by John Bayley
Young Pan himself, bronze fingers delicately crooked, his double pipe to his lips, has the sublimely sinister indifference of childhood. Captain Hook, his great enemy, was always made nervous by that pose. He considered Peter to have Good Form without knowing it, which is of course the best Form of all. Poor Hook was in despair about this. It made Iris laugh when I told her, years ago, before we were married. I read a bit of the book to her (the book is much better, and funnier, than the pantomime play). Iris, I recall, was so amused that she later put the Good Form business into one of her own novels.
Iris’s amusement may even have been shared, in a quiet way, by the sculptor himself, who covered the base of the group with elves and rabbits and snails in the Victorian fairytale tradition, but at the top put the elegant figure of a much more worldly young woman, scrambling determinedly over the plinth to proposition Peter, giving the bystander an agreeable view of her polished bronze derrière. It is clad in a modishly draped and close fitting Edwardian skirt, and she looks much too old for Peter anyway. Could it be that Sir George Frampton, as well as being an excellent artist and sculptor, had a sense of humour about these matters? It certainly looks like it, on such a quiet sunny Christmas morning, with real squirrels hopping about all round the statue, vainly soliciting the nuts which the fat little beasts have no trouble in getting from tourists, on ordinary busier days.
As we walk round and admire I tell Iris that my mother assured me that if I looked hard enough over the railings, into the private dells where the bluebells and daffodils come up in spring, I might see fairies, perhaps even Peter Pan himself. I believed her. I could almost believe her now, with the tranquil sunshine in the Park making a midwinter spring, full of the illusion of flowers and fairies as well as real birdsong.
Iris is listening, which she rarely does, and smiling too. There have been no anxious pleas this morning, no tears, none of those broken sentences whose only meaning is the dread in her voice and the demand for reassurance. Something or someone this morning has reassured her, given for an hour or two what the prayerbook calls ‘that peace which the world cannot give’.
Perhaps it is the Christmas ritual. It is going somewhere, but it is also a routine, even though a rare one. It is both. And now it will go on. We shall return to my brother, who has attended matins this morning at Chelsea Old Church, where Sir Thomas More used once to worship. We shall eat sardines and sausages and scrambled egg together, with a bottle or two of Bulgarian red wine which goes with anything. The sort of Christmas dinner we all three enjoy, and the only time of the year Michael permits a little cookery to be done in his immaculate and sterile little kitchen. The sardines are routine for him, but the eggs and sausages represent a real concession. I shall do them, with Iris standing beside me, and we shall bring the wine.
A snooze then. Iris will sleep deeply. Later we listen to carols and Christmas music. I have the illusion now, which fortunate Alzheimer partners must feel at such times, that life is just the same, has never changed. I cannot now imagine Iris any different. Her loss of memory becomes, in a sense, my own. In a muzzy way – the Bulgarian wine no doubt – I find myself thinking of the Christmas birth, and also of Wittgenstein’s comment, once quoted to me by Iris, that death is not a human experience. We are born to live only from day to day. ‘Take short views of human life – never further than dinner or tea.’ The Reverend Sydney Smith’s advice is most easily taken during these ritualised days. The ancient saving routine of Christmas, which for us has today been twice blessed.
List of Illustrations
1. Iris not long after we married. She seems much younger than she did when we first met.
2. Iri’s father, the nicest and kindest of men – Iris adored him. Iris and her father and mother formed a trinity of equals.
3. Iris taking her mother to the ceremony at which she was made a Dame of the British Empire (©JackSing).
4. In the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford.
5. Iris, at Cedar Lodge in 1959, contemplating her flowers – but she is not really much of a gardener.
6. Iris and Honor Tracy outside Cedar Lodge. Honor was a great friend, always combative and ready for an argument.
7. Reynolds Stone on Steeple Aston pool, around 1960, calm and contemplative as ever. Reynolds loved rivers, springs and the sea.
8. Janet Stone wearing my cap – she loved dressing up and often wore a sort of Edwardian costume.
9. Summer 1962 at the Old Rectory, Litton Cheney in Dorset, home of Reynolds and Janet Stone – a magic place, away from the world.
10. Cedar Lodge in 1965 – it became less respectable looking later on.
11. At the Villa Serbelloni, Como, Italy, in 1965 – the time of my first fishy mistake.
12. With the Buddhists – Iris always admired them. This was before the days of Peter and Jim . . .
13. Elizabeth Bowen by André Durand, 1969 (national Portrait Gallery)
14. Iris and J. B. Priestley at his home at Kissing Tree House, Stratford. Jack was the perfect uncle figure.
15. Iris’s friend Brigid Brophy (Hulton Deutsch Collection)
16. On one or our visits to Japan.
17. In Japan, 1975 – ‘whithering’, as we called it (the subject on such occasions was frequently ‘Whither the Novel?).
18. Borys and Audi Villers, a wonderful couple for whom we always felt the deepest affection.
19. Stephen Spender in 1975.
20. Capri, 1992, on holiday with Borys and Audi Villers. I said to Audi, ‘We don’t have to go to Capri, do we?’ She smiled her dazzling smile and said, ‘We’re going tomorrow.’
21. Our efforts on behalf of the clergy: dressed up as Bishop and Bishop’s wife at a New Year fancy dress party given by Leo Rothschild.
22. Swimming near Sorrento in 1992, snapped by Audi Villers.
23. With Peter Conradi on Lanzarote. We were staying with Audi Villers at the heart of the island’s volcanic centre, far from the madding beaches.
24. Iris in 1997.
1. Iris not long after we married. She seems much younger than she did when we first met.
2. Iri’s father, the nicest and kindest of men – Iris adored him. Iris and her father and mother formed a trinity of equals.
3. Iris taking her mother to the ceremony at which she was made a Dame of the British Empire (©JackSing).
4. In the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford.
5. Iris, at Cedar Lodge in 1959, contemplating her flowers – but she is not really much of a gardener.
6. Iris and Honor Tracy outside Cedar Lodge. Honor was a great friend, always combative and ready for an argument.
7. Reynolds Stone on Steeple Aston pool, around 1960, calm and contemplative as ever. Reynolds loved rivers, springs and the sea.
8. Janet Stone wearing my cap – she loved dressing up and often wore a sort of Edwardian costume.
9. Summer 1962 at the Old Rectory, Litton Cheney in Dorset, home of Reynolds and Janet Stone – a magic place, away from the world.
10. Cedar Lodge in 1965 – it became less respectable looking later on.
11. At the Villa Serbelloni, Como, Italy, in 1965 – the time of my first fishy mistake.
12. With the Buddhists – Iris always admired them. This was before the days of Peter and Jim . . .
13. Elizabeth Bowen by André Durand, 1969 (national Portrait Gallery)
14. Iris and J. B. Priestley at his home at Kissing Tree House, Stratford. Jack was the perfect uncle figure.
15. Iris’s friend Brigid Brophy (Hulton Deutsch Collection)
16. On one or our visits to Japan.
17. In Japan, 1975 - ‘whithering’, as we called it (the subject on such occasions was frequently ‘Whither the Novel?).
18. Borys and Audi Villers, a wonderful couple for whom we always felt the deepest affection.
19. Stephen Spender in 1975.
20. Capri, 1992, on holiday with Borys and Audi Villers. I said to Audi, ‘We don’t have to go to Capri, do we?’ She smiled her da
zzling smile and said, ‘We’re going tomorrow.’
21. Our efforts on behalf of the clergy: dressed up as Bishop and Bishop’s wife at a New Year fancy dress party given by Leo Rothschild.
22. Swimming near Sorrento in 1992, snapped by Audi Villers.
23. With Peter Conradi on Lanzarote. We were staying with Audi Villers at the heart of the island’s volcanic centre, far from the madding beaches.
24. Iris in 1997.
