The Anchoress of Shere, page 21
The joy and peace of enlightenment through solitary contemplation can only be attained for a few minutes at a time, and after a titanic struggle between the spirit and the world, God and the Devil as it were. Then, finally, the overflowing taste of God’s sweetness comes as the reward. The soul has to battle its way out of the darkness that is its natural habitat.
There are many ways, all arduous, of achieving this glimpse of spiritual Nirvana, Valhalla, Paradise, Heaven…call it what you will. One example I have tried is a form of Christian yoga, where breathing exercises systematically help to wean the mind away from the passions of pride, fear, greed, lust and anger which tie it to the ego. The self has to be forgotten in the search for the light. Charismatic sects claim literally to see this light which transforms, but the instant “cure” of the evangelicals is no substitute for the long, sure process of learning the love of God.
God is not necessarily an external objective fact, but an essentially subjective and personal enlightenment. The path to God is not, therefore, necessarily taken via a building, an organisation or even reason, but through the creative God-given imagination. The Catholic Church cannot admit that God, in some profound sense, may be a product of the imagination, but it is self-evident that imagination must be the basis of faith. I can see that you have real imagination, Marda.
Imagination is the motor behind all major advances-in science and art as well as religion. The imaginative idea of God, the absent reality, has inspired men and women since the Creation, because it transcends all sectarian divides. The only way we can conceive of a God who remains imperceptible to the senses and impervious to logical proof is by means of symbols and visions, which it is the duty of the imagination to interpret.
That symbol, Marda, is often a woman…
Duval realised he was writing his testament exclusively for Marda. His long-suppressed subconscious motivations were being explained by him, to him. He was being as explicit as he could in order to direct her soul and save her life. The priest wondered whether he should end his own life if Marda could not, or would not, understand his desperate attempts to help her. It would be easy: fly agaric and hemlock in a vial.
A movement in the darkened study distracted the writer: Bobby rubbed against his legs and looked with devoted eyes at his master. Duval, feeling ashamed of himself, instantly dismissed thoughts of suicide; for the moment he was needed. He would not cave in to the pressures of spiritual minnows such as Templeton. Patting Bobby affectionately, he returned to his manifesto for his modern anchoress.
The youthful mystical poet Dante Alighieri was inspired when he saw Beatrice Portinari in Florence. His love for Beatrice became the symbol of spiritual love in The Divine Comedy, where he constructs an imaginary journey through hell, purgatory and heaven to reach a vision of God.
Since each man or woman can have a unique experience of God, it follows that no one religion can express the whole of the supernatural mystery. Any moral chauvinism about one’s own faith at the expense of other people’s is therefore unacceptable, since no single faith can contain the whole truth about God. To a hidebound Catholic this would be heresy. But a true man or woman of God should be equally at home in a temple, chapel, synagogue or mosque, since all provide a valid meaning of God. The pure vision of God is not imagined by conflicting faiths but by a coalition of them.
God is alive, not dead, as is suggested by some current thinkers. Auschwitz killed our God, say some Jews. The socialist utopia has replaced Him; besides, He never existed, say the Marxists. Since we are on the point of creating our own Armageddon with nuclear weapons, man, not God, will destroy the world, say the liberals. Even if God exists, then it is necessary to reject Him since the idea of God negates our freedom, or so the existentialists argue. And some say that religion is an immaturity which science will overcome.
But can we feel positive about a godless humanism so soon after the Holocaust, or confident of scientific rationalism in the shadow of Hiroshima? Frankly, I could never trust man’s rationality after the Americans dropped their damnable atomic bombs. So the search for God is a necessity for all mankind; a deep-rooted anxiety is part and parcel of the human condition. This anxiety is not neurotic; it is ineradicable and no therapy can dispel it. We constantly fear the terror of extinction, both individually and collectively, as we watch our bodies slowly but surely decay. As long as there is death, there must be God.
The whole idea of human life has been directed towards the future. We experience our lives as incomplete or unfinished. We always want more: to find that “something” out there that is beyond us. If Marxism dies, as it must, God as utopia will return to more than just the few pilgrim souls. Marxism is merely a temporary secular religion. As for science, in its core is God. Even Einstein appreciated mystical religion. Science may one day find the Great Mechanic of the universe, but the scientific method is not required. Subjective experience, fired by our imaginations, is the true way. This requires long periods of training and considerable time, helped by an expert. We can create God within ourselves. God cannot come ready-made and pre-packaged. He cannot be conjured up by the instant ecstasy of the revivalist preacher.
Human beings cannot endure the emptiness and desolation of no God. The truth is…
The phone rang. It was the American professor wanting to meet for a chat over a beer. Duval put him off with a curtness bordering on rudeness.
The priest looked back over his hours of writing. He knew he was losing his way with Christine’s story. He wanted so desperately to work on the final chapters of the successful search for ecstatic visions, but he had drifted off into a prospectus for Marda. Re-reading it, he knew he was rambling. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say: to describe the purpose of an anchoress in straightforward language was almost impossible. He would work on the draft again in the hope that Marda would understand it and act on it.
Beneath him Marda was also trying to distil her hopes for the future.
Dear Jenny,
Middle of December (I think) 1967
Michael has told me he might have to go to South America. That means that I can leave my cell. Or I can stay with him forever, he says. Not in here, though. That is the most important thing, getting out of this coal-hole. I cannot survive much longer in this tomb. He says he doesn’t want to marry me, which I thought at first might be his ambition. Which is to the good because he is far too old for me, but in different circumstances I might even have been a little flattered. It would be really odd for a Catholic priest to ask me to marry him, I know.
He has been much kinder to me and we get on very well-under the circumstances. I can exercise in the corridor and he has promised me a room upstairs. I still won’t be able to go out but at least I shall be in a proper room. Perhaps I can even go into the kitchen, or-who knows-watch a little TV, if I can persuade him to hire one. I miss Coronation Street and the Forsyte Saga. If you are allowed to visit me-I may be allowed some visitors-you will have to bring me up to date.
I am quite happy to learn more about religion because I do feel closer to God, both emotionally and intellectually. I know I never was an intellectual or anything before, especially as I wasn’t that brilliant at school. But I am learning, growing inside my head.
Sometimes I think my head will expand to bursting point with the new ideas. I had never thought of becoming a nun but I am sure there are some good aspects to it. I suppose you could say I have already converted to Roman Catholicism. It’s good to have a religious belief in life. Something to explain death.
If Michael leaves-I don’t know if he will-then I shall have to change my life anyway. If we both leave this house then he will go to South America, but I intend-at the very least-to become a regular churchgoer. I know that I have sinned many times in my life.
And I would like to go to university. I know that I am a bit too old, but some colleges take mature students, I think.
I feel much more positive about life and religion. I know that Michael doesn’t mean to hurt me. He has been so kind after the first difficult period when I had to learn to settle in. He gives me cigarettes and recently even newspapers.
But I do miss you and my family so much. I miss someone to hold. I miss the sun so much. I have forgotten what the colour green is. I want to see fields, and trees, even a blade of grass. I miss my freedom, even if only to choose what I do with my life. Michael says that Jesus Christ is the key which unlocks the doors of the prison cell of our own making. Perhaps that is right. I do know that enslavement against your will is the worst condition of life. I want to choose freedom, if only for the chance to be a better person. There is so much I want to do.
As always, your best, best friend.
Love
Marda
PS. Have a lovely Christmas. Please remember that we will be celebrating the birthday of Christ. Perhaps you will go to church and say a prayer for me. I certainly shall be praying for you.
Dear Christine,
I suppose this is a little crazy, but I feel I need to talk to you, somehow, despite the gap of over 600 years. I have been reading your story, and trying so hard to understand you. Michael has explained the spiritual aspects of your search, but I want to know how you feel…about being cut off from your family above all. I suppose they can…
Marda crossed out the present tense, and shifted to the past tense.
…could at least talk to you, but didn’t you feel like hugging them, especially your little brother or nephew? I would give anything to hug mine. Or talk to my parents at least. God must give strength…to us both, but does that mean that He gives more strength the more we are cut off from those we love? How did you cut off your feelings for Simon? It must have been such a difficult thing to give up all hope of having children, but life must have been very different in your time. I have been reading about the Middle Ages. Sometimes, I wish I could hold your hand and lead you through today’s Guildford-the place you called Guldenford. There are cars, trains, jet planes, TV. I wonder whether all these modern inventions would have affected your faith, your desire to be secluded? Was it easier then than now? God doesn’t change, but we do. How do we adapt?
I haven’t finished your story yet, but I hope-no, I pray-that you found what you were searching for. I will write to you again when I know more about you.
With affection,
Marda
Marda wrote a series of letters throughout the rest of the afternoon, using pages from her supply of exercise books. When she had finished, she climbed on to her bench and managed to winkle out the tiny folded squares that constituted her previous archive in the air vent. She destroyed the old ones by soaking them in the well of the paraffin heater and letting them burn bit by bit. Clearing away the ashes, she put them in her waste bin. Satisfied with her rewriting of history, she put the new letters in the vent.
Duval brought down some coffee and slices of chocolate cake around 5:30. That’s what his watch said, but she didn’t know whether it was morning or afternoon; the nature of the food indicated it was probably the latter.
He seemed much more relaxed, so she asked about his book: “I’ve read up to her returning to St. James’s church. I know there’s an Amen at the end, but you said you were still working on a conclusion. If you’ve finished it, can I see it? I know so much about Christine up to the age of twenty-two-is that right? — but what about her later years as an anchoress? Did she stay there, or did she leave again?”
Michael smiled at her transparency. “I haven’t finished the conclusion, but I will show you soon.”
He talked for a while on what he had read about Bolivia. At the end of his long monologue, Marda said simply, “Seems all jungles and revolutions.”
As she finished her last piece of cake, she said, in a patently wheedling tone, “Michael, I have a favour to ask. I don’t like to think about…the other rooms. But from what I have learned-from what you have taught me-I would like your other guests to have a proper burial.” She paused, trying to read his facial expression, but she could not discern the impact of her question.
Marda continued, “I suppose it would be too…difficult…to arrange a church burial, but couldn’t you do something in the garden? You said it’s quite secluded. And then you could say a blessing, even though it’s not holy ground. Excuse my presuming to tell you about Christian rites, but it would seem proper. Or have I spoken out of turn?”
“No, I had considered the same thing myself,” said Duval in a very conciliatory fashion. “They were suicides, they starved themselves, so I felt I could not take them to consecrated ground. But they should be treated with some dignity. It would be wrong to leave them where they are, especially if I do go to Bolivia. If.
“I should have done it before. I do apologise to you for not giving them a Christian burial. I will do it in the next few days, but I will tell you beforehand. I shall close your door and close the grille-I don’t want you to get upset again.”
Smiling, he added, “Is that to your satisfaction?” He enquired as though he were promising to take a favourite young niece to the funfair.
Marda heard the faint chime of a doorbell for the first time. She realised that he must have left the main cellar door open for the sound to carry this far.
He pretended to look unconcerned. “Ah, I was not expecting a visitor. Too late for the post. Perhaps somebody to do with the local elections, or a Jehovah’s Witness.”
The bell rang again. He quickly excused himself and, without shutting the cell door, hurried up the stairs.
Marda waited for a few seconds, and then put her head around the door. She ran along the corridor and up the short wooden stairs to the main cellar trapdoor, begging God that it would be unlocked. She tried the handle gently at first, then more and more frantically while trying to avoid being too noisy. It was locked. She thought of trying to shout through it. To scream. To bang.
She didn’t.
Marda returned to her cell, her eyes brimming with tears, the first for more than a month. She sat picking up bits of cake crumbs with her fingers and waited.
He returned within ten minutes, seriously agitated.
“Who was it?” Marda tried to ask as casually as she could.
“Bishop Templeton. Insufferable intrusion. Some excuse to drop off information about Bolivia. Said that he had to visit a friend in Shere anyway. He just wanted to snoop around my house. Blast him!”
Marda didn’t know what to say; she let him rant. Eventually she said, “The bishop doesn’t understand what you’re trying to do. You always get men higher up in a bureaucracy who are afraid of new ideas.”
Duval turned on her. “Don’t give me this Job’s false comforter routine. If I hadn’t locked the door, you would have been out screaming for the bishop to lock me up, I know. Don’t lie to me.”
Marda looked at his blazing eyes and felt utterly forlorn. She didn’t think he could have heard her fiddling with the lock.
“No, no, Michael. I was sitting here waiting for you. I was just trying to be kind because you seemed so upset. I want to help you.”
“You’re a liar. Just like the rest of them.” As he stormed out of the cell, he spluttered, “Yes, I’ll bury them, and you…if I can’t trust you.”
He locked the cell door, switched the light off and closed the grille.
Marda felt the fear again, that same cold fear of her early incarceration. She prayed that it was not entirely her fault, just a tantrum because of the bishop’s unexpected visit. He had been severely rattled. She would not cry, she swore to herself, but she needed to do something, not just endure as a passive victim of his moods.
She sank on to her bench and lit up a cigarette. For a change, it was quite warm in the cell; she pulled up her robe and rubbed her legs a little, feeling the hairs she had not shaved for months. As she puffed a smoke ring in the dim light of the paraffin heater, she moved her hand up her legs to remind herself of human touch. Utter desolation closed in on her soul, as she longed to touch someone who loved her. And to be held. She was held now by the dark, cold walls of a tomb.
She pulled her bare legs to her chest and curled into a foetal position. Through the black despair she thought of her mother’s comforting arms around her when she’d suffered nightmares as a child. She was not a promiscuous person, but she had always enjoyed physical contact. Marda remembered the warmth and kindness of her first real lover, Gerard. Where is he now? she wondered. Hours of gentle passion on balmy evenings in Bordeaux seemed to belong to the memory of another person, another life, another planet; that kind of intimacy was almost impossible to imagine, then, now or ever again. She worried that her sexuality had drained away for all time.
She recalled how intense and sensual Gerard had been, the immaculate manners over dinner and in bed, so strong and yet so tender. He loved to undress her slowly, delicately, patiently; “Rushing love-making is as ungraceful as galloping through a fine meal,” he had told her in his lilting French, grinning boyishly, with his charm an essential ingredient of his being-rather than the often superficial tactic of the English. Effortlessly but with utter concentration, he would ensure her orgasm before he penetrated her-she remembered how she would involuntarily arch her back and raise herself into the air, and he would laugh, and kiss her, and continue to satisfy her, not ending until her series of orgasms, and her moans and shouting, had excited him sufficiently to reach his own climax. And then he would hold her closely in his arms, and say that he loved her, and she believed him then-and she believed him now, and would tell him so over and over again, in the most romantic language on earth, if only he were here…
She stroked her arms and then her legs, trying to stimulate her dying senses. Tentatively, she massaged her inner thigh. She had not touched herself like this since she was a teenager, and it felt good. All sexual thoughts had evaporated the moment she had been captured. Occasionally, and very weakly, they drifted back, but she tried to suppress them, for her only connection with humanity was her gaoler. She knew precious little about sadomasochism, yet she feared that new sexual stirrings might somehow be connected with him. She shuddered at such a depraved idea.
