The Hollow Tree by John Clare; Lucy Snowe is watchful, in Villette; and St Gregory’s Greatness

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Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:38

Hello, hello, hello, and welcome to today's Sunday episode of the most marvellous podcast that is now that now has an an honorary patron, the one and only Tom Holland. How nice of him to agree to be a patron of the podcast and to trust me that I'm not going to let him down by I don't know recording something that's not acceptable in some way. So I was really, really pleased that he agreed because he's a very busy man in much in demand, and you know this isn't a normal sort of podcast, and as my lovely regulars will know, it's all a bit ad hoc and made up as we go along. But that's the way we like to roll, I think. And I just want to let you know that right now I'm overlooking a beautiful church, and I'm looking overlooking the apse of it, and it's St Andrew's, it's Courton Denham, and it's beautiful. It's got a little bell tower with crenellations at the top. And I'm here with Poppy, and Puppy's enjoying herself. She's just whizzing around the grounds of the graveyard, eating some grass, and there's a warning sound from probably a robin, I think. And it's saying, Look, this is our area, and normally there aren't people here. What are you doing here? So I hope they'll forgive me. My husband and son are having a beer inside the pub. And earlier today I saw my son's godmother, a lovely lady called Claire, because all my friends seem to be called Claire. And we're having a really lovely weekend. It's a bank holiday here in England, and it's such a shame all these holidays are just called bank holidays. I mean, of all the most unromantic names for a holiday. I mean, they used to be called you know May Day, or because it was always May Day that we had off, but now it's the first Monday in May. Are you having a nice time, puppy? Oh mummy, I'm having a great time. Sniffing around. Are you sniffing around? We might take you to the sea tomorrow. There's a little bit more bread for you. We might take you to the sea. Oh, I don't think I'll like it because I I I think when the when the water it's got a bit of a stutter. I think when the water comes in that it's gonna scare me, but you know, I like new experiences and I trust you. So what do you think about the voice for puppy? I know you oh love my voices. I my favourite was when it was the Thomas Hardy because I really got stuck into those. Come on, puppy, don't worry. She does get scared sometimes. She does, you know, things startle her, don't they? It's alright, come on. Don't worry, let's let's attach you. She's got a bit scar. Well, come on, come on. Oh, she doesn't want to be reattached to her lead, that's a worry. Come on, darling. What have we got? I'm pretending I've got something in my hand so that I can and I just tricked her, which isn't very nice. Now, puppy, you can't you have to come when I call you, otherwise you could get into trouble. She's so lovely, she's soft and golden and beautiful. Oh, what was that? What kind of noise was that? She's now sitting on my lap and I'm wearing ridiculous trousers, they're white, and I'm kneeling on the grass, and I'm even though I'm 54 and should be elegant and sophisticated. I'm I'm just I just act as though I'm eight years old. I mean, truly. You know how some people say they feel like they always feel as though they're 20 or 15. A lot of people say they're about they feel they're 15, don't they? That kind of age. I feel like I'm eight and probably just sat down on the grassy. And I mean, my my mother would always point this out that I I would do things like I don't know, as I'm doing now, sitting on the grass or climb a bit of a tree or something, and she would say Gretel, my most beautiful daughter, who I love very much. No, she wouldn't say that, that's the problem. She would just say Gretel in a fierce way. For goodness sake, you know, it's not very sophisticated or classy to be rum doing what you're doing as though you're just a little tomboy in she's putting me along in shorts or something. And but I didn't care, and I don't care. And I mean how lovely to be my aim would be to be 80 years old and still walk round churchyards and kneel on the grass with my dog and look at the view like I'm doing now. So the church is built on a side of a little valley, and the road takes you down in the kind of dip of the valley. And I imagine there's a little river at the bottom, but I don't know for sure. But I imagine there is. I mean, this is a village right in the middle of nowhere. It wouldn't be built on the side of a valley unless there was running water, I suppose, at the bottom. What do you think, Puppy? Puppy's near some daisies, and the daisies have closed up because it's getting gloomy. But I quite like it. There's a little bit of a breeze. The church is open, so I might take Pop inside. I think people are getting more patient about dogs being you know, good dogs that don't tear around being taken into churches. And it's the time of day that I start to feel poignant. It's ten to six in the evening. In fact, I think that the church is probably going to be closed at six, so come on, puppy, let's let's go to the church. And there are lots of holes in the graveyard, little rabbit holes, I think. And and I'm feeling happy. I truly am feeling happy. The the the agreement by Tom Holland to be my honorary patron has given me a huge boost. Right, I've I'm cutting in there. I miss I'm cutting out twelve minutes of me chattering because I just think it wasn't it was sort of me really chattering absolute nonsense. So here I am, now in bed, ready for the Sunday night readings John Clare Langley Bush Oh Langley Bush, the shepherd's sacred shade, the hollow trunk oft gained a look from me, full many a journey o'er the heath I've made, for such like curious things I love to see. What truth the story of the swain allows, That tells of honours which thy young days knew, of Langley Court being kept beneath thy boughs, I cannot tell, thus much I know is true, that thou art reverenced, even the rude clan of lawless gypsies, driven from stage to stage, pilfering the hedges of the husbandsmen, spare thee as sacred in thy withering age, both swains and gypsies seem to love thy name, thy spots a favourite with the sooty crew, and soon thou must depend on gypsy fame, thy mouldering trunk is nearly rotten through. My last doubts murmur on the Zephyr's swell, my last look lingers on thy bows with pain. To thy declining age I bid farewell, like old companions, neer to meet again. Villette by Charlotte Bronte, chapter eleven The Portress's Cabin It was a summer and very hot. Georgette, the youngest of Madame Beck's children, took a fever. Desire, suddenly cured of all her ailments, was together with Fiffine, packed off to Bon Mamo in the country by way of precaution against infection. Medical aid was now really needed, and Madame, choosing to ignore the return of Dr. Piloul, who had been at home a week, conjured his English rival to continue his visits. One or two of the pensioners complained of headache, and in other respects seemed slightly to participate Georgette's ailment. Now at last I thought Dr. Pilul must be recalled. The prudent directrice will never venture to permit the attendance of so young a man on the pupils. The directrice was very prudent, but she could also be intrepidly venturous. She actually introduced Dr. John to the school division on the premises and established him in attendance on the proud and handsome Blanche de Melcy and the vain flirting Angelique, her friend. Dr. John, I thought, testified a certain gratification at this mark of confidence, and if discretion of bearing could have justified the step, it would by him have been amply justified. Here, however, in this land of convents and confessionals such a presence as his was not to be suffered with impunity in a pensionat de Demouselle. The school gossiped, the kitchen whispered, the town caught the rumour, parents wrote letters and paid visits of remonstrance. Madame, had she been weak, would now have been lost. A dozen rival educational houses were ready to improve this full step, if full step it were, to her ruin, but Madame was not weak, and little Jesuit though she might be, yet I clapped the hands of my heart, and with its voice cried Brava, as I watched her able bearing, her skilled management, her temper and her firmness on this occasion. She met the alarmed parents with a good humoured, easy grace, for nobody matched her in, I know not whether to say, the possession or the assumption of a certain rondeur et Francis de Bonfemme, which on various occasions gained the point aimed with instant and complete success, where severe gravity and serious reasoning would probably have failed. Se Pauvoir Doctor Jean, she would say, chuckling and rubbing joyously her fat little white hands, Seanome Le Meer Creti du Monde, and go on to explain how she happened to be employing him for her own children, who were so fond of him that they would scream themselves into fits at the thought of another doctor, how where she had the confidence for her own, she thought it natural to repose trust for others, and au rest it was only the most temporary expedience in the world. Blanche and Angelique had the migraine, doctor John had written a prescription voila two. The parents' mouths were closed. Blanche and Angelique saved her all remaining trouble by chanting loud duets in their physician's praise. The other pupils echoed them, unanimously declaring that when they were ill they would have Dr. John and nobody else, and Madame laughed and the parents laughed too. The Labas Corrienne must have a large organ of philopronogenitiveness, at least the indulgence of offspring is carried by them to excessive lengths, the law of most households being the children's will. Madame now got credit for having acted on this occasion in a spirit of motherly partiality. She came off with flying colours. People liked her as a directris better than ever. To this day I never fully understood why she thus risked her interest for the sake of Dr. John. What people said, of course I know well. The whole house, pupils, teachers, servants included, affirmed that she was going to marry him. So they had settled it. Difference of age seemed to make no obstacle in their eyes. It was to be so. It must be admitted that appearances did not wholly discountenance this idea. Madame seemed so bent on retaining his services, so oblivious of her former protege Pilo, she made too such a point of personally receiving his visits, and was so unfailingly cheerful, blithe, and benignant in her manner to him. Moreover, she paid about this time marked attention to dress. The morning desabill, the nightcap and shawl were discarded. Dr John's early visits always found her with auburn braids all nicely arranged, silk dress trimly fitted on, neat laced brodokins in lieu of slippers, in short, the whole toilette complete as a model and fresh as a flower. I scarcely think, however, that her intention in this went further than just to show a very handsome man that she was not quite a plain woman, and plain she was not. Without beauty of feature or elegance of form she pleased. Without youth and its gay graces she cheered. One never tired of seeing her. She was never monotonous or insipid, or colourless or flat, her unfaded hair, her eye with its temperate blue light, her cheek with its wholesome, fruit like bloom, these things pleased in moderation, but with constancy. Had she indeed floating visions of adopting Dr. John as a husband, taking him to her well furnished home, endowing him with her savings, which was said to amount to a moderate competency, and making him comfortable for the rest of his life? Did Dr. John suspect her of such visions? I have met him coming out of her presence with a mischievous half smile about his lips, and in his eyes a look as of masculine vanity, elate and tickled. With all his good looks and good nature he was not perfect. He must have been very imperfect if he roguishly encouraged aims he never intended to be successful. But did he not intend them to be successful? People said he had no money, that he was wholly dependent upon his profession. Madame, though perhaps some fourteen years his senior, was yet the sort of woman never to grow old, never to wither, never to break down. They certainly were on good terms. He perhaps was not in love, but how many people ever do love, or at least marry for love in this world? We waited the end. For what he waited, I do not know, not for what he watched, but the peculiarity of his manner, his expectant, vigilant, absorbed, eager look never wore off, it rather intensified. He never had been quite within the compass of my penetration, and I think he ranged farther and farther beyond it. One little morning Georgette had been more feverish and consequently more peevish. She was crying and would not be pacified. I thought a particular draught disagreed with her, and I doubted whether it ought to be continued. I waited impatiently for the doctor's coming in order to consult him. The doorbell rang, and he was admitted. I felt sure of this because I heard his voice addressing the portress. It was his custom to mount straight to the nursery, taking about three degrees of the staircase at once, and coming upon us like a cheerful surprise. Five minutes elapsed, ten, and I saw and heard nothing of him. What could he be doing? Perhaps waiting in the corridor below. Little Georgette still piped her plaintive wail, appealing to me by her familiar term Minnie, Minnie, me very poorly. Till my heart ached. I descended to ascertain why he did not come. The corridor was empty. Whither had he vanished? Was he with Madame in the Salamanger? Impossible. I had left her but a short time since, dressing in her own chamber. I listened. Three pupils were just then hard at work, practising on three pianos in three proximate rooms, the dining room and the greater and lesser drawing rooms, between which and the corridor there was but the portress's cabinet, communicating with the salons and intended originally for a boudoir. Further on at a fourth instrument in the oratory a whole class of a dozen or more were taking a singing lesson, and just then joining in a barricole, I think they called it, whereof I yet remember these words fresh breeze and Venise. Under these circumstances what could I hear? A great deal certainly, had it only been to the purpose. Yes, I heard a giddy, treble laugh in the above mentioned little cabinet, close by the door of which I stood. That door half unclosed, a man's voice in a soft, deep, pleading tone, uttered some words, whereof I caught only the adjuration for God's sake. Then after a second's pause, forth issued Dr. John, his eye full shining, but not either with joy or triumph, his fair English cheek high coloured, a baffled, tortured, anxious, and yet a tender meaning on his brow. The open door served me as a screen, but I had been full in his way, I believe he would have passed without seeing me. Some mortification, some strong vexation had hold of his soul, or rather to write my impressions now as I received them at the time, I should say some sorrow, some sense of injustice. I did not so much think his pride was hurt, as that his affections had been wounded, cruelly wounded it seemed to me. But who was the torturer? What being in that house had him so much in her power? Madame, I believe, to be in her chamber, the room whence he had stepped was dedicated to the portress's sole use, and she, Rosine Matou, an unprincipled, though pretty little French gresette, airy, fickle, dressy, vain and mercenary, it was not surely to her hand that he owed the ordeal through which he seemed to have passed. But while I pondered, her voice, clear, though somewhat sharp, broke out in a lightsome French song, trilling through the door still ajar. I glanced in, doubting my senses. There at the table she sat in a smart dress of Jacones, trimming a tiny blonde cap. Not a living thing save herself was in the room, except indeed some goldfish in a glasped globe, some flowers in pots, and a broad July sunbeam. Here was a problem, but I must go upstairs to ask about the medicine. Dr. John sat in a chair at Georgette's bedside. Madame stood before him, the little patient had been examined and soothed, and now lay composed in her crib. Madame Beck, as I entered, was discussing the physician's own health, remarking on some real or fancied change in his looks, charging him with overwork and recommending rest and a change of air. He listened good naturedly but with laughing indifference, telling her that she was tobon and that he felt perfectly well. Madame appealed to me. Dr John following her movement with a slow glance which seemed to express languid surprise at reference being made to a quarter so insignificant. What do you think, Miss Lucy? asked Madame. Is he not paler and thinner? It was very seldom that I uttered more than monosyllables in Dr. John's presence. He was the kind of person with whom I was not likely ever to remain the neutral, passive thing he thought me. Now, however, I took licence to answer in a phrase, and a phrase I purposely made quite significant. He looks ill at this moment, but perhaps it is owing to some temporary cause. Dr. John may have been vexed or harassed.

unknown 22:37

I can't

SPEAKER_00 22:38

I cannot tell how he took this speech, as I never sought his face for information. Georgette here began to ask me in her broken English if she might have a glass of au soucle. I answered her in English. For the first time I fancy he noticed that I spoke his language. Hitherto he had always taken me for a foreigner, addressing me as Mademoiselle and giving in French the requisite directions about the children's treatment. He seemed on the point of making a remark, but thinking better of it, held his tongue. Madame recommenced advising him. He shook his head, laughing, rose and bid her good morning, with courtesy, but still with the regardless air of one to whom much unsolicited attention was surfiting and spoiling. When he was gone, Madame dropped into a chair he had just left, and she rested her chin in her hand. All that was animated and amiable vanished from her face. She looked stony and stern, almost mortified and morose. She sighed, a single but deep sigh. A loud bell rang from morning school. She got up, and as she passed the dressing table, with a glass on it, she looked at her reflected image. One single white hair streaked her nut brown tresses. She plucked it out with a shudder. In the full summer daylight her face, though it still had the colour, could plainly be seen to have lost the texture of youth, and then where were youth's contours? Ah, madame, wise as you were, even you knew weakness. Never have I pitied Madame before, but my heart softened towards her when she turned darkly from the glass. A calamity had come upon her. That hag disappointment was greeting her with a grisly all hail, and her soul rejected the intimacy. But Rosine, my bewilderment there surpasses description. I embraced five opportunities of passing her cabinet that day with a view to contemplating her charms and finding out the secret of their influence. She was pretty, young, and wore a well made dress, all very good points, and, I suppose, amply sufficient to account in any philosophic mind for any amount of agony and distraction in a young man like doctor John. Still I could not help forming half a wish that the said doctor were my brother, or at least that he had a sister or mother who would kindly sermonise him. I say half a wish. I broke it and flung it away before it became a whole one, discovering in good time its exquisite folly. Somebody, I argued, might as well sermonise Madame about her young physician, and what good would that do? I believe Madame sermonized herself. She did not behave weakly or make herself in any shape ridiculous. It is true she had neither strong feelings to overcome, nor tender feelings by which to be miserably pained. It is true likewise that she had an important avocation, a real business to fill her time, divert her thoughts and divide her interest. It is especially true that she possessed a genuine good sense which is not given to all women or to all men, and by dint of these combined advantages she behaved wisely, she behaved well. Brava once more, Madame Beck, I saw you matched against a Napoleon of predilection, you fought a good fight, and you overcame. And the next chapter is chapter twelve The Casket, and it starts. Behind the house at the Rue Forset there was a garden, large considering that it lay in the heart of a city. And now we resume the history of the English Church by William Hunt. Sorry if I went f faded then. I was trying to read it whilst holding a torch, holding with my microphone, and uh generally getting into a pickle. Okay, so we're on chapter two, the Roman Mission. And we're reading about Gregory the Great. After his return to his monastery in or about five eighty five, it happened according to an ancient tradition treasured alike in Northumbria and at Canterbury, that while passing through one of the marketplaces of Rome, he saw among the bales of foreign goods some slave boys brought thither for sale by a merchant, most likely a Jew for the trade in slaves was largely carried on by Jews. The boys were English and had a full share of the beauty for which their people, then of unmixed Teutonic race, was famous on the continent. They had handsome faces, fair skins, and glorious yellow hair. Gregory's heart went out towards the lads, whose beauty was in such sharp contrast with their sad lot. He stopped, and the blue eyed young barbarians must have seen, perhaps for the first time since they were carried off from their native land, a look of tender pity bent upon them as there stood there a man of gentle aspect and sallow face with a broad, high forehead, bald on the temples, dark hair, a small beard, and with hands of aristocratic fineness, though with fingers rounded at the tips as those of a ready writer. He asked the trader of their religion, and when he was told that they were heathens, sighed deeply and said Alas that the prince of darkness should claim such bright faces. What? he asked, is their race? They are angles was the answer. That is well, he said, for they have angels' faces, and should be fellow heirs with the angels in heaven. And from what province do they come? Their people, the trader said, are Darans. Good, he replied, Daons called from wrath in the mercy of Christ. As in Deera, which I think means from to go or something like that, and what is their name? He was told that it was Aila, and playing on the name he said, the name of the leader of the people, his people must learn to sing Aelelujah to God their creator. He went to the Pope and begged to be allowed to go as a missionary to the English. Pelagius consented and he started on his journey. When, however, the Romans heard that he had left the city, a crowd burst in on the Pope, crying, Thou hast offended Peter and ruined Rome in letting Gregory depart, for it was a time of trouble, and they could not spare one who was so wise and good. So Gregory was fetched back before he had gone far. On the death of Pelagius in five hundred ninety, Gregory was elected to succeed him. Rome was suffering from pestilence and famine. The new pope ordained penitential processions to beseech God to turn away his wrath from the city, and lavish his own and his church's wealth in feeding the poor. A little later the Lombards threatened Rome, which was left virtually defenceless by the emperor. From the walls Gregory could see the unhappy Romans who dwelt outside the city led away into slavery with ropes round their necks like dogs. He saved the city first by his policy, and then by encouraging the Catholic queen of Artharis to bring her Aryan husband to accept the true faith. As patriarch of the West, a position which his successors owed largely to his zeal and wisdom, he had upon him the care of many churches. His secular cares too were many, for deserted by the emperor, Rome and its territory looked up to the Pope as to a sovereign, and Gregory's defence of them was the noble beginning of the temporal power of the papacy. That's really interesting, so just to say that again, Gregory's defence of the Romans was the noble beginning of the temporal power of the papacy. The mass of the Roman people depended on him for daily bread. He declared that his church held its wealth for the good of the poor, and he fully carried out his doctrine, nor were his alms given without personal direction. In the midst of his manifold cares and of sickness that was often very heavy upon him, he writes about the allowance to be made to a blind shepherd, insists on a sick clerk receiving his full stipend, directs the redemption of captives and the help to be given to orphans, and sends a letter to one of his vice regents, ordering him to defend the cause of a certain poor widow. In the secular courts and so in many other cases of distress, his compassionate heart was not likely to forget his meeting with the English slave boys, and he longed to enlighten the darkness of their people. Often he would talk with his monks of his hopes for the conversion of the English, and wrote about them to one of his friends, Eulogius, Bishop of Alexandria, a valiant champion of the faith, who urged him to carry out a plan which he had formed of sending missionaries to them, and promised to pray for the success of the mission. Fully aware of the value of native teachers in missionary work, Gregory wrote to his ancient in Goul, directing him to buy any English slave lads of seventeen or eighteen years who were being taken through the country, and to forward them to him that he might have them taught in his monasteries, and in order that they might in time preach to their fellow countrymen. About the same time that he wrote this letter, he took the more decisive step advocated by Eulogius, and sent Augustine, the prior, as we may call him, of St. Andrews, with a large party of the monks to preach to the English. They set out in the fourteenth year of the Emperor Maurice, which began on august thirteenth, five ninety five, and probably left Rome in the early spring of five ninety six. They rested a while at the monastery founded nearly two centuries before by St. Honorat on the Isle of Lerence, a stronghold of Christian learning which had supplied southern Gaul with many of its most illustrious bishops, and then went on to Exim Provence, where they were kindly received by the patrician Arigius. There, however, they pondered on the difficulties that lay before them. There they were told that the English were a fierce people, and they were afraid, for they could not speak or understand their language, and they thought of the length and of the dangers of the journey and of the chances of failure. Yielding to fear and a natural shrinking from hardships, they sent Augustine back to Rome to beg that they might be relieved from their mission. When he returned to them he brought with them a letter from Gregory, dated july twenty third, five ninety six, in which the Pope exhorted them to persevere in their work, for it had been given to them by God, and if their labour was heavy, he would requite it. With far more exceeding weight of everlasting glory, he had strengthened Augustine's resolution and bade them obey him as their abbot. Gregory had not perhaps at first been fully aware of the difficulties of the journey, and when sending Augustine back gave him letters of commendation to the bishops of the chief cities of Gul, through which he and his party might have to pass, and to some other powerful persons. He wrote to Theodoric, King of Orleans and Burgundy, who held his court at Chalon sur Seon, to his elder brother Theodabert, King of Austrasia, and to their grandmother Brunhild, who dwelt with Theodore at Metz, requesting them to allow Augustine to take with them some Frankish priests to act as interpreters. His request seemed to show that at times where there could not have been very great difference in speech between the English and Franks, for as these interpreters were priests, the suggestion that their knowledge of English was a result of commerce does not appear satisfactory. Encouraged by Gregory's exhortation, the missionaries again set forward on their journey through Gaul and received hospitality and help from the bishops to whom they presented the Pope's letters, from Theodoric and Theodebert, and from Clothair II, who was then reigning in Paris under the tutelage of his mother, Phredagond. Their journey took a long time, and they must have made some stay at the cities which they visited. They wintered in Gaul, and it was not until the Easter of five ninety seven that they arrived in England. And now the Hollow Tree by John Clare How oft a summer shower had started me to seek for shelter in a hollow tree, old, huge, ash daugteral wasted to a shell, whose vigorous head still grew and flourished well, where ten might sit upon the battered floor and still look round, discovering room for more, and he who chose a hermit life to share, might have a door and make a cabin there. They seemed so like a house that our desires would call them so and make our gypsy fires, and eat field dinners of the juicy peas, till we were wet and drabled to the knees. But in our old tree house, rain as it might, not one drop fell, although it rained, till night. Thank you so much for joining me. Good night.