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| "Life Itself" (1927) |
"James Woodforde" (1932) | |
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LIFE ITSELF (1927)
One could wish
that the psycho-analysts would go into the question of diary-keeping. For
often it is the one mysterious fact in a life otherwise as clear as the sky
and as candid as the dawn. Parson Woodforde is a case in point--his diary is
the only mystery about him. For forty-three years he sat down almost daily
to record what he did on Monday and what he had for dinner on Tuesday; but
for whom he wrote or why he wrote it is impossible to say. He does not
unburden his soul in his diary; yet it is no mere record of engagements and
expenses. As for literary fame, there is no sign that he ever thought of
it, and finally, though the man himself is peaceable above all things, there
are little indiscretions and criticisms which would have got him into
trouble and hurt the feelings of his friends had they read them. What
purpose, then, did the sixty-eight little books fulfill? Perhaps it was the
desire for intimacy. When James Woodforde opened one of his neat manuscript
books he entered into conversation with a second James Woodforde, who was
not quite the same as the reverend gentleman who visited the poor and
preached in the church. These two friends said much that all the world
might hear; but they had a few secrets which they shared with each other
only. It was a great comfort, for example, that Christmas when Nancy,
Betsy, and Mr. Walker seemed to be in conspiracy against him, to exclaim in
the diary, "The treatment I meet with for my Civility this Christmas is to
me abominable". The second James Woodforde sympathised and agreed. Again,
when a stranger abused his hospitality it was a relief to inform the other
self who lived in the little book that he had put him to sleep in the attic
story, "and I treated him as one that would be too free if treated kindly".
It is easy to understand why, in the quiet life of a country parish, these
two bachelor friends became in time inseparable. An essential part of him
would have died had he been forbidden to keep his diary. And as we read--if
reading is the word for it--we seem to be listening to someone who is
murmuring over the events of the day to himself in the quiet space which
precedes sleep. It is not writing, and, to speak of the truth, it is not
reading. It is slipping through half a dozen pages and strolling to the
window and looking out. It is going on thinking about the Woodfordes while
we watch the people in the street below. It is taking a walk and making up
the life and character of James Woodforde as we make up our friends’
characters, turning over something they have said, pondering the meaning of
something they have done, remembering how they looked one day when they
thought themselves unobserved. It is not reading; it is ruminating.
James
Woodforde, then, was one of those smooth-cheeked, steady-eyed men, demure to
look at, whom we can never imagine except in the prime of life. He was of
an equable temper, with only such acerbities and touchinesses as are
generally to be found in those who have had a love affair in their youth and
remained, as they fancy, unwed because of it. The Parson's love affair,
however, was nothing very tremendous. Once when he was a young man in
Somerset he liked to walk over to Shepton and to visit a certain "sweet
tempered" Betsy White who lived there. He had a great mind "to make a bold
stroke" and ask her to marry him. He went so far, indeed, as to propose
marriage "when opportunity served", and Betsy was willing. But he delayed;
time passed; four years passed indeed, and Betsy went to Devonshire, met a
Mr. Webster, who had five hundred pounds a year, and married him. When
James Woodforde met them in the turnpike road he could say little, "being
shy", but to his diary he remarked--and this no doubt was his private
version of the affair ever after--"she has proved herself to me a mere
jilt".
But he was a
young man then, and as time went on we cannot help suspecting that he was
glad to consider the question of marriage shelved once and for all so that
he might settle down with his niece Nancy at Weston Longueville, and give
himself simply and solely, every day and all day, to the great business of
living. What else to call it we do not know. It seems to be life itself.
For James
Woodforde was nothing in particular. Life had it all her own way with him.
He had no special gift; he had no oddity or infirmity. It is idle to
pretend that he was a zealous priest. God in Heaven was much the same to him
as King George upon the throne--a kindly Monarch, that is to say, whose
festivals one kept by preaching a sermon on Sunday much as one kept the
Royal birthday by firing a blunderbuss and drinking a toast at dinner.
Should anything untoward happen, like the death of a boy who was dragged and
killed by a horse, he would instantly, but rather perfunctorily, exclaim, "I
hope to God the Poor Boy is happy", and add, "We all came home singing";
just as when Justice Creed's peacock spread its tail--"and most noble it
is"--he would exclaim, "How wonderful are Thy Works O God in every Being".
But there was no fanaticism, no enthusiasm, no lyric impulse about James
Woodforde. In all these pages, indeed, each so neatly divided into
compartments, and each of those again filled, as the days themselves were
filled, so quietly and fully in a hand steady as the pacing of a
well-tempered nag, one can only call to mind a single poetic phrase about
the transit of Venus. "It appeared as a black patch upon a fair Lady's
face", he says. The words themselves are mild enough, but they hang over
the undulating expanse of the Parson's prose with the resplendence of the
star itself. So in the Fen country a barn or a tree appears twice its
natural size against the surrounding flats. But what led him to this
palpable excess that summer's night we do not know. It cannot have been
that he was drunk. He spoke out too roundly against such failings in his
brother Jack to have been guilty himself. Jack was the wild one of the
family. Jack drank at the “Catherine Wheel.” Jack came home and had the
impudence to defend suicide to his old father. James himself drank his pint
of port, but he was a man who liked his meat. When we think of the
Woodfordes, uncle and niece, we think of them as often as not waiting with
some impatience for their dinner. Gravely they watch the joint as it is set
upon the table; swiftly they get their knives and forks to work upon the
succulent leg or loin; without much comment, unless a word is passed about
the gravy or the stuffing, they go on eating. So they munch, day after day,
year after year, until between them they must have devoured herds of sheep
and oxen, flocks of poultry, an odd dozen or so of swans and cygnets,
bushels of apples and plums, while the pastries and the jellies crumble and
squash beneath their spoons in mountains, in pyramids, in pagodas. Never
was there a book so stuffed with food as this one is. To read the bill of
fare respectfully and punctually set forth gives one a sense of repletion.
It is as if one had lunched at Simpsons daily for a week. Trout and
chicken, mutton and peas, pork and apple sauce--so the joints succeed each
other at dinner, and there is supper with more joints still to come, all, no
doubt, home grown, and of the juiciest and sweetest; all cooked, often by
the mistress herself, in the plainest English way, save when the dinner was
at Weston Hall and Mrs. Custance surprised them with a London dainty--a
pyramid of jelly, that is to say, with a "landscape appearing through it".
After dinner sometimes, Mrs. Custance, for whom James Woodforde had a
chivalrous devotion, would play the "Sticcardi Pastorale", and make "very
soft music indeed"; or would get out her work-box and show them how neatly
contrived it was, unless indeed she were giving birth to another child
upstairs, whom the Parson would baptize and very frequently bury. The
Parson had a deep respect for the Custances. They were all that country
gentry should be--a little given to the habit of keeping mistresses,
perhaps, but that peccadillo could be forgiven them in view of their
generosity to the poor, the kindness they showed to Nancy, and their
condescension in asking the Parson to dinner when they had great people
staying with them. Yet great people were not much to James's liking.
Deeply though he respected the nobility, "one must confess", he said, "that
being with our equals is much more agreeable".
He was too
fond of his ease and too shrewd a judge of the values of things to be much
troubled with snobbery; he much preferred the quiet of his own fireside to
adventuring after dissipation abroad. If an old man brought a Madagascar
monkey to the door, or a Polish dwarf or a balloon was being shown at
Norwich, the Parson would go and have a look at them, and be free with his
shillings, but he was a quiet man, a man without ambition, and it is more
than likely that his niece found him a little dull. It is the niece Nancy,
to speak plainly, who makes us uneasy. There are the seeds of domestic
disaster in her character, unless we mistake. It is true that on the
afternoon of April 27th, 1780, she expressed a wish to read
Aristotle’s philosophy, which Miss Millard had got off a married woman, but
she is a stolid girl; she eats too much, she grumbles too much, and she
takes too much to heart the loss of her red box. No doubt she was sensible
enough; we will not blame her for being pert and saucy, or for losing her
temper at cards, or even for hiding the parcel that came by post when her
uncle longed to know what was in it, and had never done such a thing by
her. But when we compare her with Betsy Davy, we realize that one human
being has only to come into the room to raise our spirits, and another sets
us on edge merely by the way she blows her nose. Betsy, the daughter of
that frivolous wanton Mrs. Davy (who fell downstairs the day Miss Donne
swallowed the barleycorn with its stalk), Betsy the shy little girl, Betsy
livening up and playing with the Parson’s wig, Betsy falling in love with
Mr. Walker, Betsy receiving the present of a fox’s brush from him, Betsy
compromising her reputation with a scamp, Betsy bereaved of him—for Mr.
Walker died at the age of twenty-three and was buried in a plain
coffin—Betsy left, it is to be feared, in a very scandalous condition—Betsy
always charms; we forgive Betsy anything. The trouble with Nancy is that
she is beginning to find Weston dull. No suitor has yet appeared. It is
but too likely that the ten years of Parson Woodforde’s life that still
remain will often have to record how Nancy teased him with her grumbling.
The ten
years that remain—one knows, of course, that it must come to an end.
Already the Custances have gone to Bath; the Parson has had a touch of gout;
far away, with a sound like distant thunder, we hear the guns of the French
Revolution. But it is comforting to observe that the imprisonment of the
French king and queen, and the anarchy and confusion in Paris, are only
mentioned after it has been recorded that Thomas Ram has lost his cow and
that Parson Woodforde has “brewed another Barrell of Table Beer today.” We
have a notion, indeed—and here it must be confessed that we have given up
reading Parson Woodforde altogether, and merely tell over the story on a
stroll through fields where the hares are scampering and the rooks rising
above the elm trees—we have a notion that Parson Woodforde does not die.
Parson Woodforde goes on. It is we who change and perish. It is the kings
and queens who lie in prison. It is the great towns that are ravaged with
anarchy and confusion. But the river Wensum still flows; Mrs. Custance is
brought to bed of yet another baby; there is the first swallow of the year.
The spring comes, and summer with its hay and strawberries; then autumn,
when the walnuts are exceptionally fine, though the pears are poor; so we
lapse into winter, which is indeed boisterous, but the house, thank God,
withstands the storm; and then again there is the first swallow, and Parson
Woodforde takes his greyhounds out a-coursing.
|
| "Life Itself" (1927) |
"James Woodforde" (1932) | |
(top) |
|
“James Woodforde” from “Two Parsons” (1932)
|
One could wish
that the psycho-analysts would go into the question of diary-keeping. For
often it is the one mysterious fact in a life otherwise as clear as the sky
and as candid as the dawn. Parson Woodforde is a case in point--his diary is
the only mystery about him. For forty-three years he sat down almost daily
to record what he did on Monday and what he had for dinner on Tuesday; but
for whom he wrote or why he wrote it is impossible to say. He does not
unburden his soul in his diary; yet it is no mere record of engagements and
expenses. As for literary fame, there is no sign that he ever thought of
it, and finally, though the man himself is peaceable above all things, there
are little indiscretions and criticisms which would have got him into
trouble and hurt the feelings of his friends had they read them. What
purpose, then, did the sixty-eight little books fulfill? Perhaps it was the
desire for intimacy. When James Woodforde opened one of his neat manuscript
books he entered into conversation with a second James Woodforde, who was
not quite the same as the reverend gentleman who visited the poor and
preached in the church. These two friends said much that all the world
might hear; but they had a few secrets which they shared with each other
only. It was a great comfort, for example, that Christmas when Nancy,
Betsy, and Mr. Walker seemed to be in conspiracy against him, to exclaim in
the diary, "The treatment I meet with for my Civility this Christmas is to
me abominable". The second James Woodforde sympathised and agreed. Again,
when a stranger abused his hospitality it was a relief to inform the other
self who lived in the little book that he had put him to sleep in the attic
story, "and I treated him as one that would be too free if treated kindly".
It is easy to understand why, in the quiet life of a country parish, these
two bachelor friends became in time inseparable. An essential part of him
would have died had he been forbidden to keep his diary. When indeed he
thought himself in the grip of death he still wrote on and on. And as we
read--if reading is the word for it--we seem to be listening to someone who
is murmuring over the events of the day to himself in the quiet space which
precedes sleep. It is not writing, and, to speak of the truth, it is not
reading. It is slipping through half a dozen pages and strolling to the
window and looking out. It is going on thinking about the Woodfordes while
we watch the people in the street below. It is taking a walk and making up
the life and character of James Woodforde as we go. It is not reading any
more than it is writing--what to call it we scarcely know.
James
Woodforde, then, was one of those smooth-cheeked, steady-eyed men, demure to
look at, whom we can never imagine except in the prime of life. He was of
an equable temper, with only such acerbities and touchinesses as are
generally to be found in those who have had a love affair in their youth and
remained, as they fancy, unwed because of it. The Parson's love affair,
however, was nothing very tremendous. Once when he was a young man in
Somerset he liked to walk over to Shepton and to visit a certain "sweet
tempered" Betsy White who lived there. He had a great mind "to make a bold
stroke" and ask her to marry him. He went so far, indeed, as to propose
marriage "when opportunity served", and Betsy was willing. But he delayed;
time passed; four years passed indeed, and Betsy went to Devonshire, met a
Mr. Webster, who had five hundred pounds a year, and married him. When
James Woodforde met them in the turnpike road he could say little, "being
shy", but to his diary he remarked--and this no doubt was his private
version of the affair ever after--"she has proved herself to me a mere
jilt".
But he was a
young man then, and as time went on we cannot help suspecting that he was
glad to consider the question of marriage shelved once and for all so that
he might settle down with his niece Nancy at Weston Longueville, and give
himself simply and solely, every day and all day, to the great business of
living. Again, what else to call it we do not know. For James Woodforde was
nothing in particular. Life had it all her own way with him. He had no
special gift; he had no oddity or infirmity. It is idle to pretend that he
was a zealous priest. God in Heaven was much the same to him as King George
upon the throne--a kindly Monarch, that is to say, whose festivals one kept
by preaching a sermon on Sunday much as one kept the Royal birthday by
firing a blunderbuss and drinking a toast at dinner. Should anything
untoward happen, like the death of a boy who was dragged and killed by a
horse, he would instantly, but rather perfunctorily, exclaim, "I hope to God
the Poor Boy is happy", and add, "We all came home singing"; just as when
Justice Creed's peacock spread its tail--"and most noble it is"--he would
exclaim, "How wonderful are Thy Works O God in every Being". But there was
no fanaticism, no enthusiasm, no lyric impulse about James Woodforde. In
all these pages, indeed, each so neatly divided into compartments, and each
of those again filled, as the days themselves were filled, so quietly and
fully in a hand steady as the pacing of a well-tempered nag, one can only
call to mind a single poetic phrase about the transit of Venus. "It
appeared as a black patch upon a fair Lady's face", he says. The words
themselves are mild enough, but they hang over the undulating expanse of the
Parson's prose with the resplendence of the star itself. So in the Fen
country a barn or a tree appears twice its natural size against the
surrounding flats. But what led him to this palpable excess that summer's
night we cannot tell. It cannot have been that he was drunk. He spoke out
too roundly against such failings in his brother Jack to be guilty himself.
Temperamentally he was among the eaters of meat and not among the drinkers
of wine. When we think of the Woodfordes, uncle and niece, we think of them
as often as not waiting with some impatience for their dinner. Gravely they
watch the joint as it is set upon the table; swiftly they get their knives
to work upon the succulent leg or loin; without much comment, unless a word
is passed about the gravy or the stuffing, they go on eating. So they
munch, day after day, year in, year out, until between them they must have
devoured herds of sheep and oxen, flocks of poultry, an odd dozen or so of
swans and cygnets, bushels of apples and plums, while the pastries and the
jellies crumble and squash beneath their spoons in mountains, in pyramids,
in pagodas. Never was there a book so stuffed with food as this one is. To
read the bill of fare respectfully and punctually set forth gives one a
sense of repletion. Trout and chicken, mutton and peas, pork and apple
sauce--so the joints succeed each other at dinner, and there is supper with
more joints still to come, all, no doubt, home grown, and of the juiciest
and sweetest; all cooked, often by the mistress herself, in the plainest
English way, save when the dinner was at Weston Hall and Mrs. Custance
surprised them with a London dainty--a pyramid of jelly, that is to say,
with a "landscape appearing through it". After dinner sometimes, Mrs.
Custance, for whom James Woodforde had a chivalrous devotion, would play the
"Sticcardi Pastorale", and make "very soft music indeed"; or would get out
her work-box and show them how neatly contrived it was, unless indeed she
were giving birth to another child upstairs. These infants the Parson would
baptize and very frequently he would bury them. They died almost as
frequently as they were born. The Parson had a deep respect for the
Custances. They were all that country gentry should be--a little given to
the habit of keeping mistresses, perhaps, but that peccadillo could be
forgiven them in view of their generosity to the poor, the kindness they
showed to Nancy, and their condescension in asking the Parson to dinner when
they had great people staying with them. Yet great people were not much to
James's liking. Deeply though he respected the nobility, "one must
confess", he said, "that being with our equals is much more agreeable".
Not only did
Parson Woodforde know what was agreeable; that rare gift was by the bounty
of Nature supplemented by another equally rare--he could have what he
wanted. The age was propitious. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday--they follow
each other and each little compartment seems filled with content. The days
were not crowded, but they were enviably varied. Fellow of New College
though he was, he did things with his own hands, not merely with his own
head. He lived in every room of the house--in the study he wrote sermons,
in the dining-room he ate copiously; he cooked in the kitchen, he played
cards in the parlour. And then he took his coat and stick and went coursing
his greyhounds in the fields. Year in, year out, the provisioning of the
house and its defence against the cold of winter and the drought of summer
fell upon him. Like a general he surveyed the seasons and took steps to
make his own little camp safe with coal and wood and beef and beer against
the enemy. His day thus had to accommodate a jumble of incongruous
occupations. There is religion to be served, and the pig to be killed; the
sick to be visited and dinner to be eaten; the dead to be buried and beer to
be brewed; Convocation to be attended and the cow to be bolused. Life and
death, mortality and immortality, jostle in his pages and make a good mixed
marriage of it: ". . . found the old gentleman almost at his last gasp.
Totally senseless with rattlings in his Throat. Dinner to-day boiled beef
and Rabbit rosted." All is as it should be; life is like that.
Surely,
surely, then, here is one of the breathing-spaces in human affairs--here in
Norfolk at the end of the eighteenth century at the Parsonage. For once man
is content with his lot; harmony is achieved; his house fits him; a tree is
a tree; a chair is a chair; each knows its office and fulfils it. Looking
through the eyes of Parson Woodforde, the different lives of men seem
orderly and settled. Far away guns roar; a King falls; but the sound is not
loud enough to scare the rooks here in Norfolk. The proportions of things
are different. The Continent is so distant that it looks a mere blur;
America scarcely exists; Australia is unknown. But a magnifying glass is
laid upon the fields of Norfolk. Every blade of grass is visible there. We
see every lane and every field; the ruts on the roads and the peasants'
faces. Each house stands in its own breadth of meadow isolated and
independent. No wires link village to village. No voices thread the air.
The body also is more present and more real. It suffers more acutely. No
anaesthetic deadens physical pain. The surgeon's knife hovers real and
sharp above the limb. Cold strikes unmitigated upon the house. The milk
freezes in the pans; the water is thick with ice in the basins. One can
scarcely walk from one room to another in the parsonage in winter. Poor men
and women are frozen to death upon the roads. Often no letters come and
there are no visitors and no newspapers. The Parsonage stands alone in the
midst of the frost- bound fields. At last, Heaven be praised, life
circulates again; a man comes to the door with a Madagascar monkey; another
brings a box containing a child with two distinct perfect heads; there is a
rumour that a balloon is going to rise at Norwich. Every little incident
stands out sharp and clear. The drive to Norwich even is something of an
adventure. One must trundle every step of the way behind a horse. But look
how distinct the trees stand in the hedges; how slowly the cattle move their
heads as the carriage trots by; how gradually the spires of Norwich raise
themselves above the hill. And then how clear-cut and familiar are the
faces of the few people who are our friends--the Custances, Mr. du Quesne.
Friendship has time to solidify, to become a lasting, a valuable possession.
True, Nancy of
the younger generation is visited now and then by a flighty notion that she
is missing something, that she wants something. One day she complained to
her uncle that life was very dull: she complained "of the dismal situation
of my house, nothing to be seen, and little or no visiting or being visited,
&c.", and made him very uneasy. We could read Nancy a little lecture upon
the folly of wanting that 'et cetera'. Look what your 'et cetera' has
brought to pass, we might say; half the countries of Europe are bankrupt;
there is a red line of villas on every green hill-side; your Norfolk roads
are black as tar; there is no end to 'visiting or being visited'. But Nancy
has an answer to make us, to the effect that our past is her present. You,
she says, think it a great privilege to be born in the eighteenth century,
because one called cowslips pagles and rode in a curricle instead of driving
in a car. But you are utterly wrong, you fanatical lovers of memoirs, she
goes on. I can assure you, my life was often intolerably dull. I did not
laugh at the things that make you laugh. It did not amuse me when my uncle
dreamt of a hat or saw bubbles in the beer, and said that meant a death in
the family; I thought so too. Betsy Davy mourned young Walker with all her
heart in spite of dressing in sprigged paduasoy. There is a great deal of
humbug talked of the eighteenth century. Your delight in old times and old
diaries is half impure. You make up something that never had any
existence. Our sober reality is only a dream to you--so Nancy grieves and
complains, living through the eighteenth century day by day, hour by hour.
Still, if
it is a dream, let us indulge it a moment longer. Let us believe that some
things last, and some places and some people are not touched by change. On
a fine May morning, with the rooks rising and the hares scampering and the
plover calling among the long grass, there is much to encourage the
illusion. It is we who change and perish. Parson Woodforde lives on. It
is the kings and queens who lie in prison. It is the great towns that are
ravaged with anarchy and confusion. But the river Wensum still flows; Mrs.
Custance is brought to bed of yet another baby; there is the first swallow
of the year. The spring comes, and summer with its hay and strawberries;
then autumn, when the walnuts are exceptionally fine though the pears are
poor; so we lapse into winter, which is indeed boisterous, but the house,
thank God, withstands the storm; and then again there is the first swallow,
and Parson Woodforde takes his greyhounds out a-coursing.
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| "Life Itself" (1927) |
"James Woodforde" (1932) | |
(top) |
|
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