'But is Constance understanding? Is she not just docile and rather ignorant?'

Well, dear readers, the Blog is lingering in the 1890s because this week we've had another anniversary: Oscar Wilde's birthday, 16th October. He's famous for his witty plays and stories, his Aesthetic lifestyle, and (of course) has become a gay icon and martyr. Sometimes people forget he had a wife and two sons. 

                                    

His spouse, Constance has often been sidelined by Wilde's biographers as a dull 'mumsy' figure to be pitied or disdained. Our own Rohase Piercy's The Coward Does It With A Kiss challenges this view with a fascinating, insightful fictional 'autobiography'. We discover not only that Mrs Wilde was far more than a dutiful wife and mother but also, perhaps, what she really knew about her husband.

It's 1891. Let us join Constance as she passes by the drawing room in the Wildes' exquisite House Beautiful and accidentally eavesdrops on Oscar and his friends.

                                                        _________________________________

And now let me test your memory, Oscar. Let me see whether I cannot conjure up your past for you better than you can yourself. Voices in the drawing room – Lionel Johnson’s, Robbie’s, John Gray’s, and yours; June sunlight in the passageway outside; tinkling glasses, laughter, and the smell of Alexandrian tobacco.

‘Oh! No, Oscar, this is too much. How, after Dorian – it will be going from the sublime to the ridiculous. Besides, you cannot base a whole play upon the unrequited lust of an Israelite princess, not in this day and age.’

‘Why ever not? The West End Theatre, my dear Lionel, thrives on unrequited lust. Look at any play you care to mention, and you will find that lust is the very pivot upon which the action turns!’

‘Yes, but a Biblical theme …’

‘Oh, lust is a very Biblical theme! And anyway, I intend to make her Persian rather than Israelite. Poetic licence, my dear, the prerogative of Genius. The Israelites had no appreciation of sin.’

‘No, they quite disapproved of it, I’m told -‘

‘Whereas the Persians toasted the delights of the flesh in sugared wine, offered in chalices of jade and silver by sloe-eyed boys with dusky skin and rose-leaf lips …’

‘Robbie, what utter drivel. What do you know of Persia?’

‘As much as you, I dare say, Dorian. I was merely offering a humble tribute to the exquisite style and taste

of our host here.’

‘A very poor imitation then. And please don’t call me Dorian.’

‘Mr Gray then, if we must be formal …’

‘Oh Oscar really, can’t you stop him?’

‘Stop him? But why? He is so charming with vine leaves in his hair. At least he had the foresight to arrive suitably arrayed in leafy clusters, whereas you and Lionel are both constrained to borrow from me.’

‘At half past eleven in the morning?’

‘It is gone noon, I assure you. Let us toast the glorious noon with some more of this golden nectar. Lionel?’

‘Oscar, how can I refuse you?’

‘Never try. John?’

‘It is just gone half past eleven. I looked at my watch not five minutes ago.’

‘I will not have to do with guests who consult their watches in my presence. But if you insist, let us look

at mine – there, you see – the bawdy hand of the dial is e’en now upon the prick of noon.’

‘Oh, really!’

‘The Immortal Bard’s words, not mine! And am I not right? You see how time flies when you are listening

to me? And now, are you going to drink some more of my sherry?

‘Oh, very well …’

‘There’s no need to be so ungracious about it dear, just because I was right and you were wrong. Petulance does sometimes become you, but not today. Today, let all be sweetness and light! Robbie, my sweet goblin, what have you been doing this morning? How came you thus to anticipate us? Robert, it is too tiresome when you giggle like that instead of replying to my questions. How can I discuss with you the delicious wantonness of Salome when you sit there gurgling like an overflowing waste pipe? I shall be forced to conclude that you need the services of a plumber … oh really, what a vulgar sense of humour. Do try and pull yourself together dear, and let us converse about serious matters. What were we just discussing?’

‘Lust, Oscar.’

‘Oh, surely not!’

‘Persia. The West End Theatre.’

‘The sins of both are the same …’

‘Hic sunt poma Sodomorum – your words, I believe Lionel – ah, the Cities of the Plain! Yes, it was just such a cradle that rocked Salome …’

‘I really don’t see why. Dorian, perhaps, but a Persian princess?’

‘There is a little of the Persian princess in most of us, don’t you think?’

‘Oh Oscar, how perceptive of you! I’ve been trying to keep it a secret!’

‘Not in you, Robbie. A Persian princess would have more dignity. She certainly would not sit huddled at one end of a divan smirking tipsily to herself at half past – whatever it is in the morning. And you have never answered my question. Where have you been?’

‘Nowhere! I arose from my downy couch and came straight here to you. Last night, however -‘

‘Ah, no, I don’t want to hear it. Never refer to the night before! That should be a golden rule amongst all who take pleasure seriously.’

Laughter. The chink of glasses as more sherry is poured. You are determined to keep centre stage, as always.

‘So now seriously, Oscar. You have delighted us all with your subtlety in two wonderful stories which no-one else would have had the audacity to write, let alone publish – I mean The Portait of Mr W. H. and Dorian, of course – and now you announce that you will fling aside the mask of double entrendre to reveal – what? A wanton girl and a reluctant prophet? Don’t you realise how you will have disappointed us all?'

‘I have no doubt that my Salome will be a great disappointment to the shallow-minded, to those concerned only with the particular and not with the delicious conglomeration of the universal.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning the sins of the flesh, dear boy! A veritable feast! The apples of Sodom and the apples of Eden, served at the same banquet! There is the rest of the human race to consider, after all.’

‘As to that, I really neither know nor care. That is an opinion on which we must part company, I think.’

‘So soon? My poor John, you have your whole life ahead of you, and you will find the world a hard, inhospitable place when they expel you from Eden.’

‘You think I am going to change? Or compromise my nature? Because I can assure you, Oscar – ‘

‘No, no, I am merely saying that an artist must take his material from the whole of human experience. Especially if he is to produce West End plays.’

‘Ah, there you have it. You compromise, in order to please the vulgar masses.’

‘Certainly I wish my talents to have universal acknowledgement. Genius cannot thrive in a backwater.’

‘A backwater! You disappoint me, Oscar.’

‘What! Because I am reluctant to leave my house, my family, my Art, and elope with you to some seedy little lair in Bayswater?’

‘There’s no need to refer to that. I take back any such proposal. I am disappointed because you mean to have your cake and eat it too.’

‘I most certainly do! I would consider it foolish and unimaginative not to!’

‘Oh! So you consider us all to be foolish, and unimaginative?’

‘Of course he does not, John, stop trying to provoke him. You are determined to create a deliberate misunderstanding …’

‘Am I?’

‘Yes, and don’t adopt that peevish tone with me. Life is a rich tapestry, and Oscar is the richer for bring blessed with children, and an understanding wife.’

‘Thank you Robbie. Your vine leaves become you. I do consider myself blessed.’

‘But is Constance understanding? Is she not just docile, and rather ignorant?’

‘Constance, docile? You would not say that if you knew her!’

There is a edge to your laughter; and I meanwhile am trembling with rage. Beneath that golden exterior, John Gray is every bit as ugly as his namesake’s hidden portrait. Docile and ignorant! And he so fawning and flattering to my face!

‘Oh, so she knows, does she, where you spend the nocturnal hours?’

‘I would consider it demeaning both to my wife and to myself to discuss such matters. We have an excellent understanding. She pursues her interests, and I pursue mine.’

‘Oh come on, Oscar. You mean that she consoles herself with good works in Whitechapel, and plays at Liberal politics with eccentric old women!’

‘John.’

‘It is all right, Robbie dear. It takes more than a little petulance to upset me. I am not Basil Hallward, and he is not Dorian, as he so rightly says. Now let us forget these petty quarrels and speak of Salome. I can promise you, you will not be disappointed, whatever you may think of the subject matter. It is to be written in French …’

‘In French! Ah, so this is the outcome of your sojourn in Paris!’

‘But of course! No artist can visit that delightful city without bathing in the spring of inspiration that bubbles up from its very foundations … ah, it is the cradle of Decadence. Salome was conceived in Paris, and I shall return thither to attend her birth.’

‘I thought you said she was rocked on the Cities of the Plain!’

‘And so she shall be, Lionel my dear. One generally rocks the baby after it is born .. at least, that is my experience. But as for the Cities of the Plain, surely Paris is one of them? Yes, I shall go back in the autumn.’

This is news to me. I had hoped your long absences were over for this year. The whole of February and March, and most of May – and you did not write very often.

And yes, I already harbour suspicions as to where you spend the ‘nocturnal hours’. They are not the suspicions I once harboured, and I have allowed myself to feel grateful for that; to feel fortunate, even, in comparison with other neglected wives … 

Docile, and ignorant! Only Robbie has any true respect for me … why can you not find another friend like him?

I have not been to Paris since our honeymoon.

I tread carefully on the stairs, past the half-open door, on my way to the sanctuary of my room. The sunlight has moved; a shadow steals across the upper landing. Just before I retreat from earshot, Lionel Johnson is saying –

‘Oh by the way Oscar, there is a young cousin of mine who would very much like to meet you. He’s just up at Oxford from Winchester, and he claims to have read Dorian nine times running! He’ll be in London for part of the Summer vacation …’

Dr Watson meets Aleister Crowley

Well, it's October, so we can quite reasonably start to feature a bit of spookiness on the blog. And also, it's 'Crowleymass', as some people call it. Aleister Crowley, the celebrated enfant terrible of Twentieth Century Occultism, was born on 12th October 1875. To coincide with this date, we have an extract from The Compact, Charlie Raven's complex and creepy mystery novel, in which a lonely Dr Watson gets involved with Crowley as he attempts to clear an innocent man of murder.

In 1898, the 23 year old Crowley (above) was right at the beginning of his career. Brilliant, wealthy and flamboyant, he was already mastering the teachings of the Esoteric Order of the Golden Dawn. Secretly he was also in the midst of a passionate, short-lived love affair with the extraordinary Jerome Pollitt. Pollitt - the inspiration for a novel by E.F.Benson - was a rich patron of Aubrey Beardsley, a president of the Footlights Club in Cambridge, and celebrated as a remarkable female impersonator.  In the section below, our Dr Watson visits Crowley's apartment for the first time. We have been assured that all the details of Crowley's decor and practices at this time are historically correct. H'mm. As Weird Sisters, we are not of nervous dispositions as a rule, but we're not sure that we would have felt entirely comfortable with the skeleton in the corner ...

We hope you enjoy this extract and, well, happy Crowleymass!🕷

_______________________________________________________________

The afternoon had brightened with a whisper of early spring as Dr Watson stood on the doorstep of 67 Chancery Lane. He was not entirely sure what he was going to say to Crowley or even if he wanted to make the strange fellow’s acquaintance again. 

In his published works, Watson often played up the fact that Holmes was wont to amuse himself at the expense of his friend’s slower intellect. It made for a lighter element in the stories, but the jibes were unjust - after all, very few minds could keep up with the intellect of Sherlock Holmes. But in truth, Dr Watson had the advantage not only of intelligence but also of sympathetic insight. 

Consequently, he had already assessed Aleister Crowley in the following way: 

(a) impulsive; (b) a show-off; (c) intent on épatant les bourgeois; (d) probably ingesting certain substances, affecting mood, energy, judgement; (e) unusual, brilliant, cocksure. 

Having lived for so long with his detective friend, who happened to share most of these characteristics (including an occasionally substantial cocaine habit), Watson was quite prepared to deal with all of them.

Crowley seemed to be expecting him - or at least was not at all surprised to see him. He was wearing a black silk dressing gown draped over his clothes and had clearly been engaged in writing: there was a thick sheaf of yellow foolscap on the desk in front of the window and a silver fountain pen lying on the blotter. A pile of books lay beside it, their spines turned towards the room as if on display. Watson managed to read a couple of names discreetly: The Cloud upon the Sanctuary and The Book of Black Magic and of Pacts. Someone had also been burning incense and possibly something else, as the air was thick with a heavy fragrance. Watson’s quick glance round the room registered an ornate sheesha-pipe or hookah on a low table in the corner. The rest of the room boasted as extraordinary a collection of bizarrerie as Holmes himself could have displayed. 

‘This is my London place,’ said Crowley, removing a newspaper and several periodicals from an armchair so that Watson could sit down. ‘I’m sorry Pollitt isn’t here to greet you. He thinks he needs a rest in the country and he took himself off this morning. Anyway, bit of peace and quiet, gives me a chance to get on with my work. I’m thinking of moving in here permanently, after I finish at Trinity. If I finish at Trinity.’

‘A medical student, are you?’ asked Watson, eyeing the human skeleton arranged in the corner.

‘Oh, no. Moral Science. But you refer to our friend over there? No, that is entirely part of an on-going experiment in ritual necromancy. My friend Bennett and I feed him songbirds and little cups of blood.’

Watson knew that Crowley was watching his reaction closely so he just smiled politely.

‘Do sit down!’ Crowley said. ‘Would you care for champagne, doctor? Absinthe? Cocaine?’

‘For a man who ingests so much poison, sir, you show no sign of muscle-wastage. I would hazard a guess that you enjoy a sport. Perhaps mountaineering?’

‘Clever guess,’ said Crowley cheerfully, settling onto a velvet couch. ‘No doubt you noticed the magazines I just stuffed into the rack?’

‘I will not deny it, Mr Crowley. Not to mention, if I may add, the equipment listed on the scrap of paper projecting from beneath your magic book. I notice the ink is smudged – perhaps it was not quite dry when you thrust it away? You need not be ashamed of good health and vigour,’ Watson smiled. ‘But let us work together honestly. Let you not try to shock and terrify me quite so much and I will not force middle-aged medical opinion upon you. Does that sound reasonable?’ 

Crowley looked at Watson with an amused air. ‘I predicted that you would come to me, Dr Watson. It is therefore reasonable to assume that you have information regarding George Arden.’

‘Indeed. A prediction – or a suggestion – which proves true. I know that Holmes would clear this matter up in a trice. But he is engaged in an investigation of the utmost secrecy, the ramifications of which may reach even to the Tsar in Russia. I cannot contact him now or divulge any clue as to his whereabouts.’

‘I imagine he’s in Russia, then? I was there last summer, learning the language. A beautiful city, St Petersburg. I’m thinking of becoming a spy, you know. Is he doing a little spying at the moment?’

‘No,’ said Watson. ‘I have no further information myself at present. Anyway, it’s beside the point. The desperate appeal of a friend of Mr Arden’s moved me to take a closer look at the case. Since you’ve made it clear that you have a keen interest in it yourself, it seemed logical to speak to you. But before we proceed, may I ask why the interest?’

 ‘Why should you ask why?’

‘Because it is important that both of us are as impartial and committed to uncovering the truth as a detective should be. What if, for example, we come across evidence that Arden is indeed guilty of this or worse crimes? We must then turn over our evidence to the police. Do you see?’

‘Of course I see. And I understand your line of reasoning. I agree we must be impartial, although we aren’t. We know George is innocent and that’s our starting point. I do see what you mean though.’ Crowley propped himself on an elbow and added thoughtfully, ‘But, doctor, what if you and I do not agree on what constitutes a crime? We may not agree on what constitutes evidence either.’

‘I think we need not argue about that,’ said Watson indulgently. ‘After all, there’s no need to get into the ethics of it all. The law of the land sorts out for us what is defined as a crime. We just observe the facts and the prosecution takes care of presenting the evidence in court.’ 

‘I understand that. Your methods are purely scientific – yes, I have researched you, doctor, and have been most amused by your stories. I liked them very much – but there are gaping holes in your methodology. It troubled me all the way through reading your accounts because they are so very materialist. My studies have confirmed to me again and again that only spiritual affairs count for anything, even in the grossest concerns of life. That’s why I have to point out, respectfully of course, that your methods are limited.’

Watson bridled at this but decided not to pursue it: it seemed to be a twist on Holmes’s own criticisms of the more old-fashioned police procedures. He said calmly, ‘Holmes’s methods are based not on presumptions or circumstance, nor on false inductive reasoning. They are tethered to the observable facts.’

Crowley leaned forward. ‘But just what are observable facts for you? And can you even begin to imagine that they might differ from observable facts for me – or for a George Arden? Don’t mistake me, doctor, I’m really not being rude, but it strikes me that we end up with limited results when we have limited information. We confirm our own bias, don’t we?

‘Well, that is precisely why Holmes’s methods are so useful. They are impartial,’ said Watson. ‘He observes and he deduces. He doesn’t go in with a presupposition already in place. He lets the facts lead to a conclusion.’

‘Yes, yes. But what if you can’t see the evidence in the first place? Let me give you an example. You walked into this room and perceived the observable facts of a skeleton in the corner, my notes under the book and so on and made your deductions from observations of my physique.’ He paused and waved towards the skeleton, ‘But, doctor, all the time you failed to sense the presence of various Qlippoth of the demonic order A’areb Tzereq over there in that same corner.’

Involuntarily, Watson looked towards the corner. Of course he could see nothing unusual.

Crowley continued, ‘They are particularly clustered over there, like blowflies, round our thin friend. Can you see them now? Or can you perhaps hear them speaking to each other? And to you now, because they will, you know: now that you’ve started to think about them? They have started to become aware of you. It seems to me like a creaking, buzzing sound just on the edge of hearing. Listen!’

Watson was sure he could not hear anything he wouldn’t expect to hear in a room of this size and situation; nevertheless something seemed to cast a shade across the afternoon light.

‘Now the reason for that,’ Crowley went on softly, as if he didn’t want the skeleton to hear, ‘is that there is a problem in the experiment being conducted. Don’t worry, the flaw is deliberate because it amuses me to observe the behaviour of these entities. Demons interest me and I have no desire to banish them for now.’ He laughed. ‘Did you ever have a chemistry set, doctor? I once nearly blew up my entire school. This is science, you see, like monitoring a petrie dish full of strange growths. An unguarded person who stayed for too long in this room would eventually become subject to destructive impulses, because of those demons. It even affects Pollitt and me.’

‘But the presence of the so-called demons could not be proved in a court of law, Crowley!’ exclaimed Watson. ‘This isn’t the Dark Ages when unfortunate old women were accused of hexing the milk. Thank heavens!’

 Crowley ignored him. ‘I may try it soon. What do you say? Should I leave some ordinary, innocent people locked in here to see what they did? I wouldn’t tell them why, or what to expect. Interesting, isn’t it? Would they kill each other, do you think? I am inclined to think that the most scientific and reliable way of experimenting on people’s unconscious mind would be to watch their reactions to a well-thought-out series of unforeseen circumstances. And whatever happened, the police, coming in later, would never, never know why.’ He chuckled as if amused at the thought. ‘A curse is the perfect weapon, you know. I killed my headmaster when I was a boy like that.’ 

‘These things are debatable, Mr Crowley, and quite unprovable,’ said Watson. He was beginning to regret his decision to further involve Crowley in the Arden case. Part of him was wondering what kind of a schoolboy Crowley had been and another part was outraged that Crowley would think it acceptable to lock up innocent people with a skeleton and demons, however imaginary.

‘Oh I think they’re very provable. Science hasn’t developed the instruments to measure them yet, that’s all. Do you know, when several people who have developed what I hate to call "the psychic senses" are attuned, they can verify each others’ findings? They can communicate without words. We do it all the time. These are the unseen muscles that I choose to develop. And that brings me in a very roundabout way to the answer to your question: why am I interested in George? Because his vision, his senses, are as superior to mine as your Mr Holmes’s powers are superior to yours. That, Dr Watson, is what it’s all about. I wish him to assist us in our experiments.’

‘Us?’

‘My society. They would be most interested in Arden’s abilities.’  

‘I see. And your associates are?’

Crowley shrugged. ‘I belong to several organisations, doctor. My associates study the works of Hermes Trismegistus and the three branches of subtle knowledge.’

Watson said shortly, ‘I believe that alchemy, magic and the conjuring of spirits will not be required in these investigations, Mr Crowley.’

‘Let’s see, shall we? Let’s keep an open mind. All I ask is that you let me at least tell you if I notice the kind of evidence I was talking about. The kind that wouldn’t be admissible in a court of law.’

Dr Watson saw that there would be no advantage in arguing with an opponent who claimed to be the sole possessor of unverifiable facts. ‘I feel sure that we can contribute in our own particular ways,’ he said diplomatically, ‘as long as we try for impartiality.’

MRS WILLIAM MORRIS

This week, which coincides with William Morris's 124th Deathday on 3rd October, we're delighted to feature a humorous poem by Sylvia Daly. Its subject, Jane Morris (born Jane Burden) is familiar to us all. We've seen her in many a rich Pre-Raphaelite fantasy - a sulky-mouthed, thoughtful woman, gazing past us in a kind of dreamy, wordless sadness. But Jane has her own story. 

She was born in 1839 to a poor working class family: her parents were probably illiterate. After being recruited as a model by the artist Dante Gabriel Rossetti, who spotted her in the audience at a Drury Lane theatre, she married William Morris, the influential textile designer, poet, novelist and social activitist. She didn't love him (and later had a long affair with Rossetti). Jane had two children with Morris. She and her daughters went on to become pioneering textile artists themselves, reviving ancient techniques to produce exquisite embroidery. Credit for the women's designs was given to William Morris, of course - 'in the interests of commercial success.' Keenly intelligent and self-educated, she became proficient in French, Italian, music and the arts of conversation, her queenly air enabling her to move comfortably among the upper classes. She may even be the original Eliza Doolittle. 

In this poem, Sylvia imagines that Jane is getting bored with her husband's elaborate Arts and Craft-style interior decorations...

Mrs William Morris

(A villanelle inspired by

Carol Ann Duffy’s Collection

“The World’s Wife)

My small demand you cannot hear,

Acanthus leaves depress me so.

Magnolia walls, I beg, this year.

Your art rules every choice I fear,

in many rooms I cannot go.

My small demand you cannot hear.

Whispering my request, I peer

in rooms where rose and willow grow.

Magnolia walls, I beg, this year.

Night after night I shed a tear,

as friends your patterns bold you show.

My small demand you cannot hear.

I warn, there’s one who does not jeer,

he comforts me when my tears flow.

Magnolia walls, I beg, this year.

It’s true, Rossetti grows more dear,

for he says yes, instead of no.

My small demand

 you cannot hear.

Magnolia walls, I beg, this year.

Sylvia Daly

HOW TO GROW OLD WITHOUT REALLY MINDING

 Maggie Redding shares her insights into positive ageing:

I have good news. Getting older can be a liberating experience.

Imagine two images: one of an old lady, bent and with a stick.  You can’t see her face.  But she is clearly old, recognisably so.  She is like the image on road signs that warn of old people crossing the road.

We have stereotypes of old people, old women, old men, that put fear into the hearts of those approaching their later years, their retirement, a fear endorsed by jokes, birthday cards and the emails that circulate amongst Silver Surfers.

I met this lady (from my imaginatiom) in real life, staggering slowly with two sticks, her clothes ill-fitting and footwear that told me she had problems dressing.  I watched her agonising progress for a moment then went up to her.

‘Are you going far?’ I asked her.

She lifted up her face and gave me a wonderful, and unexpected smile.  She was beautiful, I could see it now.

‘No, dear. I’m only going to that car.  That’s my daughter loading up for me.  I don’t drive now, you see.  So she drives me.  Thank you so much for asking.’  Her voice was beautiful, too.  She indicated with one of her sticks a large blonde woman with unkempt hair and a hang dog expression.

Yes, she was my imagination-lady but in my mind, she had a miserable face, even though I couldn’t see it.  It is hard to resist stereotypes.

The second image I have is of someone attempting to do just that.  This woman is in denial in a big way.  She joins in everything.  She tries to act young..  Some of these attempts are most inappropriate.  She sleeps the sleep of the utterly exhausted and rises early just to make more time for more efforts to prove her point - to herself of course - that she is not getting old.  

I feel we are in danger of creating new, dangerous and really silly expectations, aims and models of behaviour for our rising older generation.  

But I have good news. Getting older can be a liberating experience.

Old age is a time when others cease to have expectations of us and when we cease to have expectations of ourselves and others.  We don’t need to succeed, improve, inspire.  We can give up work, we have fewer responsibilities, we forsake our illusions.  Retirement, old age can be a time for happiness, peace, freedom, contentment, liberation. Yes, we are all going to die. But I am not going to die until I have lived and lived to the full. I believe it is the role of older people to show younger people how to live fully.

We don’t need to do anything spectacular. Old age is a time to live, not to show off or prove something. It is a time for being who you really are, not worrying what people think.  You can do what you want. There is no need to pretend you are young.

Yes, I am old. I am getting older. I have problems. I’ll have more.

But I am learning to accept myself as I really am, faults and all. And it doesn’t matter.

All the things I used to believe were important, I realise now, they weren’t. Pleasing people, being conventional, worrying about big issues, worrying about small issues - I’ve let them go. I am less judgemental. I let people be. I realise that the world will never be perfect. In fact I could be really miffed at the thought that it might become perfect after I’d gone.

Of course, everyone has fears growing older as well as before that. We fear looking old, dying alone, being attacked, being robbed, cheated, we fear illness, not being taken seriously, being abandoned. Yes, we all fear these things and more.

But I think security is a myth. It is in the interests of a lot of people to make you feel afraid. Fear makes money - for those who are younger. It doesn’t make money for you, when you are old.  Shrug off these fears and get on with living.

I had a friend a few years ago who died before she was 60.  She was always talking about her plans for her life once she was 60.  Women of that age, in those days - those days! - could receive a state pension. She had always been a rather bitter woman, a bit angry about lost opportunities, about people she felt had failed her, about her lot in life.  She became ill and realised she was going to die. In the last six weeks of her life, she changed.  It was dramatic, impressive.  Her bitterness went, she put life in perspective and she began to live.  From her sickbed.  She became wise. She had some remarkable insights. She relaxed. Her family could not accept her demise. She stopped seeing her grandchildren. There was no point, she explained lightly.  She taught me by her example, how to live. She appreciated life.

‘We shouldn’t be moaning and criticising each other,’ she said, ‘we should be telling each other how wonderful we all are.’

It was the most important and amazing lesson of my life.

So, I would contend that even when you are ill, dying, or even in pain, it is possible to be happy.  It seems to me that life is lived on a higher level, a higher starting point or base.  These days I find myself saying things like, ‘Even when I’m miserable, I’m happy’.

My friend had acquired wisdom.  Wisdom is not the same as being clever, or intelligent.   It is more profound.  Even those who are not very clever can be wise.

I learned from my friend that death gives a shape to life. It seemed to free her, once she had faced it.

We need to talk about death a lot more.  Sex and death are still taboo subjects.  When you are older, these days, you almost feel that sex, or at least talking about it in a nudge-nudge way, is compulsory, and death you must not even think about.  But death, or the nearness of it, is what defines us as we get older.  A friend of a friend is 84 and is planning a Live Wake.  She is having a big party, inviting all her friends and will tell them all what she wants to happen when she dies.  That is brave and healthy.

I don’t know about anybody else, but myself, I don’t want to live forever.  Already I am seeing history repeat itself in my lifetime.  How hopeless and helpless to know that things would change, but only in the way they have before, that nothing is new and that that pattern would be going on and on.... 

No, I am happy to grow old and have more and more wrinkles until....

Wrinkles!  Oh, yes, you develop more and more of them, sometimes overnight even. I love wrinkles my own and those of people near and dear to me.  Wrinkles are a badge of wisdom.  Mine are my record of love and laughter.  When people die, their faces become smooth.  They take their smiles with them.  Accumulate your wrinkles!

Noel Coward said,

‘How foolish to think one could even slam the door in the face of Age.  Far better to be polite and gracious and ask him to lunch in advance.’

Coda

I wrote the above when I was 70, for a celebration of Older People’s day in Cardiff City Hall.  Eleven years later, I stand by all I said. As an 81 year old lesbian woman with, apart from my partner of 39 and-three-quarter-years, no visible family support, my views are even stronger.  I have concluded that the rejection of my family, over 40 years ago, is, in some strange way, a gift.

 There is nothing on the horizon except death, and it is not in the least scary.  Rather the opposite, suggesting completion, satisfaction.  I have no money, property, car or jewellery.

 Why keep anything, for it will all end up in black plastic bags.  Or worse. Meanwhile, I am happy, very happy.

Maggie Redding September 2020

"...without Miss Bennet to dominate the conversation ... "

 

Readers of Pride and Prejudice will recognise this crucial point in the story - and here we experience it from Anne de Bourgh's point of view. 

Enjoy this delightful extract from Rohase Piercy's Before Elizabeth

My cousins were due to leave us at the end of the week;  but to my surprise, they were easily prevailed upon to extend their visit by several days, with William seemingly the more anxious of the two to accede to Mama's invitation!  She of course chose to see this as a compliment to me, but I knew otherwise and was extremely puzzled.  Not once had William sought my company, encouraged my conversation or paid me any particular compliment; in fact he had seemed preoccupied and distant since the moment of his arrival, never offering to take Edward's place beside me in the phaeton but preferring to walk the Park alone.  I was at a loss to account for his continued presence with us, though glad to have Edward at Rosings a little longer.

Two days into their extended stay, Edward entered the drawing room where William and I were sitting – William engrossed in the newspaper, and I occupied with my needlework – with the following cheerful announcement: “You may congratulate yourself, Darcy, on having prevented yet another imprudent marriage! I have just encountered Miss Elizabeth Bennet quite by chance in the Park, and took the opportunity to make it perfectly clear that I have no intention of proposing to her.  It was all most discreetly done, I assure you.  You may express your approval, if you like.”

Mama was not present to conduct an interrogation, but William looked uncomfortable, as well he might; he hastily folded the newspaper and sat back in his chair. “What did you say to her?” he asked warily.

“Oh, I merely commented that younger sons cannot afford to marry anyone they happen to like.  Or words to that effect.”

“Well, that was hardly discreet!  What said Miss Bennet?”

“She said, 'unless they like women of fortune, which I think they often do!'  That was  astute, was it not?  I really do not think she will be pining for me.”

William seemed to find this both pleasing and amusing.  He rose and strolled over to the window, smiling to himself, while I begged an explanation from Edward as to what he meant by 'yet another imprudent marriage'.

“Oh, Bingley,” he replied airily; “At least I assume it was Bingley – Darcy, will you not confirm for us that it was Charles Bingley you referred to when you said you had advised a friend against an imprudent marriage?”

I turned questioningly to William and he did confirm it, though without further elaboration.

“And who was the lady?” I pressed, eager for details.

“No-one you would know, Anne.  A Hertfordshire acquaintance.”

“And why would it have been an imprudent marriage?”

“The usual reasons: vulgar connections, an unsuitable family – the lady herself was pleasant enough.  Excuse me, Anne – Fitzwilliam – I believe I must speak to my aunt.”  He bowed perfunctorily in my direction, and made towards the door.

“Well, Miss Bennet seems to think your interference in the matter unnecessarily officious,” commented Edward with a shrug, picking up the newspaper and preparing to occupy the chair that our cousin had just vacated. William froze abruptly in mid-stride, and wheeled around with an expression horror on his face.

“Miss Bennet?  You mentioned the matter to her?  By what right?  What on earth possessed you to speak of such a thing?”

Edward and I were equally astonished, and he not a little annoyed.  “For heaven's sake Darcy!” he retorted, “Am I now not allowed so much as a word of conversation without your permission?  Yes, I mentioned the circumstance to Miss Bennet, as an example, if you must know, of the constancy of your friendship.  I was speaking in praise of you; but I will save myself the trouble in future!”

Now, I thought, William must surely apologise; but instead he persisted with his questioning.

“Did you mention Bingley by name?  Did you speculate as to the identity of the lady involved?”

“Yes, I mentioned Bingley by name.  No, I did not speculate about the lady; why on earth would I?  I have no idea who she is!  Now, if you will allow me, Darcy, I should like to read my newspaper in peace!”  And Edward sat himself down in high dudgeon, unfolded the broadsheet and left William to wander distractedly from the room.

I remained in my seat, lost in silent speculation as to the cause of his discomposure.  The unsuitable lady, I surmised, must be a mutual acquaintance, though why Miss Bennet's knowledge of William's involvement should agitate him so I could not imagine.  There was more to his interest in Charles Bingley's affairs than he was willing to disclose;  could he perhaps be hoping to secure his friend for Georgiana?  I dwelt long upon this possibility, which fitted neatly with another that I had already considered, viz. William's own plans regarding the unmarried Bingley sister, Miss Caroline.  If Charles Bingley were to marry William's sister, might he not feel obliged to be punctilious in returning the compliment?  Could he even now be speaking to Mama, releasing himself from his supposed obligation to me?  Was that why he had prolonged his visit?  If so, we were in for an uncomfortable evening, especially as the Collinses and their guests had once more been invited to drink tea with us!

The evening arrived, however, without my having observed any ill humour between William and Mama; I concluded that I had either been precipitous in my surmise, or that William, for whatever reason, was biding his time.

When our guests arrived, I found myself greeting only the Collinses and Miss Lucas; Miss Bennet, it transpired, was indisposed with a headache and sent her apologies. I was initially disappointed, having planned to scrutinise her manner towards Edward; it occurred to me that his declaration of disinterest might have disappointed her more than he supposed.

Mama was extremely put out – she did not much like Miss Bennet, but expected her to attend upon us when invited to do so, and now Mrs Jenkinson must be called upon to make up the numbers for cards.  William seemed likewise put out, inquiring most particularly into the severity of Miss Elizabeth's headache as though he also suspected her of shamming. 

The visit progressed well enough however;  without Miss Bennet to dominate the conversation I actually managed to engage Miss Lucas, and discovered her to be, beneath her shy exterior, a pleasant and intelligent girl.  When tea was over we prepared for cards, and I hardly noticed when William excused himself and left the room.

As the minutes passed, however, his absence began to impinge upon us and at length Mama sent a servant to inquire for him.  He was not in his room; and it soon transpired that late as the hour was, he had gone out – alone, on foot, and without explanation!  Mama excused his rudeness to our guests as best she could, though her displeasure was evident for all to see; and eventually she made up a table with Edward, Mr Collins and Miss Lucas, leaving Mrs Collins, Mrs Jenkinson and myself to occupy ourselves as we pleased. 

It was a fine May evening, and I chose to take a book to the window seat while the other two conversed alone. There was plenty of light still to read by, but I could not keep my mind upon the page for speculating about my cousin's strange behaviour and current whereabouts.  Nor could I help overhearing Mrs Collins and Mrs Jenkinson, who were speculating likewise.

“It is most unlike Mr Darcy,” Mrs Jenkinson was saying, “to leave so suddenly, and with no explanation to Lady Catherine. I thought at first that he had been taken ill; but if that were the case he would not have gone out.  I do hope he has not received distressing news!  But no message has arrived this evening, and if anything of import to the family had occured Lady Catherine and the Colonel would have been likewise informed.  'Tis all very strange – do you not think so, Mrs Collins?”

Mrs Collins concurred.  “It is certainly most strange. He cannot have gone further than the village on foot; but who could he possibly be calling on so late?  We are all here excepting Miss Bennet, and he knows her to be indisposed.”

We are all here excepting Miss Bennet. I was just suppressing a gape when the jolt shot through me, rendering me fully awake as the scales finally fell from my eyes.  Miss Caroline Bingley, forsooth!  How could I have been so blind?

'Such unequal matches take place all the time'. 'It would be as well to make yourself clear, Fitzwilliam - I think Miss Bennet does find your company a little too agreeable'.  'You have mentioned this to Miss Bennet?  By what right? Did you speculate as to the identity of the lady involved?'

Oh yes, I echoed silently, grimly exultant, it is certainly most strange that Fitzwilliam Darcy should be so very concerned as he seems to be about the inclinations, opinions and matrimonial prospects of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

My dreams of you were vivid ...

This ballad by Sylvia Daly is meant to be sung - yes, really - and the Weird Sisters once had the pleasure of hearing her do it. Remember the tune to Lili Marlene? Well, that's the one. We hardly dare wonder what inspired these lyrics. Could it be based on a true story?

The Novice Mistress

by Sylvia Daly

I went into a Convent, I thought I heard the call.

That’s when I first saw you, standing in the hall.

You glided towards me silently,

You welcomed me, and offered tea -

My Lovely Novice Mistress,

Please teach me all you know!

Those weeks and months together, we studied canon law,

You were to me a mentor, and I of you in awe.

The love that I felt began to grow,

I was afraid that it would show.

My lovely Novice Mistress,

Please teach me all you know!

My dreams of you were vivid, I knew not what to do.

If I declared my love, I would surely startle you.

Then braving your wrath at last I spoke,

I saw you gasp, I heard you choke -

My lovely Novice Mistress,

Please teach me all you know!

The scandal was tremendous – you were sent to Rome.

They said it was horrendous and ordered me back home.

I left you without a fond farewell,

I missed you so, it was sheer hell.

My lovely Novice Mistress,

Please teach me all you know!

Standing by the lamp-post, near the Convent gate,

Waiting in the shadows for you to keep our date.

I’ve tickets for two to join the train -

We’ll run away, and love again.

My lovely Novice Mistress

Who taught me all I know.