Restoration (35 page)

"In a Quaker house," said Ambrose, "all are equal before God."

"I know," I said, "but not in society. In society, all women who come to forty come to an impoverishment of a certain kind."

"For this and a thousand other reasons," said Pearce, "have we turned our back on society. Neither Hannah nor Eleanor will ever be 'poor' in the sense that you mean."

"No," echoed Ambrose, "they will not."

"So be glad that you are here, Robert, and not where you once were."

In this way, adding a sniff that was like a neat full-stop to his sentence, Pearce declared the subject I had raised to be closed. Many of my utterances he believes to be a waste of my breath-"and we are allotted just so many breaths, Robert, and no more" – and indeed this one was a digression from the main purpose of the morning, which was to ascertain how the old woman had died.

None of us had been aware that she had been suffering from any illness, only a debility coming on her with old age and the ravages of her madness. Upon the opening up of her chest, however, we found the organ of the heart to have an encrusted and scabby appearance and the blood of her arteries and veins to be dark and sticky like treacle; and it did not take Pearce long to conclude that death had come with the cessation of the heart's pulse, the blood being too heavy to move. Ambrose and I nodded our agreement and I, for one, was relieved that we did not have to proceed to an examination of the liver or bowel. The autopsy concluded, Ambrose left Pearce and me to sew up the incision we had made and to clean and wrap the body for burial. I took a suturing needle from my box of instruments and Pearce was measuring for me a length of gut when he suddenly declared: "I am afraid of death, Robert."

I looked up at him, surprised. Towards the great subject of mortality Pearce had always shown an enviable indifference. When, on one of our angling trips near Cambridge, he had fallen from a little wooden bridge and almost drowned in the blanket-weed, he had shown neither fear of death nor gratitude towards me for saving his life by thrusting towards him a landing net with which I towed him into the bank. I had always believed that he thought of death as a kind of reward for his earthly goodness and abstemiousness and that in his hard-working life he sometimes found himself looking forward to it.

As I began to sew up the dead woman's chest, I now said as much to him. "You of all people I did not think would be afraid of it, John," I said. And he nodded. "Until recently, I was not," he said, "but for a month now – and I am telling this to you, Robert, and to no one else, for I do not want to trouble the others – I have felt certain symptoms come upon me, certain symptoms…"

"What symptoms?"

"Well… this catarrh of mine…"

"It's no more than a catarrh."

"And a very cold sweating on the crown of my head…"

"Just part of the rheum or catarrh, John."

"And a violent coughing and choking at night, with much pain in my lung."

"Pain in your lung?"

"Yes."

"How great is the pain?"

"Sometimes so great that I want to cry out."

The flesh of the dead woman, pinched between my finger and thumb for the suturing, was icy cold and I now felt slide into my heart a cold worm of fear.

I stared at Pearce. "Are you telling me that it is pain in your lung that has given you thoughts about dying?" I asked him.

"Yes. For it does not seem to go away. Nor this cold sweating of my head, despite the hot weather."

I said nothing. I finished sewing up the wound and together Pearce and I washed the woman and inserted wads of flax into the damp orifices of the body and put the winding sheet round it. Then I said: "Let me come to your room after the Meeting this evening, and I will examine you."

"Thank you, Robert," said Pearce. "And you will tell no one?"

"No. I will tell no one."

"Thank you. For they are such good people, are they not? I would not have them lose any sleep on my account."

I had been troubled all morning by thoughts of Katharine, my lust for her being of that most loathsome kind, where the very feelings of loathing seem to excite rather than to repel.

Now, hearing that my friend was ill, everything went from my mind, and I wished only for the day to pass so that I could make my examination of Pearce and allay his fears and mine by discovering in him some ague that would soon leave him – and nothing more.

The Meeting, however, was longer than usual that evening. After some moments of silence, Edmund stood up and said that he wished the Lord's forgiveness for what he was about to say, that he knew that the agitation he was in was unworthy and childlike, but something of great magnitude had begun to trouble him and that was the loneliness of Quakers.

He paused for a moment. No one asked him any question, but waited in silence for what he would say next. Then he took out of his pocket a crumpled piece of parchment and read some words as follows: "The Lord showed me, so that I did see clearly, that he did not dwell in temples which men had commanded and set up, but in people's hearts; for both Stephen and the Apostle Paul bore testimony that he did not dwell in temples made with hands, not even in that which he had once commanded to be built, since he put an end to it; but that his people were his temple, and he dwelt in them."

After this and in some distress, so that his rodent's eyes began to brim with tears, he said: "It has come to me, not from the Lord, but in some very fearful dreams I have had, that for every other kind and condition of worship there is some steeplehouse or temple or shrine or actual place where the faithful can go in, as if going to God's house like a visitor and where, outside of himself, he can feel the presence of God, his host. But for the Quaker there is no such place and if- as I have felt in these dreams of mine – he has some sudden perception that God is not there within him any more, where shall he go to find Him? He cannot go to God's house, for what he
is
is God's house! So what shall he do? Please tell me my good Friends, how shall he overcome his isolation and his loneliness?"

Edmund then sat down and blew his nose and as he fumbled for his handkerchief, his piece of parchment fell to the floor and for some reason this letting go of a thing that was precious to him, more than his anxiety or the words he had spoken, made me feel a great kinship with him and I would have stood up and tried to answer his question if I had had any notion of what the answer might be.

Some more silence lay on us then, but it was broken after a few minutes by Ambrose who reminded Edmund that Fox had warned us not to rely upon dreams and had said "except you can distinguish between dream and dream, you will mash or confound all together." And so a discussion of dreams began which lasted some while: how there are three sorts of dreams, one kind being caused by the business of the day and another being the whisperings of Satan and a third kind being true conversations between God and man.

Because I am still plagued with dreams of my past, with dreams of Celia in fact and of course of the King, I began privately to wonder in which category these dreams fell and so lost the thread of the meeting for a while. When I once more gave it my attention, I saw that it had become very passionate with, not only Edmund crying, but Hannah also, and Eleanor kneeling and taking up her Bible and declaring to us all that to enter the Book was like entering God's house and to begin to read from the Apostles was to feel a welcoming hand taking us in and guiding us and offering us nourishment "as we would offer cakes or broth to a visiting Friend."

This reminder to Edmund that if God mysteriously went missing from him, he could start to find him again in the Scriptures seemed to cheer and comfort him somewhat. I thought that the Meeting might end then, but it was Eleanor's request that we should spend five or ten minutes each seeking out some verse of the Gospels that was and always might be of particular comfort to us. And so we each went to fetch our own Bibles and then sat round in our semi-circle and made little readings from Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. All the Quakers, including Edmund, found passages most appropriate to what had happened during the Meeting about Jesus loving especially the poor and the childlike and saying, "Come unto me all ye that are heavy laden" and, "Suffer the little children" and so forth. But when it came to my turn, I chose the verse from Luke, Chapter Two, which describes the mortal fear of some common shepherds at the sight of God's messenger angel: "And lo, the Angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them, and they were sore afraid…"

I do not really know why I chose it, except that I seem to have known it by heart all my life and that I wanted to say to Edmund that God surely frightens us and makes us feel lonely just as often as he comforts us. Such fear, as in the case of the shepherds, may be a prelude to a revelation of great importance, but then again it may not be. In my own case, it is usually fear of suffering and death and a prelude to nothing at all.

I bade goodnight to all the Keepers. I went to my linen cupboard and lit my lamp and I took this with me to Pearce's room, so that we had two lamps by which to work. I also took with me my surgical instruments, cleaned meticulously these days, with their silver handles polished.

As Pearce sat down on his narrow bed, I said: "I'll wager you have caught a summer chill and this is all."

"No," said Pearce, "I have had chills before and this is not one."

"Well, let us see…"

I began by taking up a tongue depressor and looking down Pearce's throat, which did not appear inflamed though I noted that his tongue was a little swollen and coated and that his breath was foul. I then examined his neck for swellings and found none. Then, guided by his hand, I put my hand on that part of his head that felt cold to him and through his thinning hair felt it to be moist, as if there was a sweating there.

This done, I asked him to take off his coat and shirt and to lie down on his bed, so that I could listen to his heartbeat and his breathing.

While he undressed, I made notes about the strange moistness of his head, the cause of which I could not at first fathom. Then I looked up.

Pearce stood before me, folding his shirt into a bundle, wearing only his frayed black breeches and stockings. I thought back to the last time I had seen his arms and chest unclothed, which was during my vigil at his bedside in the Olive Room at Bidnold. He had been as thin then as he always was as a young man, but now the change in his appearance was distressing beyond words to behold, for he was like a veritable skeleton, with his chest quite concave and every rib visible to me, seeming to have no covering of soft warm flesh on him at all, rather his bones appearing held together by his white skin.

"Pearce…" I stammered, forgetting in my shock at the sight of him, his constant entreaty to me to call him John.

"Yes," he said, "I know. I am grown a little thin."

"A little!" I blurted out. "What has happened to you? Have you been fasting?"

"No, I eat what is put before me. I do not know how this weight has been lost."

"Lie down!" I snapped.

Obediently, Pearce set aside his bundle and lay on his back on his bed. I brought the two lamps as near to him as I could and looked down at him and, truly, I wanted to cuff him about his head for allowing his body, invisible to us all inside his baggy clothes, to waste away to this degree.

I took up his wrist and felt his pulse and was relieved to find it quite strong. Then I bent over him and put my head on his chest and heard his heartbeat against my ear.

"It is the lung you should be listening to," said Pearce.

"I know," I said crossly. "Inhale deeply and exhale as slowly as you can."

The intake of breath was not smooth. It had a kind of spasm to it, as if there was a sobbing in the body.

"Inhale again and keep on with slow breaths until I tell you to stop," I instructed.

I listened for several minutes, moving my listening position a little after every second breath, then I told Pearce to turn over and I put my ear to his back, which is a most wretched part of the man, being very scabby with pimples, and all of what I heard made me afraid, for I was in no doubt that the lungs were in distress, having in them a quantity of mucus or phlegm which, if it is not got out, will in time fill all the lung tissue and bring the sufferer to a cruel death like a slow drowning.

"It is a poisonous congestion, is it not?" said Pearce, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, which I now saw were very heavy with tiredness.

"Yes," I said.

"And the sweating and coldness in my head?"

"Probably a beneficial evacuation. A means by which the matter is endeavouring to come out."

"And if it does not come out?"

"We will bring it out. But you must rest, Pearce."

"John."

"John, then! But you will be neither one nor the other and no name will matter one whit, if you allow yourself to die!"

"I cannot stay in my bed, Robert, when there is so much work to do here."

"You must stay in your bed, or the remedies I shall prescribe will have no help from you, only hindrance."

"No, I cannot. For we must reveal nothing of this to Ambrose or the others."

"Pearce," I said crossly, "please do not make me lose my patience! Have I not, a hundred times since we met at Caius, allowed you to command me and let you be wise and done this or that thing at your bidding? I
have!
So do not even consider contradicting me on this score. For I am determined you will do this one thing that I am ordering you to do, and that is to stay here in your bed and let us care for you and not to stir from this room till you are well. And if you do not do this, John, you will no longer be my friend or any true Friend to Whittlesea. You will be in your grave!"