The notion came to me one warm autumn afternoon, as I was reading
"Grace Abounding."
From the first page I struck up a living friendship with the Bedford
tinker, though he had been in heaven for near two hundred years.
I understood him as he talked aloud to himself and peered within
to discover who and what was this John Bunyan inside him. I liked
too--the more so as it was so new in print and from the mind of
some-one-else--the careful detail with which he told of his earthly
outward life: his descent, his lowly parentage, his school, his early
days, though I could have wished for details of his Aunt Jaels and
Uncle Simeons. These did not lack when he talked of his "inside"
life, and told me (who knew) of his childhood's "fearful dreams" and
"dreadful visions" and "thoughts of the fearful Torments of Hell fire,"
because of which "in the midst of my many Sports and Childish Vanities,
amidst my vain Companions, I was often much cast down and afflicted."
Why should not I tell a like story of my soul day by day, detail by
detail?
The notion rolled through me like a tide. I closed the book, sprang up,
shut my eyes, and walked round and round the room in my excitement.
Today, this moment, I would begin. Then as I turned my mind to
practical details--the book I should write it in, the hiding-place
for the book--hesitations appeared. Wasn't it a bit funny? Did other
people do it? Why, yes: John Bunyan was "other people" right enough,
and a good Christian too. And I remembered that I had heard somewhere
before of a man who wrote down the story of his life. In a few seconds
I placed my man. Poor old Robinson Crewjoe.
I ran into the kitchen.
"Mrs. Cheese, you know Robinson Crewjoe you told me about, didn't you
say you could read about it all in a book he'd written himself?"
"'E wrote it pon a bit buke 'e vound on the Wreck, so's 'e shidden
virget it, I reckon, or so's ither volk cude rade it arterwards--"
"Yes, but _when_ did he write it?"
"Ivry day, avore goin' to bed nights. Ivrythin' 'e'd been doin' that
day. Leastways that's what my ol' Uncle Zam ollers did, who kep' a buke
of the zame zort."
"What was it like? Please tell me about Uncle Sam's book."
"Wull, my Uncle Zam, over to Exmoor, was very aiddicayted he was, a
turrable 'and vur raidin' and writin'. So long as 'twas a buke 'e'd
love'n and spell over'n vur hours and as 'appy as a king, as the zayin'
is, but 'e liked best writin' down in this lil buke uv 'is own--a
_dairy_ they caals un. Why fer I don't knaw, 'cause tizzen much to do
wi' the milk, so far as I can see, and I ain't blind neither. Wull, in
this lil buke, and there was eight or nine uv them avore 'e died, 'e
put down ivry blimmin' thing 'e did, 'tis true's I zit yer. Wull, when
the funeral was over and all the cryin', 'is widder--my ol' Aunty Sary
that was, bein' curyus like bein' a lil bit like you--thought she'd be
findin' zummat tasty in these ol' dairies, and tuke it into 'er 'ead
to try to rade all the eight bukesful, or mebbe 'twas nine. But 'er
cud'n 'ardly du it, not bein' aiddicayted like 'im, and when 'er vound
it tuke 'er 'alf the day to spell over 'alf wan page, 'er got 'erself
into a turrable upset, an threw un all pon the vire, 'ollern' out 'Burn
un all, burn un all, burn un all! Then 'er bangs out uv the rume. I
was up vrom me zeat avore you cude say Bo, and rescued the bettermos'
part uv them avore they was burnt. Aw my dear days, I niver did rade
zuch stuff. 'E'd put 'pon they bukes ivry drimpy lil thing e'd done and
zeen and zed they vorty years: 'ow many calves the ol' cow 'ad 'ad, how
much butter an' crame 'e zold to Markit, all mixed up wi' stuff about
the pixies 'e zaw, or _thort_ 'e zeed, top uv Exmoor o' nights; and a
lot o' religyus writin,' for 'e was a gude Christyen for all 'is pixies
and goblins, wi' plenty 'o sound stuff 'bout 'Eaven and 'Ell, and a
middlin' gude dale about 'is sowl...."
These were valuable hints. My resolve was confirmed. I would follow in
the footsteps of John Bunyan and Robinson Crewjoe and Uncle Zam.
That day, October the Twelfth 1860 (thirty-seven years ago come
Tuesday), in the unused half of an old blue-covered exercise book, I
began. With what a sense of pride, of importance, of creativeness, of
high adventure, I scrawled in great flourishing capitals my heading:
THE LIFE OF MARY LEE
Written By Herself.
My opening sentence was this: "I was born at Tawborough on March the
Second, 1848." I have put it also on the first page of this present
record, which from now, my thirteenth year onwards, is but a matured,
shortened and bowdlerized version of the diary, eked out--more often
for atmosphere than detail--by memory. The keeping of the diary,
however, weakened my memory; which, though of its old photographic
accuracy in what it held, yet held far less. I did not need to
remember things, I said to myself: I could always find them in the
book. Certainly for the first few years, I could have found there
everything that was worth reading, as well as everything that wasn't;
in later years, alas, I have succumbed to the fatal habit of compact
little paragraphs epitomizing whole weeks, and even months, as fatal
as the Sundries habit in a household account-book. Indeed, despite the
pathetic leniency we show towards the trivial when it is the trivial in
our own life, I find the earlier pages of my diary tiresomely full; far
too fond of "What we had for dinner" or "Aunt Jael's scripture at this
evening's worship."
As I told my diary everything, it began to take the place of my other
self, and it is in this sense that I mean that the feeling of dual
personality was weakened. The self-to-self talks became fewer; the
sense of a person telling and a person told was blurred. Unspoken notes
in a grimy exercise book took their place; although at first, and
always in exciting passages, I would talk aloud, and take down, so to
say, from my own dictation.
This early diary is morbid, precocious, shrewd, petty, priggish,
and comically, pitifully sincere. Religion looms large, with food
a bad second. This is natural enough. John Bunyan's whole aim was A
Brief Revelation of the Exceeding Mercy of God in Christ to his poor
Servant, John Bunyan; Robinson Crewjoe was not the man to let slip
any opportunity for a pious ejaculation, a moral reflection or a
godly aside; while Uncle Zam, according to his niece, took a middlin'
gude deal of interest in his "Sowl." These great exemplars helped to
increase what would have been in any case a heavy disproportion of holy
matter. This kind of thing is typical of the earlier years:--
FEB. 13. Woke still worried by the problems of Infinity in Time
and Space, tho' less despairing and appalled than the day before.
I pray, _pray_, PRAY; but all the time at the back of my soul,
the fear is still there:--Eternity faces me tho' I dare not face
Him, and _Where_ may my Eternity not be spent? Perhaps "One Day at
a Time" is the only way. A wet day. Read Exodus this afternoon.
Aunt Jael rough; so held forth to the Lawn children this evening.
They are _too_ appreciative; roar with laughter at everything I
say; it does me good, though this is set off by the harm done me
by encouragement in self-esteem. But no, no, no--I have a good and
great ideal for this Mary, that I must strive to fulfil; and petty
ministerings to her (my) vanity must be quashed and that right
sternly. Laurie Prideaux gave me some chocolate cream. He is an
obliging, kind, childlike, good, conceited boy. Polony for supper.
_Sunday._ Meeting. Bro. Quappleworthy on the Personal God. Saw Joe
Jones, I think in Bear Street: must be on holiday from Bristol.
Mrs. Cheese thought he was back. He did not see me; as he never
looked towards or acknowledged me, I assumed did not. To Lord's
Day School, two prayer-meetings, and Gospel-Service this evening.
_Very_ weary.
Like Uncle Zam on Aunt Sary, I indulged in a good deal of
"plain-spaikin" on Aunt Jael. The diary thus became invested with a
halo of danger. Suppose she found it in one of its many (and changing)
hiding-places! She would beat me utterly, burn the diary, and mock
cruelly at its contents. Yet it was from my Grandmother that I hid it
with my most ardent cunning. She would neither beat, nor burn, nor
mock, but I knew she would condemn it as "morbid" (the word is a later
acquisition), and search me with her kind common-sense eyes; and I
should be covered with shame. Not guilty shame, rather the shame a man
feels when his naked soul is shown to the world; the shame I always
felt when caught red-handed in one of my self-to-self declarations in
the attic. What if other eyes should read this for instance?
1860. Sept. 25. There are three months just to Christmas. _Then I
shall kiss Robbie._
All through my life these books of revelation have dogged me with the
daily fear that through them _I should be found out_; now that they
have served their purpose in helping me to compile this more permanent
record, I have decided, like Aunt Sary, to "burn un all." (Or nearly
decided; it is hard for a woman to destroy memorials of the past.)
The precautions I took, beyond subtle hiding, were: prayer, magic, and
the etching in red ink on each exercise-book-cover of this Device:--
PRIVATE
SHAME!
ON WHOEVER MAY THINK EVEN OF READING THIS
BOOK.
SHAME!
Whether in the worst of us, e. g. Aunt Jael, curiosity is
not a stronger passion than fear, and whether therefore this
curiosity-tempting cover might not do more harm than good, was a
problem and a worry that continually assailed me.
In connection with the diary, I must speak of the Resolves or
Resolutions I began to make. These were a result, on one side of my
growing sense of sin (egotism, ambition, triumph, revenge, hate,
greed, dirt, doubt), and on another side of an exactly opposite desire
to realize my imagined ambitions by equipping myself to achieve them
(wide knowledge, better health, nicer looks). They were written on
half-sheets of note-paper, which I immediately put in an envelope. This
was sealed and hidden in between the pages of that day in the diary
on which the resolution was formed. The moment the least part of the
current resolve was broken--I knew it always by heart--I had to break
open the envelope and begin afresh. The old unkept resolve I placed in
the page of the day on which it was broken. Thus an enveloped, sealed,
still-in-action Resolve was kept with the day in which it was formed,
a discarded one on the day on which I fell. I usually began again on a
day that would give me a clean start, such as the first of the month,
or a magic date, or some special anniversary. Here is one that had a
pretty long run:--
March 9th, 1861.
_My Mother died thirteen years ago today_--Therefore from now
onwards I DO RESOLVE:--
I. EVERY DAY
To drink a glass of cold water before breakfast and } To help
at night (better than senna) } me be
To go for a walk } healthy
To brush my hair well } To help
To clean my teeth hard } me be
} pretty
To learn at least seven new verses of the Word by } To help
heart and revise seventeen old ones } me be
} good
} To help
To tell the Lord everything in prayer } me be
} Him
II. NEVER
To steal oatmeal from the larder (as I did three times last week)
To think dirty things (as I did last Wednesday when I laughed when
Mrs. Cheese said Aunt Jael's drawers were like two red bladders).
III. ALWAYS
To eat slowly (37 bites to each mouthful)
To be like God would like.
RESOLVED, with Mother's help
Mary Lee.
20 minutes past 6.
March 9th, 1861.
For any one to whom this absurd document is absurd only, comment would
be but adding insult to injury. Here is another:--
_New Year's Day_, 1862.
(Beginning of a new year and third anniversary of my Flight
from Torribridge)
For this year I am going to make no special resolutions put out in
a list but at
EVERY
moment I shall ask myself this question:
WHAT WOULD THE LORD DO IF HE WERE ME?
Then I shall never do wrong, and I shall be fitted and worthy for
His service.
So with His help I sign
Mary Lee.
Jan. 1st, 1862.
10.30 (a.m.)
This magnificent resolve seems not to have been specific enough, alas,
for my frail endeavours; under a date but six or seven weeks later I
find this:--
1862. THIS YEAR'S RESOLVE.
(New Version)
WHAT WOULD THE LORD DO IF HE WERE ME?
_EVERY DAY_
(1) He would pray, _hiding nothing_.
(2) He would learn a new piece of the Word, and _more_ than Aunt
Jael made Him.
(3) He would be clean (ears, face, nails, teeth, hands, _heart_).
(4) He would go a nice long walk (instead of "poking indoors" as
_She_ calls it)
_AND HE WOULD NEVER_
(5) Have sinful thoughts like
Spite
Vengeance
Vileness
Pride
(6) Say sinful words, like
----
----
(7) Like sinful things, like
Praise
Riches
Eating
The Pleasure I have whenever the worst part of the "For Ever"
Fear is over
Flattery
Fame
(Signed) MARY.
Feb. 19th, 1862.
If this era of diaries and resolutions saw the two-persons idea for
a while less distinct, all the other mysteries of my earlier days
remained. I still, for instance, put everything I did to the test of
reason and instinct, obeying always the latter. I believed more than
ever in my private magic and was persuaded that there were special
acts, gestures and words which would enable me to perform miracles, if
only I could discover them. Dreaming away during Breaking of Bread at
the Room, I would be assailed by the desire to turn the wine in the two
glass decanters into water; Lord's Day after Lord's Day I sought the
magic gesture in vain. I knew there was a word that, if cried aloud,
just once, would enable me to soar upward to the sky and fly about
angel-like among the stars. I never found it, though a hundred times it
was on the tip of my tongue, till I was half wild with hope. Another
well-cherished notion was this: that if my mother came to me again, and
we could achieve a complete embrace, she would be able to take me away
with her to heaven for a space, till a moment when she kissed me again,
before the very face of God, and I would swiftly return to earth.
The only magic with which I actually succeeded, or believed I did
(which is the same) was Numbers. 1, 10, 17, 437, 777 were magic: 7
and 237 were big magic; 37 was arch-magic, the Holy Number. In every
need I called upon them. If Aunt Jael were flogging me, what I had to
do was to count a perfectly even 37, timing it to finish at the same
moment as her last stroke. I believed positively that it eased my hurt,
and I believe so still, for my attention was concentrated not on Aunt
Jael's blows but on my magic: so far, if no farther, is faith-healing
a fact. Or I would jump out of bed in the morning, and begin to count,
always evenly. If when I finished dressing, I was at a magic number
(the correct moment was when I shut the bedroom door behind me, though
for a second chance I allowed reaching the bottom stair) then the whole
day would be lucky. Or out in the street, the amount of house frontage
I could cover in thirty-seven strides I believed positively would be
the same as the frontage of the big house I should one day possess. So,
like the peasant in Count Tolstoi's tale, I strode mightily.
A big house was one of my few material ambitions at this time, with
money to spend on grand furniture for it ("Riches," vide Resolution
of 19|2|62). Even here my need was chiefly a spiritual one. I thought
that in a vast house, utterly alone, I should have a perfect place
for practising echoes, one of the means by which I hoped to solve the
riddle of my existence. In the midst of a deathly silence I should
stand in the great marble hall and shout.
"Mary Lee, what are you? What are you?"
A hundred echoes would swiftly call back through the silence, and I was
on the brink of understanding----
A different method of solving the haunting riddle was to whisper my
own name quite suddenly in a silent room, when alone with myself.
Sometimes the physical effect was so curious that I was certain of
success. Fervent praying to the point of ecstasy, more often to the
point of exhaustion, was another way. Sometimes I was able, it seemed,
to disembody myself; my soul left my body (at which it could look
back as though it belonged to some one else) and wandered nowhere,
everywhere, becoming in some half-realized fashion a part of everything
in space, and an inhabitant of all periods of time. I remembered, in
the fleeting fashion of dreams, things I had done before I was born,
in some hitherto unremembered life. Then, again, things I had done
still earlier, in distant lives and far-away centuries; till, at last,
I remembered myself for ever and for ever in the past, and my soul
fled back into my body to hide from the new terror: Eternity behind as
well as before me, the unpitying everlastingness of the past as of the
future.
The latter was still the unappeasable fear which hung like an evil
menace over every moment of my life. If I thought it out and lived
through the mad blinding moment of terror as my brain battered itself
against Infinity, I gained nothing; the terror flung me back. If I was
wise, and refused to think of it, I knew myself for an ostrich with my
head in the sand. If I dared not face it, it was there beholding me
just the same, unconquered, unconquerable.
Was there no escape? The only notion I could conceive, and which I
cherished with most desperate hope, was that Love, if ever it could
possess my whole soul and being, would slay the King of Terrors once
for all. How could Love so come to me? Sometimes I thought it would
be God. I knew that my Grandmother had a joy, a serene and fearless
delight in the love of the Lord, which I did not share. I prayed
fervently for this: that I might know the peace of God, which is
perfect understanding; that I might possess this divine love, which
I could see in her but did not feel in myself; that it might free
me from the Fear which darkened my soul. And sometimes I thought it
would be Robbie. In his kind embrace, not in foolish echoes or magical
tricks, might I find a perfect happiness which would transform and
transfigure me, till I could turn a laughing face upon the Terror. Then
would I long for Eternity; an Eternity of Love. And my body and soul
would fly back to Christmas Night. Ah tender arms around me, ah dear
little boy beside me, ah tears, ah joy, ah Robbie!