Letter 4 – From Anne Charlston to Margaret Playford, 23rd of May, 1856.

Dear Maggie,

Gracious! How long has it been since I wrote. You must think me an eremitic. I confess it was not through familiar recollection that it occurs to me now to write but rather a chance encounter with your cousin Caroline in D____ that appears to have spurred recognition of my neglect of you, my dearest friend. You know we are always honest with one another so hear my confession and forgive a distracted soul for the sin of forgetfulness. I have little of purpose to relate but simply long for your company - if not possible in person, then through these sporadic letters - as so isolated have I been and always cherish your bright heart in spiriting away my darkest humours.
As for Caroline and I, we were both separately in town, by chance at the same time, to witness the extraordinary painting by master Laurent, a true Apelles of our age, which has burned into my memory so great an impression that even now, several days past, I am still haunted by the verisimilitude of its depiction. Indeed it appeared more real than life; one has the sense of wishing to be absorbed into the canvas and to take part in that other world where virtues are made manifest through colour, and good and evil are so easily deduced; rather than in our existence where all manner of wickedness falls unnoticed around us and our very neighbours, although pictures of humanity and grace externally (most of them; the Belview’s - God forgive me - not withstanding) within may harbour any sin imaginable which the solidarity of family unity prevents from airing to strangers and to God.
The painting depicted the thunderstruck countenances of those sailors, who, returning to the court of Periander were subject to the revelation of Arion’s survival from their murderous betrayal. It is the strangest thing, the face of man who has been found out in a lie; it is as if the fabric of reality has been torn and beneath is revealed a kind of hell, but, as the reality was disingenuous, the hell we see is one that must be borne and is ultimately for the better, making us purer and cleaner through the hardship of enduring its horror. As for Arion, he gazed upon them with a form contempt; an eye of righteousness that knows its vengeance is nigh at hand. Although it brings much satisfaction to see it, and I personally revelled in it, it is surely wrong to hold our enemies in such contempt however righteous our cause; but such may one think who has not endured the wrong that justifies retaliation.
Caroline is well, if you have not heard from her in some time. You know her and I do not get along entirely well but given this was my first outing for the business of pleasure in quite some time I found solace in her prickly demeanour, as any disagreeableness is warmly comical when compared to that of my father’s, where it achieves apotheosis. As you know, of late I have been in attendance of his person, trying to nurse him back to his former irascible self rather than the instrument of wrath and contempt he has become. He has no kind words to say to me despite my best efforts but please know I wish not for kind words, only for him to improve; pathetic martyr that I am. His temperament has led to the most excruciating of circumstances, such as when, last week, the parson came to call on us, thinking, in his wisdom, capable of bringing my father back into the parish fold via a door to door sermon cooked fresh from his ecclesiastical oven. Despite the morbid reality I am living in, there is some amusement to be had in the relation of the parson’s attempt, so here I shall do so in hope to bring you some pleasure, knowing as I do your dislike of the tedious parson and his often misguided pontifications.
Upon wrapping at the door the parson was immediately set upon by Molly, who, taking the outside path at the time was eager to show her worth in her intended capacity as guard of our estate. Although not usually prowling the front garden, she had on this occasion been let loose by Mrs Cruikshank to chase the birds from the cherry tree despite my previous injunctions that I wish the birds to have their fill of them and we can eat what God deemed worthy to provide as surplus; but such is the rebellion of the eternally pragmatic, capped by the haughty expression of triumph when cherry tart is served to me - as clearly a dreamer such as I was not worthy of the literal fruits of such vigilance.
But to return to the parson: he had been forced back to the gate, routed and contemplating retreat but simultaneously bellowing with his mighty sermonic voice, almost developed as much as an actor's, various meaningless genteel ejaculations such as “I say! I say!”, or “the pox!”, before Mrs Cruikshank, angel to the holy, came out to see what all the fuss was about, sending the dog aft and letting the parson in to the domain of a far bigger and angrier mastiff - if God will forgive me for analogising my father so - who was stationed in his customary place by the fire, a bottle by his side, staring, as he does, into the embers with a boundless fascination and contempt, as if all love and horror were to be found within that ceaseless and ever renewing combustion. His mien was frightful to behold for the uninitiated, and our parson, who is not the most diligent of Christ’s disciples in attending to the most desperate members of his flock was quick to blanch at the sight.
I need not tell you of my father’s condition as it is much the same as when you last visited, although I imagine it has deepened slightly as he is always in decline, even if I, being near him always, struggle to mark the change. Despite the regret the parson now clearly felt, through various spasms of apprehension that jerked his features, the thought of leaving without saying his piece would have been too inexplicable not generate a greater embarrassment than going through with his plans (although he was soon to learn the error of this judgement). Despite his resolution, he made one attempt to bypass the predicament by first addressing myself with customary pleasantries, hoping that in the course of our tete-a-tete we would light upon some subject of weight that could justify his coming without the need to address the man of the house, who had yet to make one movement that might indicate awareness of the parson’s presence. I was, however, little in the mood for his disingenuous overtures, and, as you know, am naturally taciturn, so could offer no relief for the poor man. Thus, perhaps also recalling that on entering he had told Mrs Cruikshank that he specifically wished to see the master of the house, as she told me later, whilst we snickered like children over the event, he mustered his courage and strode towards the fireplace to deliver his ill-fated piece.
“Mr Charlston”, he begun, waiting for acknowledgement of his presence, which, not coming, he plunged on, “I’ve come to inquire after your pastoral spirit, or lack thereof, as, as you know, attendance at service is how members of the community can form a union with each other and the almighty, who, when looking down on each parish with his divine sight will bless or damn those that do or do not worship with the required humility and if, in gazing with this intent upon a certain parish, he sees that its congregation is not entirely represented, that is, the congregation of those whose birth is sufficiently gentle enough to be worthy of contemplating his majesty, he may, if it please him, revoke many of his divine blessings from said community, blessings that, should the said community rely upon would be greatly missed. A good harvest one year becomes poor the next through lack of rain and who controls the rain? A crop is ripe for picking before an unseasonable frost robs it of its vitality, and who controls the frost? You see Mr Charlston, the presence of all my flock…”
“All sufficiency gentle enough for contemplation,” I couldn’t help but muttering.
“…are vital to the appeasement of that jealous but loving deity we all love in return as I’m sure you…”
“Rain… fire… frost,” groaned my father.
“Yes Mr Charlston, you can see my point then. The prospect of disaster is paramount in my mind when I beseech you to abandon your idle ways and join your fellow men in…”
“Hurricanes of Neptune…”
The parson crossed himself, absurdly, “Heavens no, this is not a pagan predicament…”
“Poison rain of Phoebus…”
The parson turned to me in half exasperation and half in reproach as if I were some Sibylline poisoning her own father’s mind with obscure prophesy.
Suddenly my father burst from his chair and set a flaming gaze upon the parson, who could not have turned more livid had he been dropped in powder. Much of what my father said next I struggle to recall as it followed little logic that I could interpret (punctuation was difficult) and was spoken with such a slur that much of it was hard to make out precisely, but it was something to the effect of the following:
“The heavens were ablaze until you cut the flaming fat and festooned iniquity on its carcass, stealing its bones and sucking dry the consecrated blood – An ocean boiled it was, pregnant with life, stoked by primordial winds; habitable by men, none which survive; not men, half men, but fallen crust from cantankerous moons; barely moon ready, yet Earth-struck with seedless offspring, each with chest travelling aheave in searching of kin, comrades, who sailed times whence to world’s end with hearts beaming, unrighteous, unjust, yet worthy of life. Where art thou my friends! They had died. Are dead. Their engines quenched with that of the scarred red firmament. There is but frost and fire and frost is fire’s crowning victor. O there should be a shattering! And upon your life set what’s left ablaze! Cross not your breast sir, he laughs at your protection, as do I, and so does the moonlit field that spurns the sun. He wants you to face the roaring unprotected; his test for the damned, as all are not merry who merrily stay in shadowed ice. Go then,” for the parson had balked towards the door, “and sanction the black char, soul cradler.”
Despite the fever pitch in the centre of his tirade he ended in a hoarse whisper before sitting back down and resuming his vigil before the fire as if nothing had occurred; only the slight heaving of his breath, like that of his strange travellers, indicated any acknowledgement from his body that something out of the ordinary had passed.
The parson, still deeply disturbed, made a slight bow to myself (a distracted bow from habit no doubt) and exited without a word.
As for Mrs Cruikshank and myself, we had seen outbursts to this effect from my father before but not with this intensity. No doubt was his fevered condition exasperated by the biblical words of the parson, igniting a strange flame within him. Nevertheless we were greatly thrilled but the exchange and it took some time for our agitation to reduce, allowing the theatricality of the event to bear comedy (although perhaps you have had to have sat through a hundred tedious sermons by the parson to appreciate the humour, as hopefully you will appreciate). I understand there is much to deplore in what my father said but I do not view it as blasphemy, rather the ramblings of a sick man who cannot but think of fire when all he does is stare upon it.
Well, that is my tale, which seems more morbid than I recall through the retelling, although it was indeed mortifying at the time – surely one of those moments when horror becomes the humour of the next, then returns to horror when put to page by an unskilled storyteller such as myself. Aside from these poor tales I have little more to write dear Maggie, other than to wish for a return letter to ease my agitation that such a friend as I hope I am worthy of still exists within my limited orbit.

Your dearest friend,
Anne