A Maggot - John Fowles (50 page)

Yet surrender to attacks
of intense emotion was an essential part of both its being and its
practice, perhaps not least because it stood so deeply against the
aristocratic, then the aping middleclass, and now the universal
English tradition in such matters; which dreads natural feeling (what
other language speaks of attacks of emotion?) and has made such an
art of sangfroid, meiosis, cynicism and the stiff upper lip to keep
it at bay. We may talk coolly now in psychiatric terms of the
hysterical enthusiasm, the sobbing, the distorted speech in the gift
of tongues, all the other wild phenomena found in so much early
Dissenting worship. We should do better to imagine a world where,
once again, a sense of self barely exists; or most often where it
does, is repressed; where most are still like John Lee, more
characters written by someone else than free individuals in our
comprehension of the adjective and the noun.

* * *

Mr Ayscough walks from his table and sweeps past the
three by the door - or more exactly, tries to sweep, since he is
shorter even than Wardley, and can no more truly sweep than a
bantamcockerel could pretend to be the old English gamecock of the
inn backyard. At any rate he does not look at the three faces of
Dissent, and manages to suggest by his expression that he is being
very improperly put upon. The clerk gestures the trio to follow s
master's back, and they do so, with the sardonic scribe behind them.

The five men file into the room over the inn yard, Mr
Ayscough leading. He goes to the window, but does not turn. He oins
his hands beneath his open coat at the back, and stares out at the
now dusk-filled yard. Rebecca stands by the bed, as if hastily risen
from it, and evidently surprised by this solemn delegation. She does
not move to greet them, nor they she, and there is a moment or two of
that awkward suspension characteristic of such meetings .

'Sister, this person would have thee rest here this
night, against thy will.'

'It is not against my will, brother Wardley.'

'He hath no right in law. Thee be not charged.'

'I am obliged in conscience.'

'Hast thee asked counsel of Jesus Christ?'

'He says, I am obliged.'

'Hast thee not been ill treated in respect of thy
state, both of soul and of body?'

'No. I have not.'

'Hath this man not wickedly tried to break thee of
thy faith?'

'No.'

'Thee art sure?'

'Yes, I am sure.'

'Hath he not told thee thee must say these things, or
thee shall suffer after?'

'No.'

'Be not afraid if he would taunt or corrupt or
howsoever force thee from the light, sister. Speak truth entire, and
nothing but Christ's truth.'

'I have, and shall.'

Wardley is clearly set back by this calmness. Mr
Ayscough still stares down into the yard; one may suspect it is now
partly to hide his face.

'Thee's sure that what thee dost is best in Christ?'

'Most sure, brother.'

'We would pray with thee, sister.'

But now Ayscough turns, and sharply. 'You may pray
for her, but not with her. You have her word, I do her no ill, are
you not done?'

'We shall pray with her.'

No, you shall not, sir. You have had the right to
question her on what is pertinent. I gave no right to hold a praying
meeting also.'

'Friends, ye stand witnesses to this. Prayer is
called impertinent.'

The clerk, who stands behind the three men, steps
forward and reaches for the arm nearest him, that of Rebecca's
father, to encourage him to turn and go; but his touch is as if
scalding, for Hocknell twists round and catches his wrist, clamping
it as in a vice; then forces it down and stares fiercely at the
clerk.

'Touch me not, thee ... devil.'

Wardley puts a hand on Hocknell's other arm.

'Still thy righteous anger, brother. They shall be
judged hereafter'

Hocknell looks for a few moments little inclined to
obey; at last throws down the clerk's wrist, and turns back to face
the room.

Tis tyranny. They have no right to forbid prayer.'

'We are among infidels, brother.'

Hocknell looks across at his daughter. 'Daughter,
kneel.'

Rebecca does not move, in the silence that follows
this abrupt paternal command; and nor now do the men, since they feel
it below their dignity to kneel before she does. Her husband stares
at the floor between them, more than ever as if he wished he were not
there; while Wardley stares beyond her into a middle distance. Now
she comes in front of her father, and smiles.

'I am thy daughter in all. Fear not, I shall not be
bent again. I am Christ's daughter also, now.' She pauses, then adds,
'I pray thee, father, go in peace.'

Still the three stand, plainly doubting whether a
woman can, or should, decide such a matter. They regard the face
before them with its innate meekness; and that has also something
other, a kind of simplicity, a levelheadedness, almost a judging of
them. A sceptic or an atheist might have suspected a contempt for
them, for the way their faith had deformed them, and their sex also;
in which he would have been wrong. She felt pity, not contempt, and
in no way doubted the substance of the faith. Mr Ayscough had seemed
largely indifferent until this point; now he might be seen watching
Rebecca closely. It is Wardley who breaks the impasse.

'More love, sister. Christ's spirit be with thee.'

Her eyes watch her father's still angry ones.

'More love, brother.'

She picks up her father's hand and raises it to her
lips; there seems some hidden allusion to a past event, some previous
taming of his rancorous temper. He does not look appeased, and
searches for something in her steady eyes, the faint smile, perhaps a
simple answer to the question of why she knows him, but he does not
know her. He is like a man shown, at this late stage of his life, a
glimpse of something he has never recognized before: a lightness,
affection, a last echo of her former life; a thousand miles from
solid timber and moral judgements by setsquare, and so unplaceable by
him. Yet there is no hint of this when it comes to her husband. She
turns and takes both his hands, does not kiss them, or his face.
Instead they exchange a look, that seems almost one between
strangers, despite their joined hands.

'Speak truth.'

'Yea, husband.'

And that is all. They go, and the clerk follows. Mr
Ayscough is left alone with Rebecca, and still watching her. She
glances almost shily back at him, then meekly down. For some moments
he goes on watching her; suddenly, without further word, he leaves.
The door once closed, there is the sound of a key being turned in a
lock. Rebecca listens as his footsteps die away, before turning to
the bed, and kneeling. Her eyes stay open, and her mouth does not
move. She stands again, and lies on the bed. Her hands begin to feel
her still only slightly swollen belly, and she cranes up for a moment
to look down at it; lets her head sink back and smiles, much more
fully than before, up at the ceiling.

It is a strange smile,
strange in its innocence. It shows no vanity or pride, no sense that
she has handled a situation well, no indication of a response to the
awkward stiffness of her three brothers in Christ. It seems much more
a reflection of some deep inner certainty; not of a kind she has
actively earned, but of one she has been given, is simply now in,
beyond her willing. Rebecca shares one thing with her husband besides
a general faith: she too has a very indistinct sense of what defines
and is common to every modern ego. She smiles in fact because
Christ's grace has just granted her her first prophecy: the child
inside her will be a girl. We should say today she has discovered she
would like it so; and completely misunderstand what she feels. Her
smile is not that of such a personal knowledge, and delight in it. It
is the smile of one who has heard, is now written by, an
annunciation.

* * *

The Examination and Deposition of
J
ames Wardley
the
which doth witness but will not swear,
this
fourth day of October
in the tenth year of
the reign of our
sovereign Lord George the
second,
by the grace of God King of Great
Britain
and of England, &c.
*
* *

MY NAME is James Wardley. I am tailor by trade. I was
born in the year of 168 5, at Bolton on the Moor in this county. I am
married.

Q. Now, Wardley, the hour is late, my business with
you is brief. I will not dispute with you over your beliefs, I wish
to ascertain only some facts, that touch upon Rebecca Lee. She is one
you count of your flock, your meeting, what you may call it?

A. I am no bishop nor vicar, to count souls like a
miser his guineas. We live in fellowship. She is sister, and believes
what I believe.

Q. You teach the doctrine of the French Prophets, is
it not so?

A. I teach truth, that this world is near its end by
cause of its sins; and that Jesus Christ returns, once more to redeem
it. That whosoever shall show that faith in Him, and live by His
light, shall be saved. And all else shall be eternally damned.

Q. They to be damned are all those who do not follow
you?

A. All those that follow Antichrist, that has ruled
since the first church of the Apostles ended; and hear not the Lord's
word, revealed by grace of prophecy.

Q. You say all religion since then is Antichrist?

A. Until the Friends first came, this hundred years
past. All else are possessed of the Devil's great I. Go off, great I,
and come not nigh. So say we.

Q. Believe you not in predestination, as the
Calvinists?

A. Nay, and nor doth God.

Q. What is false in it?

A. It saith man may not change in the living Christ,
nor war the flesh and put a cross upon sin, if he so choose, as he
should.

Q. Draw you this doctrine from the Bible?

A. Except a man be born again, he cannot see the
kingdom of God. The Book is good witness, and much wisdom; yet is not
all. So say we.

Q. How not all - is it not sacred truth, and
infallible?

A. We say 'twas writ by good and holy men, they lied
not by their lights. Such were of their understanding then; in some
things, not certain truth. 'Tis but words, that are fallible in their
season. The Lord was never beholden to letters, nor the Book his last
testament; for that is to say, He now is dead; which is vile heresy
put about by Antichrist, so the sinners may sin in the more peace. He
is not dead, He lives, He sees all, and soon shall come among us.

Q. I am told, you have no belief in the Holy Trinity.

A. That it is all male, and woman no part of it, we
will not credit.

Q. Christ may come again in the form of woman, is it
not so you blasphemously proclaim?

A. What blasphemy lies in that? The first and
greatest sin of all was the fornication of Adam and Eve, who were
guilty both and equally. Man and woman that sprang from their loins,
may be saved both; and may save both. Both may be in Jesus Christ's
likeness; and shall.

Q. Believe you He may be seen now in this world, tho'
it be in secret, brought from Heaven?

A. Christ is no secret. This world's present state
doth answer thee. Had He been seen, it had not been as it is, all
blindness and corruption.

Q. What of Holy Mother Wisdom?

A. Who is she?

Q. Do you not so call the Holy Spirit?

A. Nay.

Q. You have heard it so called?

A. I deny thee.

Q. Nor Heaven, the life everlasting, called June
Eternal?

A. Thee's been sold more rotten eggs than good,
master. Heaven hath no special season, 'tis no more June than any
other month.

Q. You forswear all carnal pleasure?

A. The carnal nature is mansion of Antichrist, there
will we not enter. What frees us of his chains is chastity, naught
else. So say we, and do our best to live.

Q. This last I ask - doth by your faith the flesh of
true believers survive death?

A. All flesh is corrupt, of those who have the light
or not. The spirit alone is resurrected.

Q. This comes not of you alone, but of all who have
declared themselves French prophets?

A. Thee may judge. Thee may read of Misson and Elias
Marion. Thomas Eames that be gone to the Lord nigh these thirty years
past. Sir Richard Bulkeley likewise. Thee may solicit John Lacy, who
liveth in this county till this day, that I know well, he is old now
of seventy-two years; and hath witnessed to the truth far longer than
I.

Q. Very well, to my present purpose. You are
persuaded Rebecca Lee doth believe as you, as these you have named?