by Jane Rogers
‘No sir.’
‘Not a Christian. Are you a member of any faith, Sister Hannah?’
‘No – no. I was – my father was – a member of Mr Brothers’ congregation in London – he was hailed by some as a prophet …’
‘Yes. I have heard of him.’
‘When he was imprisoned, I left the church.’
‘And have not since been seduced by any excitable Evangelical, or quivering Shaker?’
‘I have lost my faith, Mr Wroe. I am content without it.’
He looked at me quietly for a bit then. His impatience had evaporated. He began to play with three quills, lifting them and replacing them alternately to make a moving row across his desk. Suddenly he asked, ‘What do you desire?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘With regard to this question of faith, what do you desire to do?’
‘I am not – I – nothing.’
‘You do not wish to be converted?’
‘It may not be as simple as that.’
‘I think it may. I think it might be as simple as whitewashing a wall.’
‘You are suggesting that my views are changeable?’
There was a brief silence, then he said, ‘I am suggesting nothing, Sister Hannah. I merely ask what you desire me to do.’
‘Nothing.’
‘Good.’
‘My lack of religion will not present a difficulty then?’
‘Not to me. To you certainly, but not to me.’ He picked up the three quills together and touched them to his lips. ‘You are always free to leave, Sister Hannah. This is not a prison.’
‘Do you wish me to leave?’
‘Not in the least. You read well, you are tidy about the house. Naturally, when Inner Sanctum duties arise, you and Sister Martha will be excused.’
I do not know whether he instructed her to, but Joanna took up the cause of my spiritual enlightenment, and Martha and I passed a number of evenings in her company, hearing the story of the Israelite church, and of her namesake Joanna Southcott.
They believe the world will end – very soon. This was always Brothers’ belief – and indeed my father’s. Ironically enough, that terrible thought comes to me now as a safe old friend. My father’s beliefs are still part of me, not as spiritual equipment but as the solid bricks of childhood experience.
My father and I waited for the world to end.
I was happy then. We used to pray. We were in a charmed circle, its edges formed by the writhing beasts our words held at bay: men with lions’ bodies; eagles’ heads with huge curved beaks on the shoulders of naked shuddering men. Candlelight and firelight trembled in that draughty room, the beasts of the apocalypse leered at us from corners. Never safer. Never never never was I safer, than kneeling on the stone floor (‘Will you count your own discomfort, before the wrath of Almighty God?’) which made my knees flat and bluish, pitted with indentations from the surface of the worn flags – the larger pattern of stone’s pores impressed on my own – with my father rampant besides me, his loud voice conjuring and holding at bay those wicked forms which grasped after our immortal souls.
After he had shown the beasts his strength, his rage would cease. He would bow his head, and praise the Lord’s name, telling me to join in. When I looked up, those walls and corners which had been blocked out by the press of gargoyle faces – were clear. Clean, empty. The demons were rammed back into the cracks from which they had sprung.
They were still there. Always there: you must never forget them, he told me. In the cracks of the material – beneath the thin crust of the earth, behind all appearances – they lurk. They can be summoned for battle, and to defeat. Or they can be ignored. You can pretend, he said, maybe for months, they are not there; but unchallenged, their power grows – they feed on the droppings of sin, they bloat in the darkness like corrupted flesh. And when you are alone, defenceless, weak, they will emerge, on their pointed hooves, on their slimy bellies, slither from the shadows and come up close, testing their strength to drag you back with them, through the cracks, into the festering pit that lies behind this mask of daytime appearances. How could I not believe him?
Their power waxes and wanes, as evil flourishes or is beaten back upon the earth. When the world is as besmirched with sin as bedlam Joe in his own excrement: they are bold, they burst out. At these times you see the earth shudder – he had seen it – as if an actor standing behind a painted scene is shaking it. A hideous light, of redness, blackness, illumines the edges of all things, shows their wafer thinness.
And so I believed him too, in 1811 when the great comet blazed across our skies. The torch of Satan himself, blistering smoky orange with the fires of hell, throbbing like pain in the heavens. The ignorant people crowded into the streets to view it, crying out and pointing as if at a fairground wonder.
My father knew what the comet meant; our days were numbered. The beast walked the land, and God would let all boil in darkness till the moment that His thunderbolt should cleave the sky, His lightening set us free. My father was determined we must leave the city. We were to put a distance between ourselves and the wretched mass who screamed and whooped like children in the street, who no more knew the punishment in store for them than diseased cattle driven into the lime pit, or the gobbling flock of turkeys on Christmas eve. Many were drunk and brawled and cursed in the streets like devils themselves, more hideous in the flesh than any of the devil’s own shades that danced by night on our walls.
We crossed the common in the weird red glow of the comet: it hung low in the sky, casting long black shadows from each tree and straggling bush we passed. In the twelve days before it had rained continuously, and the ground was churned to thick clay mud, which sucked at my boots so that I lost them two or three times. My father pulled me up off the muddy track and we cut across the heathland, rising steadily, till looking back we could see in the clear darkness the smudgy pall of smoke hooding that vicious city: as if it hid its face from God, who sees all things, even in the hearts of men.
When I had my breath, my father raised me up. He was laughing, his face was orange and strange in that light, I was half afraid of him.
‘Not long now, my girl. Before we shall run into His arms with joy. With JOY!’ He bellowed it out on the dark hill and his voice boomed and rolled around the countryside like thunder, and grasping my hand tightly in his he started to run down the hill as if the devil himself were behind us. My feet left the ground – I flew down that hill, with briars and thistles and nettles, all the plants that sting and scratch, clawing at my knees: in utter terror of crashing to the ground, not knowing how to let go his hand nor how to stay clinging on for the terrible fall which I knew must end his headlong flight through darkness, into blackness. When at last he tripped he loosed my hand – I flew forwards on my face, and slid across the sodden grass like a stone skimming water. I wet myself, and the hot urine flooded the icy cold grass beneath my thighs, so that for a terrified moment I though my body was melting and falling through a hole beneath my groin which would suck me down to the pit of hell fire.
My father stumbled across the grass towards me. He sat beside me, and clasped his arms around me. He was shaking violently.
‘Do not cry. The Lord loves us, I promise you. Do not cry.’
How we made our way home: in what frame of mind we noticed, the following morning, that the comet was gone and the world not ended, I do not remember.
But demons lurk only in the corners of my childhood; now I’m a grown woman the world is flat, plain, evenly lit. Empty, both of good and evil. Like homesickness these people’s faith calls me back, back to that magic circle. How my heart yearns to be surrounded again.
*
Of all the week, Sabbath is the day I prefer. There is no work upon the Sabbath, and when we are not in Sanctuary we remain in our rooms, the time given over to Bible reading and private prayer. I do not read my Bible – nor, indeed, do I pray – but the silent and inward contemplation the time afford
s me is a solace in itself. I take my chair at one side of the window, while Joanna sits on the opposite side, she taking advantage of the light for her reading, and I allowing my outward eye to wander over the landscape: the patched, broken ground behind the house, which must be transformed into kitchen garden during this year: the flat damp fields which lie between us and the canal, and the mill chimneys of Ashton. Towering grey clouds move in succession towards the hills in the east, and in the evening the setting sun plays gold and purple through their layers, and lights burn orange in the smoky pall over Ashton. Then I see in it the grainy softness of our aquatints, with melting smudges of coloured ink … Always my task, to prepare the ground and apply the aquatint; my father’s to engrave the detail.
At times I am driven to take refuge in the Book. The Bible – my father’s reading matter and property, and now the province of these Israelites – lies heavy on my knees. I flounder among its pages, lighting here upon the comfort and strength of Matthew, there upon the raging cruelties and genocide of Joshua. I can find no pattern or sustenance in the matter, when I read it to myself: reading aloud to the prophet is a different affair, for there seems then to be a purpose behind the words, and a poetry in their ordering which gives satisfaction to mind and tongue alike.
I was once in the habit of reading to my father. Phrases from his favourite book, Isaiah, lie close to my heart, not for their meaning, but like pebbles that a child may pick on a beach, or a jumble of talismans gathered by a superstitious old woman.
Enter the rock, and hide thee in the dust, for fear of the Lord.
As the fire devoureth the stubble, and the flame consumeth the chaff, so their root shall be as rottenness, and their blossom shall go up as dust.
They shall roar against them like the roaring of the sea: and if one look unto the land, behold darkness and sorrow.
Hear ye indeed, but understand not; and see ye indeed, but perceive not.
And his heart was moved, and the heart of his people, as the trees of the wood are moved with the wind.
For a small moment have I forsaken thee, but with great mercies will I gather thee.
The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light; they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death … Gird yourselves and ye shall be broken in pieces. Gird yourselves and ye shall be broken in pieces.
Sanctuary is beautiful. Light inside is pearly; it falls directly from heaven through skylights in the twin domes of the roof, sweet as mother’s milk. There are no windows at street level, we have no intercourse with the world outside, save for the timeless sky. Torches burn at the pew ends, light of hell fire reaching up to meet sweet liquid light of heaven, and both elements caress, with a touch here, a glint there, the rich earthly darknesses of polished mahogany and bronze. The floor is polished oak, the air spiced and strange with incense. Musicians lift their instruments, gold of the sun, silver of the moon, and their sounds swell and blossom and are ridden by the pure high notes of women’s voices. Seven candles on the altar gleam and illumine the precious casket they call the ark, which holds the Bible and stands between them. There is no cross here; they take it for a sign of popery and cruelty: the sign of the antichrist. No pictures, no ‘graven images’ to confuse or distract the spirit: their only symbols are Hebrew letters, and the fair six-sided star of Judah.
Beautiful; seductive; it is no wonder his congregation are as sheep. Hear ye indeed, but understand not; and see ye indeed, but perceive not. How great a pleasure is peace and security. Might one not easily be tempted to exchange the anxieties of independence for such serenity?
Joanna
Sister Leah has brought a foundling into our house: a beautiful boy child with blue eyes and a soft fuzz of golden-brown hair. He has been very well looked after, my heart goes out to that poor sad woman who was forced to leave him on Sanctuary steps. After my Bible class yesterday evening I lingered there a while, wondering whether she would return to visit the spot where she abandoned him. I prayed that she would, so that I could help her to feel His loving kindness, and clear her soul of that terrible despair which must surely have clotted it. But there was no sign of such a person. I pray He will forgive her and lead her into a better life. The child’s advent into our household is a sign of great hope for us, I believe. The feeding, clothing and tending of a little one makes a very minor addition to our duties; and the rewards of innocent amusement and kindling love are considerable. The sweet shapeliness of his little form is a constant reminder of the perfection of our Lord’s designs; the warm pleasure to be gained from holding and cuddling him, and watching his innocent smiles, enhances those feelings of love which all must bear their fellow creatures. In particular, I have high hopes that tending to the child’s well-being will give our youngest sisters (Leah, Rachel and Rebekah) a special interest and exert that steadying influence, which the responsibility for young helplessness so frequently calls up. Signs of these good effects are already perceptible in Sister Leah, who has offered to take care of the child at night; and she (I would have said – and I stand humbled before my loving and all-knowing Father for my earlier lack of perception) the least like to be affected by maternal stirrings, of us all.
I have suggested to the Prophet that this happy event may provide instructive matter for Sanctuary congregation; not least because it shows us how joys and good effects may be the issue of sin and black despair; leading us to contemplate how God will work His designs out on a scale beyond our feeble ability to comprehend, and how contrary the final effects may be, to those initially expected. He thanked me courteously, but his sermon for this week is already determined. Perhaps he will speak of it next week.
To see Sister Leah’s affection for little Thomas is quite moving. We have put his cradle in the warmth of the kitchen, for daytime use, for some of us are always about there. This morning when he began to cry she ran to comfort him and, finding him a little hot, took him out into the sewing room. She was so absorbed in thoughtful care for him that she quite forgot the oven was just then hot enough for baking, and the small pastries still without their top crusts. I am glad she did not think to bring him back into the kitchen, for it was hot. By the time I had removed the burning faggots from the oven and swept it out, then loaded the whole batch in to bake, I was drenched with sweat. I am sure Thomas would have become distressed again, in that heat.
The preparation of meats for Sabbaths and Feast days has given me some anxiety, for all must be cooked in advance, to be served cold on the day. Though my aunt and I were well content to dine on a couple of slices of cold beef on the Sabbath, it is not uncommon for some among the Elders – or even visitors from outside – to dine with the Prophet on such occasions, and more fitting fare must be provided. Sister Leah has come to my assistance, with a couple of receipts of her mother’s, and once the pastries were baked we set out to try one, prior to using it for the Feast of the New Moon next Tuesday. For a stuffed goose, we took two big handfuls stale breadcrumbs, an onion chopped, two rosy apples chopped up, a cup of sweet plums, four hard-boiled eggs chopped very small, a pinch of pepper and a pinch of dark sugar. I was alarmed when she told me her mother mixes these with cream, and reminded her of the prohibition against combining milk and meat; but then she laughed and said she must have remembered amiss, for they are mixed with the juice of a lemon. Another receipt, new to us all, was brought down by Sister Benson from the farm. On her way to market she stopped off with a basket of fresh-cut lambs’ tails; we first cleaned off the wool, then cut them in little bits and stewed very slow for twenty minutes. Then laid them in a deep platter, seasoned with pepper and salt, a good layer on top of sliced apples, chopp’t parsley, more tails, apple and parsley, till the platter was full. Then poured in some of the broth and covered with a good paste. We cooked it one hour and twenty minutes and it was very nice cold.
I am delighted by these variations on our customary boiled meats; the flavour was remarked on by all at dinner, and Sister Leah’s habitual impatience and restl
essness is much soothed by the compliments her cooking has earned her. I have the highest hopes that a disposition to cherish young Thomas, and the nurturing of her native skill in housewifely arts, will help her to contentment and bring her into a closer communion with her heavenly Father.
*
The Prophet’s wife and family are yet in residence in Bradford: I had forgotten this until Sister Leah questioned me concerning them. I have seen his wife, Sarah, at the baptism of their third child: a small, pale, weary-looking woman, who struggles under the yoke of ill health. She is an innocent creature, and has rendered God great service by the care with which she tended her husband, during the long illness that came upon him during 1819. His communications with God began at this time. She nursed him skilfully when his life lay in the balance, and shows commendable devotion to her three young children. Sadly, this positive and womanly attribute in her character is countered by a narrowness of spiritual vision, such that she can neither comprehend nor be grateful for the great honour of her husband’s calling. She has even sought on occasion to prevent him from fulfilling God’s commands (to go forth on missionary work, and once to meet with leaders of the Jewish church, to attempt a reconciliation betwixt them and Christians) by urging the importance of such trifling domestic claims as the repairing of a roof, or the indisposition of a child. Setting (as he must) God’s commands above all others, the Prophet has pursued a course which has led him into bitter domestic strife. It is God’s will, His trials strengthen our resolve. Since the completion of Sanctuary here in Ashton, the Prophet has well-nigh forgone the comfortable blessings of matrimonial life: travelling first on his great mission to Turkey, then to the English Southcottian branches, and lastly to take God’s word to the North. He has preached by day and received the Lord’s communications by night, offering up wholeheartedly his own comfort and health, in God’s service. I have heard, from Sister Wrigley, who has it from a cousin of her mother’s in Bradford, that Sarah Wroe is anxious now to move to Ashton, and install herself and her children in her husband’s ‘great house’. Whether this shall be so I cannot tell; nor how it may suit the Prophet to have a scolding wife and three noisy children about the place. Suffice it that he has not yet made any requests concerning their accommodation. Sister Leah and the child are now in the back bedchamber, but there is attic space. The ordering of these matters is in His hands: I pray for Sarah Wroe’s enlightenment, and for the spiritual nourishment of her children. I believe, and have instructed Sister Leah, this can be our only proper concern in the affair.
