastidious nature had excluded him from the rude conviviality of social equals. At Lampeter he had made friends and visited people who recognized his spiritual authority: Charlinch was a whole parish of souls to be saved, yet he could persuade none of their deadly peril.

  The Anglican prayer book, printed by Royal Command, dictated the church services in words carefully composed to exclude radical politics and personal remarks. Only the sermon gave a chance of impressive speech, and Henry failed to impress. His pulpit overlooked a floor boxed into pews rented by the wealthiest and most respected local families, each box with its own little door. Labourers and servants sat on benches between or behind these. There was a gallery for singers and two parishioners who played a cornet and a bassoon. When Henry announced the sermon’s text in his clear sweet voice he saw his listeners compose themselves for a state resembling slumber, even if they did not close their eyes. He could have wakened the nearest at once by talking straight down to them, but his words must reach everyone including many who were more haggard, worse dressed and (when their mouths opened for responses and hymns) more gap-toothed than any congregation he had seen. Words he uttered with passionate conviction had no visible effect on anyone.

  That Dr Ollivant had foreseen this was not consoling. The rectory study had many bound sermons but, “I will not mouth the words of dead men.” Henry told himself, glaring at them. He knelt and begged God to let him speak with the simplicity of a little child, and the simple words came, but had no effect, even when spoken in the parishioners’ homes. Nobody in Charlinch was of higher social standing than Henry so the farmers’ wives were at first delighted with his visits. They served him afternoon tea and when asked about the state of their souls assured him that these were quite all right. When he told them this was unlikely and insisted on more heart-felt answers they turned resentful or embarrassed. Most took it as an insult that he wished to confer with their servants, and when he said poorer folk also had souls to be saved the faces of their employers indicated doubt. In Welsh Lampeter he had enjoyed several passionate dialogues with sick or dying people and, compared with them, the Somerset natives seemed pagan. “If God don’t want my soul after all he’s put me through,” said an old labourer, crippled by arthritis and lying between blankets stained by his bed sores, “He may do without it.”

  “Hell fire! Hell fire!” whispered Henry.

  “Can’t be worse than this,” said the man, “but give me a sup of gin or brandy and I’ll gladly hear you tell me all about hell fire till the cows come home.”

  The school children could chant the Lord’s Prayer and parts of the Shorter Catechism in unison, but no matter how intensely he lectured and questioned them they answered with monosyllables or giggles or dumb grins. At length, having prayed to God for guidance and receiving assurance that God wished this, Henry told the schoolteacher he was abandoning her pupils until they asked for him. He visited two consumptive little girls in their home until their mother told him to stop frightening them. When he ignored her she fetched her husband from a nearby field who expelled Henry with t
hreats to fling him out. Henry told the man’s employer, suggesting the labourer might allow Christ’s ministry if threatened with dismissal. The farmer said, “I couldn’t do that sir. He may be stiff-necked but he’s an honest worker.”

  “I do not ask you to dismiss him but to threaten him with dismissal.”

  “Too risky, sir. He’s so stiff-necked he might take offence and leave me, and bein’ widely known as a honest good worker he’d have no trouble gettin’ employment elsewhere.”

  Henry’s only happiness now was in writing to his Lampeter Brethren, some still at college, some of them curates like himself. His letters asked searching questions about the state of their souls, discussed their replies in detail, contained prayers and exhortations applicable to their weakness and troubles. He mentioned the sad state of his parishioners but not his own unhappy state. One of the Brethren, inspired and consoled by his letters, suggested making a book of them. Henry borrowed back the best, copied them out with improvements, raised money by subscriptions from the Brethren and had them printed in Bristol. Copies posted to Church of England magazines were kindly reviewed. This modest fame did not lessen his grief at the state of Charlinch parish. Martha was increasingly troubled by backaches with hot and cold flushes, swollen limbs, and constipation alternating with diarrhoea. Henry prayed to God that these were not symptoms of incurable dropsy. A doctor summoned from Bridgwater comforted him slightly by diagnosing sub-acute dropsy, and prescribing a strict diet, laudanum drops and rest. Martha returned to stay with his mother in Widdicombe Crescent until her health improved, but it never improved. Henry remained in Charlinch to hope, pray, correspond with the Brethren and conduct services that seemed spiritually fruitless.

  In the fourteenth month of his curacy came a letter postmarked Ventnor in the Isle of Wight. It said: Dear Mr Henry James Prince, or if you will forgive this impertinence, Dear BROTHER Henry James Prince, I must see you as soon as possible since no merely written language can express my feelings, my gratitude. I, my wife and sister are coming with all possible haste to visit you in the rectory, our old family home. Expect us on the evening of the day after you receive this epistle. Ever, My Very Dear Sir,

  Yours in the Lord,

  Sam Starky.

  This, from the rector Henry had been told he would probably never see, was encouraging. He ordered fires lit in the four main bedrooms, two of which had stood empty since Martha left. He ordered sheets and blankets to be aired, beds to be made, the house thoroughly cleaned for the following day. Though he had never reproved the servants they were slightly in awe of him, even more in awe of the returning rector whose father they remembered and who was nephew of a Lord. By the following afternoon the rectory was in a cleaner, neater state than Henry had ever seen. He watched the maid set a tea table, suggested improvements, retired to his study. For a while he stood at a window allowing a view of the crossroads. After two or three carriages had passed he sat down and tried to concentrate on a vague but inspiring chapter by the German psalmist, Gerhard Tersteegen. Only on hearing approaching hoof beats did he go to the entrance hall and stand, hands folded meekly before him, waiting for the housemaid to open the front door. She did, and when three people entered he bowed, saying softly, “Welcome.”

  “Hello!” said the foremost visitor, removing his hat and extending a hand, “Sam Starky! Are you indeed –?”

  Henry murmured, “Henry Prince,” and shook the slightly moist hand of a man who seemed breathless and excited.

  Starky was tall and not much older than Henry and wore dark expensive clothes of fashionable cut, only a white neckcloth suggesting his clerical status. His handsome face had the nobility of a marble bust, perhaps because it was so pale. His manner was excited but oddly evasive. He clasped Henry’s hand longer than usual without looking straight at his face. Henry saw that here was one who knew he needed guidance. “This is my belovéd wife,” said Starky gesturing to a woman who appeared to be all a prosperous and respected husband in those days could wish: pretty, well dressed, submissive and slightly alarmed at meeting someone new. Henry bowed to her. “And here is my dear sister Julia,” said Starky. “We find in her a tower of strength.”

  “I am reading your Letters to the Lampeter Brethren, Mr Prince,” said Julia with emphasis suggesting approval. While the maid helped Mrs Starky remove her bonnet and shawl Julia removed her own in a way that showed she was thoroughly at home.

  “I am honoured,” said Henry. “I regret that my own wife is not here to receive you all. A liver ailment has taken her to recuperate at my mother’s home in Bath. Shall there be tea after the maid has shown you to your rooms? Tea and something to eat after you have had time to wash and settle in?”

  “Yes,” said Julia, “that will be thoroughly welcome when my dear sister-in-law has had a little rest and I have supervized unpacking. But I know Sam cannot wait for a word with you.” With the keen eyes of a natural housekeeper she watched a servant carry in a box and portmanteau. Henry said to Starky, “Let me take your hat.”

  Starky stared at the hat in his hand as if astonished to see it then cried, “ O no no no no no!”, and hurriedly placed it with his overcoat on the hallstand saying, “Julia is right. I must speak with you alone for a while.”

  “Certainly. Of course,” murmured Henry and led him to the study.

  With a gesture he invited Starky to take an armchair by the fire but, “No no no no no, you sit. I am overwrought. I must pace about a bit,” said Starky. Henry settled down with elbows on armrests, watching his visitor across fingertips placed together in the shape of a tent.

  “Pardon my agitation,” said Starky abruptly, “You have been my curate here for fourteen months, and I am a stranger to you. But you are no stranger to me!”

  “Yes?”

  “Miracles still happen, do they not?”

  “It is blasphemy to doubt it.”

  “You have performed a miracle. And another miracle is, that you do not know it.”

  “You will tell me of it,” said Henry quietly.

  “A fortnight ago I lay very ill at Ventnor, and in the morning the nurse told me I would not live until night. At noon the post brought me a letter from a clerical friend in Bath with a printed slip of paper which he prayed might be read to me before I died. The words described how a man may know he believes in Christ.”

  “Ah,” said Henry.

  “When the reading was done I asked the preacher’s name and only then heard he was you, my curate. I thanked God he had sent such a pastor to my flock. I felt very happy in mind, said the last few words to my wife and sister, and lay back to depart in peace.”

  “But did not die,” said Henry mildly.

  “Yes! My pulse beat quicker, my tongue was loosened, strength returned to my limbs and – I am here.”

  He stood suddenly still and gazed open-mouthed at Henry who, smiling, rose to his feet and held out his arms. Starky stepped between them and hugged Henry passionately. Henry’s embrace was more paternal. When he lowered his arms Starky moved away whispering, “It is wonderful!”

  “May I call you Brother Starky?” asked Henry softly.

  “Please!” said Starky with a vehement nod, “To be accepted as one of the Lampeter Brethren is an honour I hardly dared pray for.”

  “Then sit down Brother Starky,” said Henry in a louder voice than Starky had yet heard from him, “It is now your turn to listen and mine to render up accounts of my service here.”

  “Eh?”

  “Sit down, if you please.”

  Starky sat with mouth slightly open while Prince stood before him, hands clasped behind back, saying grimly, “You thanked God for making me pastor of your flock. I confess to not dealing well with it. I am a bad pastor.”

  “How so?”

  “For more than a year I have laboured in Charlinch Church, school and homes and found only a disobedient and gainsaying people. I have told them how much they need Christ’s salvation; I have exhorted, I have begged those who see
they need guidance to visit me here for instruction and prayer. Shall I tell you how many have answered that call?”

  “Please do.”

  “Three.”

  “Horrible! Horrible!”

  “And these three are from neighbouring parishes, not from Charlinch. But for these three I would have quit this place when my wife’s illness forced her to leave a fortnight ago – the very time when you were miraculously cured by my words. God has preserved us both for this meeting. His Holy Spirit must have work for us here in Charlinch.”

  “What work can it be?”

  “You are my rector,” said Prince gently.

  “But I have not conducted half a dozen services since I was ordained. This living is mine because my father had it. I fear I have been a poor, woefully formal Christian.”

  “Christ loves the poor in spirit, brother Starky, and did not a certain prayer convince you of His power?”

  “Yes! I believe your prayer cured me in body and soul. Before it, the slightest unexpected chill induced pulmonary qualms, fever and coughing that kept me in bed for weeks at a time. You have made a new man of me . . . ”

  “Not I,” said Henry. “The Spirit through me gave you a new and cleaner birth.”

  “And you say it has work for us here?”

  “The Spirit has work in Charlinch for us both,” said Henry, with total certainty.

  24: THE GROWTH OF THE SPIRIT

  Next Sunday the young rector’s return to his parish ensured a large church attendance. The rectory pew that had stood empty since Martha left held that morning Mrs Starky and Julia. Henry James Prince sat before the pulpit at a desk formerly used by a parish clerk who had announced hymns, psalms and led the singing. As usual Henry wore the black Doctor of Divinity gown with white neckbands, worn throughout the eighteenth century and still favoured at Lampeter; but Oxford divines were making Roman vestments fashionable again so Starky, though Cambridge educated, emerged from the vestry dressed as his congregation had never before seen, in a flowing white surplice over a dark ankle-length cassock, both of which suited his tall, fine figure and statuesque head. He chanted prayers and led responses in tones as gentlemanly as Prince had used but more monotonous. Unlike Prince he preached his sermon from notes, sometimes pausing to look down at the pew where his wife and sister gazed back with ardent, approving smiles and the desk where Henry sat staring hard at the floor between his boots. Before the final blessing he announced, “Our dearly belovéd brother in Christ, Henry James Prince, will on Tuesday evening hold his usual Bible study group in the rectory and on Friday evening his usual prayer meeting. I cannot too strongly exhort all who care for the welfare of their souls to attend these meetings.”