Alasdair Gray - Old Men in Love

Near the start of the 19 thcentury there was a brief truce in the commercial warfare that France and Britain had fought from the reign of Queen Anne to the Battle of Waterloo. Gilray, a popular artist, depicted two statesmen enjoying a little supper, their meal being the world laid out like a big plum pudding on a table between them. At one side small swarthy Napoleon enthusiastically sliced western Europe onto his plate with a sabre; on the other Britain’s Prime Minister, tall, thin, pointy-nosed William Pitt, quietly helped himself to most of the rest of the globe. In 1815 Napoleon’s empire ended at Waterloo but the British King George III still nominally ruled Ireland, Canada, the Caribbean, Australia, India, many Chinese and African ports: also Hanover, a German state that was his family’s homeland. The British Empire was now the richest and biggest in the world, without a single competitor, but the British did not yet trust their monarchs enough to give them the title of Emperor. Poor George was now incurably mad so the Prince Regent performed the crown’s few legaly required ceremonies. In 1816 Rossini’s The Barber of Seville was first performed, and Jane Austen’s Emma and Coleridge’s Kubla Khan were published.

Widdicombe Crescent, Bath, was then a terrace of smart houses in that most aristocratic of British holiday resorts and here a little boy had a pain in his side. It brought tears to his eyes and sweat to a brow he pressed against the cool glass of a window. Behind him a doctor told his widowed mother that he could help the boy no further: cold compresses had brought no relief; purging and reduced diet had merely weakened the lad; so had bloodletting which must not continue, despite the temporary alleviation it induced.

“I will give drops to ensure he sleeps at night, Mrs Prince. I could give more tincture of opium to reduce his pains when wakeful, but more will stupefy him. I fear that, like older people, he should learn that pain must be lived with.”

“I have told him so many times, Doctor, but he seems to want me to bear it for him. Two other sons, three daughters and a paying guest leave me no time for that,” said his mother.

“There are physicians in Bath who charge higher fees, Mrs Prince, but none I can honestly recommend. In London you might find one who would prescribe opening him surgically —” (the boy whimpered; they glanced at him) “— I do not advize it. If he were female and older his pains might be due to hysteria, which is incurable. As things are I advize you to let nature take its course.”

The doctor left. Without turning the boy said in a small voice, “Mamma, let me go to Miss Freeman.”

“You spent most of yesterday with her, Henry.”

“She helps me. She’s nice to me.”

“I would be nice to you too if I had nothing else to do all day, but we will go to her since you insist. And remember, she is a papist. You must pay no attention if she talks to you about the Pope, or confessors, or transmutation, or other foreign things.”

They went upstairs and on the first floor landing tapped a door; it was opened by a plump, hectically flushed young woman wearing a black dress and thin gold necklace with small pendant cross.

“I dislike troubling you again Miss Freeman, but the doctor is helpless and Henry loves being with you — ”

“ — I love to have him — ”

“But you too are an invalid Miss Freeman!”

“Which is why Henry and I understand each other. Come here Henry James.”

She held out her arms. The boy ran into them and pressed his face to her stomach. She caressed the back of his neck, smiling fondly and saying, “Leave us Mrs Prince, we will refer our troubles to Jesus.”

As the door closed she drew him to a chaise longue beside a small table on which lay an open box of chocolates, a Bible and a standing ebony crucifix. Fixed to the crucifix with gold-headed pins was a white ivory figure crowned with gold thorns. She sat down asking, “Where does it hurt Henry James?”

“Here,” he said, kneeling at her feet, pressing his side with one hand and clasping her knee with the other.

“Yes! That is where the cruel Romans thrust their spear into the flesh of Lord Jesus on the cross — ” (Her fingertip touched the side of the ivory figure.) “ — do you see the wound? He must have felt as you do.”

“Did he?” said the boy staring.

“Worse! See those nails through his hands and feet and the crown of cruel thorns. And Jesus was God’s beloved son.”

“But I’m not, why should I be hurt?”

“Because,” Miss Freeman gently whispered, “you are an evil little sinner, Henry. But another sinner much worse than you, a wicked robber was crucified beside Jesus, and loved Him, and that night the robber sat in Heaven at God’s right hand.”

“I’m afraid of going to Hell, Miss Freeman.”

“Where you will go Henry, if you don’t love Jesus.”

“How can I love anybody when I’m hurt?”

“That is how God tests our love, Henry. You must forget your wicked fleshly body Henry. You must think only of Christ, and how he desires you. Listen! This is what Christ is saying to you. . and sit beside me, Henry.”

He sat on the sofa, leaning against her side, staring at the chocolates.

“You may take one,” she said, lifting and opening the Bible at a page marked by an embroidered ribbon, “Listen Henry, listen. Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse; thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one chain of thy neck .”

“I’m not a sister Miss Freeman, I’m a brother,” said the boy indistinctly, for he was chewing.

“I know that, Henry, but when God — who is also Jesus — loves somebody he talks to them as if they are women, even when they aren’t.”

“Why?”

Miss Freeman, slightly puzzled, said, “Perhaps because women are. . usually. . more lovely than men. I’m not sure. So just listen Henry, and remember, Christ is really speaking to you in the words of Solomon, that great wise king. How fair is thy love, my sister, my spouse! How much better is thy love than wine! Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honey comb: honey and milk are under thy tongue . . Is that not lovely Henry? — ” (she stroked his hair) “— and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon . Leb. . a. . non. What a delicious word!”

She sighed happily. The boy said drowsily, “I’m feeling a lot better, Miss Freeman.” She said, “So am I. Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south; blow upon my garden that the spices thereof may flow out. Let my beloved come into his garden, and eat his pleasant fruits .”

Nearly twenty years later the wallpaper in that room had been changed twice and Miss Freeman was white-haired and stouter. She lay on the chaise longue with closed eyes still smiling fondly, her head resting on a flowery big cushion, her feet on a smaller one. Henry James Prince, a pale young man with a careworn, patient face, sat on an easy chair nearby, one leg flung over the other to support the Bible. He was soberly dressed and reading out a favourite passage in a low, sweet but unemphatic voice that allowed full value to the beauty of each word.

“ Thy navel is like a round goblet that wanteth not liquor, ” he said. “ Thy belly is like an heap of wheat set about with lilies. Thy two breasts are like two roes that are twins. Thy neck is like a tower of ivory, thine eyes are like the fish-pools of Heshbon; the hair of thine head like purple; the King is held in the galleries. How fair and pleasant art thou O love for delights! ”