A Severe Mercy

by Sheldon Vanauken

  We enjoyed Horsebite Hall, stoking the stoves with wood till they glowed red-hot, tending our chickens, riding the white horse bareback, and walking. Being out of doors—outdoors alone— climbing the blue Virginian hills. We sang folksongs about the fox that went out on a chilly night and the Scotchman who turned robber all on the salt seas, and we sang that we knew where we were going. We also went to church a few times, not out of any accession of belief but just to hear the beautiful and ancient Anglican liturgy. Once we even made a communion, just because it was the going thing. It didn’t mean anything. Unless, of course, it did mean some-thing. One church that we sometimes went to was a tiny 150-year-old church, St. Stephen’s, set in lovely rolling country with a few noble old houses here and there and the Blueridge glowing in the distance.

  Davy was painting. She had always been deft with a pencil or brush; now she was painting in earnest, getting steadily better. She painted Virginia: scenes along the St. Stephen’s road and on our own farm. A big black walnut tree stood alone in our meadow, distinguished by an especially massive branch that angled upwards from low on the trunk. Davy did a fine picture of tree and meadow and stream. Then she did another of the tree—recognisably the same tree, black and bare of leaves—but the meadow had given way to a dream landscape of rocks and earth and cliffs. In the cliffs were caves out of which grotesque and even fiendish faces leered. In the foreground was the tree and, near it, a wraithlike female figure—the soul beyond doubt—groped, as though unable to see clearly, towards the tree: the tree whose massive branch cast upon the bare earth the shadow of the crucified Messiah. The Shadow of a Tree. The picture grew of course out of that Yale experience of all the world falling away, and we called it, lightly, her ‘Sin Picture’. All the same, I regarded it somewhat uneasily, though it was certain that Davy was not a Christian. And, after all, many an unbeliever has used the symbolism of the Cross in art. Surely that was all it was. I was the one who—because of another shadow cross, oddly, the shadow of the destroyer’s yardarm—was some day, maybe, going to have another look at Christianity, not Davy. But the truth was that I was far too remote from Christianity to judge anyone else’s distance from it. I knew Davy almost as well as I knew myself. But I did not know the place from which all distances are measured.

  We discovered that we could, now, go to Oxford if we chose. We had wanted to do that when we went to Yale. Now we could. There were several reasons, we thought, to support our deferring the ultimate Grey Goose voyaging for another two or even three years. Apart from Oxford itself which might be worth deferring anything for, we had all along planned a somewhat larger deep-keel schooner; and we might, perhaps, better find it in England. Moreover, at Yale, Davy had been thought to have an obscure and undangerous ailment for which a restful life for a few years had been suggested. She didn’t, in fact, have it; but it played a part in our deferring— only deferring—the off-soundings voyaging and the far islands for Oxford.

  We had been exploring the Chesapeake, exploring islands and little Eastern Shore ports and, with our shallow draft, the lovely tidal creeks. We had experienced the fierce white squalls of that body of water and been becalmed. Sometimes we took friends along, but more often it was just the two of us with Flurry and Gypsy for crew, until Gypsy, true to her name, ran away and was lost. The schooner sailed like a dream, fast, able to windward, and swift to come about. On hot summer days there was usually shade from the great mainsail, and there was a canopy that, at anchor, could be rigged over the cockpit. One of the most attractive features was a long after deck, abaft the cockpit, where even I could stretch out.

  One day, virtually on the eve of Oxford, began with a fine fresh breeze in the morning as we left our anchorage. We were on a broad reach to the southwards, going like a clipper, and we actually over-hauled a motor cruiser, passing her like a whirlwind. But then in the afternoon the breeze died completely and we were becalmed. We couldn’t have cared less, though. We rigged the canopy and stretched out with books on the after deck with a pitcher of iced lemonade. Towards evening a tiny breeze got up, and the ship began to move as we took down the canopy: she moved; the sails were asleep; but it was movement in a dream. The water was still mirror smooth; the breeze was aloft and so light that our movement was barely perceptible and altogether soundless—what is called ghosting. The mainsail shaded us from the afternoon sun: I was in the cockpit, keeping a finger on the tiller, and Davy was still lying on her stomach aft with her chin in her hands. The crew—Flurry— was asleep on the deckhouse. I went forward for a moment and could hear the faintest little chuckle of water under the forefoot, but it couldn’t be heard aft. Under a blue sky, darkening in the east as the sun set in splendour in the west, across calm water turned to flame by the setting sun, we sailed in a dream. Ahead, dead ahead, where the coastline curved out, a cove opened to the north. I steered for it, expecting the tiny breeze to die any minute. But it held, and as dusk came on we ghosted straight in and rounded up and the anchor splashed over. We had a swim and a light dinner. The evening seemed to grow more sultry. Perhaps a storm was brewing, but when we sought our bunks it had not materialised.

  Some time in the night I awoke, feeling the yacht swinging at her anchor. A stream of lovely cool air was pouring down the forward hatch. I got up soundlessly and emerged from the hatch as far as my waist. At the same instant Davy popped out of the after hatch and crept forward along the deck to where I stood, half out of the hatch. The breeze had sprung up and backed to north so that it was coming straight in the mouth of the cove, though not strongly enough to cause any worry about the anchor holding. It had blown every bit of humidity and sultriness away. The air was cool and fresh. Ten thousand brilliant stars arched across the sky. But what transfixed us was phosphorescence. Every little wave rolling into the cove was crested with cold fire. The anchor rode was a line of fire going down into the depths, and fish moving about left trails of fire. The night of the sea-fire. Davy had crept near to me, still crouching, and I put my arm about her, and she snuggled close. Neither of us spoke, not so much as a whispered word. We were together, we were close, we were overwhelmed by a great beauty. I know that it seemed to us both that we were completely one: we had no need to speak. We remained so in timeless loveliness—was it hours? We never knew. All about us was the extraordinary beauty of the sea-fire and the glittering stars overhead. We were full of wonder—and joy. Grey Goose was alive, lifting to the little waves, and the tall dark masts were pencilling across the stars. The moment was utterly timeless: we didn’t know that time existed; and it contained, therefore, some foretaste, it may be, of eternity. At last, still with no word spoken, we went below again and, in comfort and a great peace, slept.

  Next day we did not know at all whether that timeless moment— that moment made eternity—had been hours long or minutes long. But the question was, of course, of no importance.

  What is important, perhaps, is that the moment was a culmination of all we had ever dreamt: not just Grey Goose, not just the good life—the tuneful life without the pressure of time—but also the green tree of the pagan love flourishing within the Shining Barrier. Still in love, still outward bound. We were leaving this Grey Goose way for a little while, but only for awhile. The far islands waited. Life stretched ahead.

  In the late summer the P. & O. liner, Stratheden, pressed into the Atlantic run, went astern from her berth in New York harbour with huge blasts of her whistle, and then went ahead, standing out to sea bound for London. We were aboard.

  CHAPTER IV

  Encounter with Light

  THE SOFT, GREEN GRASS of early June, dotted here and there with little blue flowers, spread to the very edge of the small river. On the other side of the grassy place stood an ancient beech, and the landscape contained many other trees, both near and far. A gentle blue sky with a few scattered clouds arched above. From somewhere up there, near the zenith, fell the piercing sweetness of a skylark’s song. A faint haze softened the outlines of the more remote trees; and
in the distance, also hazy, rose a splendour of towers and spires. Oxford in Summer Term along the River Cherwell. Here in the lush grass lay Davy and I reading aloud from The Wind in the Willows, one of the wonderful books of the world, the part about Rat and Mole on the river bank. We had just finished laughing at Rat’s response to Mole’s admission of his having never been in a boat: ’ “What? ”cried the Rat, open-mouthed. “Never been in a—you never—well, I—what have you been doing, then?”‘ Now the book had slipped to the ground, and with still-smiling faces we listened lazily to the skylark. Two young men poling a punt passed on the river. A moment later there was the sound of distant bells, the bells of Oxford.

  We had come up to the university for Michaelmas Term in the previous autumn, and by now we were to be numbered for ever amongst the lovers of Oxford. And amongst the lovers of England, too, especially rural England. On our crossing of the Atlantic in the P. & O. Line’s Stratheden, eating mighty Indian curries every day, talking to English people aboard, already beginning to think in pounds, shillings, and pence, we had wondered how it would be to come to the England that we knew so well in books and that I, at least, had known as a small child: would it be, essentially, a foreign country, or—well, not foreign? But by the time the ship was coasting along the white cliffs and then proceeding up the Thames, we had begun to think what we later found to be true: that coming to England was like coming home, coming to a home half-remembered —but home.

  A curious incident had occurred aboard the liner. Reading a notice outside the Purser’s office that a woman travelling to Rome for holy year had lost her handbag and her all, four hundred dollars, we were struck by the fact that the ship held just four hundred passengers. Only one dollar apiece and the poor lady would smile again. With our dollars in hand we went in to see the Purser. But he, though quite convinced that the loss was genuine and permanent, could not by Company rules take up a collection. But, he added, why didn’t we do it? Oh, no! we said with a shudder, we couldn’t do that; we’re shy types. So we departed. Thought. Looked at each other. Gave each other wry grins. Returned. ‘We’ll do it,’ we said. The Purser grinned. ‘Good show!’ he said. So, passenger lists in hand, we asked everybody, thereby meeting some fascinating people, ranging from a Shropshire landed baronet to an American communist—both, incidentally, made a contribution and both stood us a drink later. Indeed, everyone contributed except some sulky Germans. New Yorkers, though, were invariably suspicious: what was our racket, bud? But we learned to say very politely: ‘Do you mind me asking, are you from New York? You are? Well, never mind, then. We’re not asking New Yorkers —too suspicious. Forget it. Thank you very much.’ About an hour later they would sidle up and with a gruff ‘Here!’ hand over twenty dollars. So we collected the lot and gave it to the Purser with the strict injunction not to tell the woman that we collected it. But he or someone betrayed us; and she came over to our table in the saloon and wept rather a lot, which was quite awful, even though she gave the principal credit to the Blessed Virgin.

  The curious thing, to us, about the whole affair was the question we were so often asked, seriously asked: Why were we doing this? Were we Christians or something? Naturally we denied it. But we were rather taken aback by the assumption. We had thought we were merely doing the decent thing in the circumstances. Why should so many people think that only Christianity could account for it? Very odd.

  After a fortnight in London, we made our way to Paddington and took the train to Oxford. When the train began to slow for what we thought would be it, we were looking out of the right-hand window for the station. There were brick walls. They ended. Suddenly there was a vision of towers and spires reaching up to the summer sky, wheeling round each other with the motion of the train, lovely as a city in a dream. It was only for a moment, and then we were in the station.

  We were welcomed to Oxford by one Lew Salter, whose kins-woman I had known in Virginia, and his pretty wife, Mary Ann. Lew, a brilliant theoretical physicist, was in my college, Jesus. He and Mary Ann were, also, we discovered later, keen Christians. Through them we met, almost at once, their English friends, Peter and Bee Campion—Bee, tall and swift, impatient of nonsense; Peter, just out of the Royal Navy, pipe-smoking, nice grin, bright blue eyes. Peter was a physicist, too, in Exeter College. At the same time, we met another friend of theirs, Thad Marsh of Worcester College, lanky, witty, intelligent, who was reading English. These were our first friends, close friends. More to the point, perhaps, all five were keen, deeply committed Christians. But we liked them so much that we forgave them for it. We began, hardly knowing we were doing it, to revise our opinions, not of Christianity but of Christians. Our fundamental assumption, which we had been pleased to regard as an intelligent insight, had been that all Christians were necessarily stuffy, hide-bound, or stupid—people to keep one’s distance from. We had kept our distance so successfully, indeed, that we didn’t know anything about Christians. Now that assumption soundlessly collapsed. The sheer quality of the Christians we met at Oxford shattered our stereotype, and thenceforward a reference in a book or conversation to someone’s being a Christian called up an entirely new image. Moreover, the astonishing fact sank home: our own contemporaries could be at once highly intelligent, civilised, witty, fun to be with—and Christian.

  If we had been asked at that time what we meant when we spoke of someone as a Christian, we should have said that we meant someone who called himself a Christian. If pressed, we should have added that he was someone who believed that Jesus was God or one with God, or, at least, said he believed that. But there are people who are so nice in their understanding of the word ‘Christian’ that they don’t use it at all. Who are we, they say, to pretend to know who is truly a Christian in God’s eyes? This is, indeed, very true, very nice. But a word that cannot be used is not very useful. And we need —we must have—a word for believers; and we must, therefore, hold to the age-old, New-Testament use to designate a believer: someone who says he is a believer. Someone we believe when he says it. No doubt there are those well loved of God who are not Christians; no doubt there are false Christians in the churches; God can sort them out as He chooses. In the meantime, we must stick to the plain, definite, original meaning of the word: one who accepts the teachings of the Apostles, one who believes.

  We, then, were not Christians. Our friends were. But we liked them anyhow.

  We found digs in North Oxford and bought bicycles. The three-room flat on the Woodstock Road included a piano that Davy could play to me on. And that Lew Salter could play on: if he hadn’t decided on physics, he could have been a concert pianist. He often played for us; and when he played, lost in his music, his sensitive face wore a look of pain that he was unaware of. They would drift in, any or all of the five of them. We would have tea and crumpets by the fire, and we would talk, always talk: talk about the University, talk about books, talk about our work-Peter and Lew explaining He-ions (and perhaps She-ions) in cloud chambers or Thad talking about Spenser. And talk about Christianity. We didn’t mind talking about it: that’s what Oxford is, a place to talk about every-thing. And there would be, always, music, since we had the piano. Lew would play, or Davy. Sometimes Thad would lift his pleasant voice in song. The ‘Trout’, Schubert’s quintet, was one of our special favourites, and it became linked permanently in my mind and Davy’s, both with that group of friends and with the pub called the Trout. Even more dear—the song that later would summon up all Oxford for Davy and me and would, for me, be for ever Davy herself—was the lovely little Elizabethan song about the lady passing by:

  There is a lady sweet and kind,

  Was never face so pleased my mind;

  I did but see her passing by,

  And yet I love her till I die.

  Meanwhile, we explored Oxford’s grey magic, Oxford ‘that sweet City with her dreaming spires’. Oxford and all the country round, sometimes on our bikes, sometimes on foot. There was Marston Ferry—a penny trip across the river and a pub on the
other side. And that other country pub, the Perch, with its pleasant garden in the minute village of Binsey, which was across Port Meadow and the humpbacked bridge. Beyond the village, hidden away down a long lane of venerable beeches—one of our earliest and most enchanting walks with a college friend, Edmund—was the ancient and tiny village church, St. Margaret’s, with a wishing well beside it into which one cast a penny to make the wish come true. And of course that favourite place of all the university, the Trout, where one lunched and drank brown ale on the terrace and fed the Queen’s swans; and then walked back to Oxford along the Isis, sometimes called the Thames by Londoners, watching the college eights flash by.

  Coming back to Oxford, we were always, it seemed, greeted by the sound of bells: bells everywhere striking the hour or bells from some tower change-ringing, filling the air with a singing magic. We explored every cranny of this city of enchanting crannies and unexpected breathtaking views of towers and spires. We were conscious all the time of the strong intellectual life of a thousand years. Despite the modern laboratories, Oxford is still ‘breathing the last enchantments of the middle ages’: this wall was part of a great abbey; the Benedictines built the long, lovely buildings that are part of one college quad; the narrow passage where we bought tea things has been called Friars Entry for centuries; the Colleges bear names like Christ Church and Mary Magdalen and Corpus Christi; and the bells with their lovely clamour have rung through the centuries.

  Imperceptibly the ages of faith, when men really believed, when the soaring spires carried their eyes and thoughts up to God, became real to us, not something in a book. What was happening was that our mind’s gaze, almost without our knowing it, was being directed towards the Christian faith that, at once, animated our living contemporary friends and had brought this university with its colleges and churches and chapels into being. It was not precisely that we were being called upon to accept that faith but that we were being called upon to acknowledge its existence as an ancient and living force. There was a terrible splendour in these churches with their glorious glowing glass and in the music of the plainsong and in the words of the liturgy. The splendour of course did not mean that the faith was true; but perhaps we felt vaguely that it did somehow hint at a validity.