After Such Kindness

I can scarcely believe that I spent so many months in the company of Daniel Baxter without being aware of the existence of his delightful daughter. But ours was originally a friendship not given to matters such as daughters, however delightful. In fact, our acquaintance had begun on an indifferent – dare I say, hostile – note.

I had heard of Baxter, of course; all Oxford knew him as the successful and popular vicar of St Cyprian’s – but he was the kind of clergyman I disliked; a man given to whipping up his congregation simply by the power of his voice and the fervent light in his eyes. I had by no means gone out of my way to avoid him, but I spent a large part of my time – then as now – quietly studying and teaching within my college walls, while Baxter was an energetic saver of souls with missions in the poorest parts of the town. It had seemed unlikely that we would meet, let alone find common ground. I certainly did not imagine that we were to become friends.

It was the Dean, strangely enough, who brought us together. I say ‘strangely’ because I have never sought the company of my fellow dons. I dislike having my privacy intruded upon, which has given me the reputation of being aloof, but that reputation protects and suits me. However, on coming out of my rooms one particular evening I saw the Dean scuttling across the college quadrangle, heading, I feared, in my direction. He then took the liberty of falling into step with me, taking my arm in his. It is a peculiar habit of his, this linking of arms, and as I am six foot and he is not more than five foot two, it is a particularly annoying one. I had to bend low to accommodate him as we progressed across the quadrangle, his sharp elbow digging into my side.

‘I am delighted to have caught you,’ he said; as if he were addressing a plump salmon just pulled from the river. ‘You are just the man for my purpose. I need someone of a High Church view – for my colloquia I mean; there are too many men of the Rugby persuasion at the moment – too much doubt; too much Broad Church laxity. It won’t do at all.’

I knew there had been talk in the common room of a series of debates that were to take place between High and Low Church interests, but I had taken little notice, being in no way interested in the minutiae of Church politics, although I was classed as a clergyman by the requirements of the college rules. Faced with the alarming possibility of being asked to speak on such a matter, I pleaded my ignorance and general incapacity as a speaker.

But the Dean would not be deterred. ‘No, no,’ he insisted. ‘If you, with your logic and cleverness, cannot add to the debate, I don’t know who can.’

‘But if I have any c-cleverness, it is only mathematical,’ I replied. ‘I fear I have a very superficial knowledge of anything else. Indeed, the more firmly held an opinion is, the more I am inclined to make fun of it.’

‘And very amusing you are too, sir. I have read some of your satires in the London magazines. But I cannot imagine that you are likely to make similar jokes at the expense of Dr Pusey’s learned writings. You are a man in Holy Orders after all – even if they are minor ones – and, if I may say so, you have seriously neglected your spiritual duties at the college. I don’t believe you have read the Lesson in chapel more than twice this whole year. No, no, Mr Jameson, mathematician you may be, but you will oblige me by coming along. We start tomorrow immediately after Hall dinner. Half past eight o’clock in the Old Buttery.’

I was utterly dismayed. My opinion is that the Church of England is an utterly illogical institution and it no more deserves the thousands of words expended on its behalf than, say, a lobster. In fact, a lobster may deserve more words, and is certainly a good deal tastier. There have been times in the past when I have almost dreaded entering the senior common room for fear of what I would encounter: dirty teacups set down everywhere and no place to sit that did not put one within spitting distance of a theological argument. I often found myself squashed up between a mad vicar from Fairyland and an equally certifiable archdeacon from Nurseryland, who both seemed set fair to put my head into the teapot if I did not agree with them. I had thought that by now all the sound and fury generated by the Tractarians had largely dissipated. But it seems that as soon as any controversy threatens to die down, there is a man like the Dean who will breathe fire into its embers and start it up again.

He smiled. ‘By the way,’ he said. ‘You will be interested to know that Daniel Baxter will be in attendance. He was my pupil, you know, once upon a time. He will bring a certain liveliness to the debate, you can be sure.’ And, with that, he flitted off into the cloisters like an absent-minded bat.

Of course, at the time, I was unaware of the magnitude of the favour he had done me. Rather, I was irritated to have been ambushed in this fashion; and the notion of Daniel Baxter’s presence at the proposed meetings in no way allayed my annoyance at having to leave my comfortable chair and be bored on a bench for two hours a week. So, the following evening, when I took myself to the Old Buttery and saw the person I presumed to be Baxter – a handsome and athletic man surrounded by a coterie of admirers – I declined to acknowledge him, and sat in a corner, well away from him. Baxter was clearly used to being the centre of attention, and I had no wish to increase his self-importance. And, during the course of the debate, whenever he got up to speak – and he spoke often, loudly and enthusiastically – I yawned and made amusing sketches of him in my notebook – depicting him as a preaching toad, or even a monkey in a mitre.

Yet, I could see he was by no means as confident a man as he pretended. He would often lose the thread of his argument and his eye would fall upon mine in an anxious way, as if seeking encouragement or approval – although why my approval was of any importance to him was beyond my understanding; I am a poor speaker at best, and in that feverish atmosphere I tried not to speak at all, rising only to correct any matter of fact or an aberration of the rules of grammar. Perhaps Baxter was made nervous by my stony manner and the scribbling of my pencil every time he rose to his feet. Perhaps he saw me simply as another opponent to be won over by his charms.

But whatever it was, as the weekly meetings continued, I found myself beginning to like him. He possessed an earnest sincerity that was hard to resist, and made a point of detaining me after the meetings to ask my opinion on this or that. On one or two occasions he had even accompanied me as far as my rooms, engaging me in serious conversation for up to half an hour, deferring to me in a way I found most flattering. I have to admit I had not enjoyed such a demonstration of friendship since my schooldays, and I looked forward each week to the time when we would meet. The debates themselves were no better than I had expected and my notebooks quickly filled up with drawings of ancient theologians and bits of comical verse. But I was surprised to discover that Baxter – in spite of his enthusiastic speeches – was also unimpressed by the polemical nature of the proceedings. One evening, he took me by the arm. ‘Well, we have all spoken loud and long, but I find myself no nearer to the answers I crave. What about you, Jameson? Are you satisfied?’

I shrugged. I had not anticipated satisfaction, so its absence was a matter of indifference to me, yet Baxter’s face lit up. ‘I see you are like me, Jameson. You long in your soul for something more intimate. Maybe we could find a private time to examine our consciences honestly without the need to take up a position? A kind of mutual confessional
–
if I may use so Roman a word?’

Although such intimate exchanges were generally anathema to me, I did not wish to lose Baxter’s friendship so soon and I nodded my agreement. He was delighted, and clasped me to his bosom, a gesture which disconcerted me considerably. (I had noticed his frequent habit of touching people on the arm and hand, and clapping them on the back. Even pens, books and the corners of tables were subject to his caress.) ‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘I cannot tell you how much this means to me.’

It was readily decided that I should be the host, as I was lucky enough to have a comfortable set of rooms overlooking the college garden, whereas he was a busy paterfamilias in a house where callers were a continual cause of interruption. So, once a week after Evensong, we would drink a modicum of sherry and eat two or three fairly dry biscuits while we examined our position with regard to the spiritual authority of the Anglican Church – ending always with a solemn prayer by Baxter for guidance in the week ahead. The discussions were generally interesting, in spite of Baxter’s tendency to generalities. ‘What are candles?’ he would say. ‘What is incense? What is the wafer at the altar and the draining of the cup, if we do not carry the Love of God in our hearts?’ He would then go on to question High Church practices in general and the Popish notion of celibacy in particular, in an attempt to persuade me that the life of a bachelor don was neither good nor healthy.

‘Christian life is family life,’ he would say, heartily. ‘Without my family, I am nothing. They are the better part of me. I rejoice in the Lord’s goodness to have given me such a loving wife and four healthy children.’

When he was in this vein, I let him expound – although his words held such an implicit reproach to my bachelor status that it was hard not to take offence. But I did no more than gently intimate that family life was not meant for everyone. ‘I am rather crabby and crotchety, as you know. No sensible woman would have me.’

‘You never know, John,’ he would always conclude. ‘You never know.’

But I do know, of course. I know my nature very well.

But it was part of Baxter’s generous nature to share all his thoughts with me and during these times of heart-searching I learned a great deal about him – in particular that his aforementioned loving family comprised a wife, three girls and a boy – the boy, Benjamin, being the youngest by some ten years. And one day when he was being particularly intimate, having imbibed more than his usual amount of sherry, he confessed that he had once feared he would never see the day when he would hold that son in his arms.

‘After Daisy,’ he said, ‘Mrs Baxter was very unwell and it seemed unlikely she could survive the rigours of another confinement. We had to practise – discretion. For years I was forced to hold back from my desires, to fight every night the demons of the flesh. But I have to confess to you, John, that one night I gave in to temptation. God forgive me, but I did. It is hard, you know, to go without love – without the physical expression of love, I mean – and that night I fell short of my duty.’

He looked searchingly at me then, as if wondering if I myself had ever known the love of a woman or the nightly temptation of the flesh; that I might confess some similar failing on my part that might mitigate or excuse his own lack of chastity. I said nothing. There was, of course, nothing to say. I am a single man, a college tutor and a deacon of the Church of England. No woman sets a foot in my chambers. I lead perforce a chaste and blameless life.

Clasping his hands as if in prayer, and taking no heed of my considerable discomfort with the topic, he added, ‘And when it became clear that our night of bliss had borne its fruit, I feared my punishment would be to lose that wife I so much cherished. I prayed, then, John – how I prayed! We both did, Mrs Baxter and I, every night side by side in our night attire, down on our knees, asking most earnestly that her life should be spared not only for the expected infant’s sake, but for all three of our girls, that they might continue to know the guiding hand of their mother as they grew to womanhood. A father, you know, however loving, is no real substitute for a mother as the daily mentor and companion of young girls.’

I felt quite put out to hear him say that. I am of the opinion that a father, if well-intentioned and conscientious, can do all that a mother might, and more. But I have no children, and I know Society takes parental advice very ill from an unmarried man, so I bit my lip. ‘Well, that is fortunately a theoretical matter now,’ I said. ‘You have your son, and your wife is happily still with us.’

He nodded, his eyes filling with tears. ‘Yes, oh, yes! God is full of grace and listened to our prayers. Mrs Baxter survived her ordeal – although it was a long and painful one – and Benjy was delivered safely, nine months to the day. He is my special treasure. A gift from the Lord; a sign of forgiveness.’

‘Amen,’ I said, touched at his emotion. ‘I am glad that you have a son and heir, Daniel, and that you take such delight in him. Many men seem to favour their sons, I have noticed. A child to carry on the family name, to follow in his father’s footsteps – play cricket and go to university and so forth. But, in general, I find little girls far gentler and more appealing.’

He looked surprised, as if he could not conceive of such a preference. Then he laughed. ‘But of course you know nothing of the reality of the fair sex. You spend all your time hidden away in your college room, teaching young men who are equally confined. Little girls are no doubt as strange and fabulous to you as unicorns.’

‘On the contrary, I am very used to the company of girls,’ I said with some asperity. ‘I had seven younger sisters at home and entertained them for many years – with considerable success I might add.’

‘John, you astonish me! Who’d have thought it?’ He gave me a close look, as if to see in my face something previously hidden – maybe the impression of my sisters’ features, or a ringlet or hair ribbon he had somehow overlooked in our months of companionship. ‘Well, in that case, I absolutely require that you come up to the vicarage and entertain
us.
We have more than enough to spare of female company there. Daisy is only ten, but Christiana and Sarah are of an age for conversation, and it might do them good. And Mrs Baxter will, I’m sure, be delighted. She cannot see what takes me away from her so long every Wednesday evening and has tired of delaying supper for me.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, somewhat agitated at the prospect of a family gathering, even with the inducement of three young girls to be entertained. ‘Although you must warn your wife that I am an inept figure in the drawing room. My stammer, you know. It’s worse when I am in company, as you’ll have noticed. But I am at ease with children – especially the younger ones.’ Even then, the very name ‘Daisy’ conjured up in me a vision of innocence that made my heart quicken.