Dear Heart, How Like You This (6 page)

“My boy,” the priest replied, beginning the descent once more, “I believe strongly that any worthwhile poetry will always strike a responsive chord in the person hearing it. Whether as if soft breaths on a standing-harp or a shiver running up and down your backbone. Perhaps, Tom,” he now said, looking straight at me as he stopped at the bottom of the hill to wait for me to catch up to him, “the poem could even be a compelling call—something you cannot avoid—calling you to some kind of action. Aye, my boy. There are poems that to me have been as if battle cries.

“My lad, always remember this:” Father Stephen continued, as we walked side by side along the narrow lanes taking us back to the castle. “Plato’s overall message in his discussions regarding poetry is that true poetry, like music, comes from the evolved soul, and the evolvement of the soul depends entirely on the growth of a person’s inner being. Remember, Tom,” the Priest asked then, “how Jesus told us that ‘Man does not live by bread alone’ but requires spiritual nourishment to truly live?”

“Yea, Father,” I said, trying hard to keep up with him, physically as well as intellectually.

“Tom, also remember true poetry comes from what is inside of you, something that is drawn out from the deep springs of your very soul. Furthermore, I believe with all my heart that the composition of poetry is simply one of the many ways we have to be true children of God. The rendering of a true poem, my dear boy, is man doing as his God did when he created us.”

Father Stephen stopped. All I seemed to hear was his loud breathing as he leant his body upon a huge oak tree. He looked up at the unclouded sky, smiling as if reflecting upon something truly beautiful yet also mysterious. His attention, just as quickly, returned to me.

“I feel so strongly that while we are all bound to this earthly existence, ’tis necessary—no, no, more than that, Tom. My boy, ’tis essential we seek out ways to be creative, for creativity keeps alive our souls and keeps us in constant touch with God and the marvellous creation that we have all around us.”

Whenever Father Stephen said something like this, I always knew to take three swift steps away from him. Our dear Priest tended, without warning, to fling out his arms as if he was attempting to embrace all the world around him, but what really would happen is the good Father tended to knock over anyone or anything standing in his way.

*

It struck me many times during my growing years that Father Stephen’s talents were such that he was capable of being many different things. Not long after reaching my eighth year, during a pause in one of our outside lessons when curiosity outweighed caution, I asked why he had become a priest. For a long time after my question, he just sat there, resting against one of his cherished oak trees, with his eyes half-shut, seemingly lost amongst almost forgotten memories. I thought my question would go unanswered, which was very unsettling—our priest was always one for answers. But at length, he began to speak.

“Why am I a priest? Why, Tom… I remember my mother… Yea, Tom, I remember my mother…”

“Your mother?” I felt confused, unsure how this could be in any way an explanation.

“Aye, my mother. Upon her, God bestowed so many, wonderful gifts. I was her firstborn. For the first years of my life, she and I were the only people in our world. My father was a merchant and had left us for the Continent shortly after my birth, so for the first years of my childhood there was no other child, no other person to intrude upon our idyll. Yea, my mother and I were very close and I was immensely proud to have this beautiful, poetic, and artistic human being as the woman who had bore me into the world. During those first years, she took such joy to be able to include me in the world she created through her imagination. A private world that only she and I shared; a truly ethereal world full of enriched sights and sounds.”

Father Stephen became silent for a moment, and then looked at me with eyes that told me clearly that the memories haunted and tormented him still.

“But at the end of the third year, my father returned. By the fourth year there was another child. And another at the end of the fifth. And another at the end of the sixth; after the birth of that baby, my mother lay dead. Gone forever from this world—all the beauty of my childhood buried deep, deep beneath the cold earth. I watched my mother during those last three years of her life, Tom.”

Father Stephen paused and breathed deeply, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand, as if his head ached. He looked at me with his old, blue eyes, bleary and bloodshot. Yet it seemed to me that I could easily see within this elderly man a small boy—almost the same age as I was now—heartbroken, made suddenly alone, so full of sorrow. And the memory of having lost my own, dear mother made my eyes fill with tears—tears I now brushed away. Father Stephen looked abruptly away from me, and rubbed his hands together.

“I saw my mother’s light grow dim through sickness and childbirth, Tom, until it was at last doused forever. I was close to eight when she died. My father placed me in an Order. I suppose I could not hide the fact that I blamed him and wished he had never returned from his long journey. By the Blessed Virgin, I swore at eight that I would never cause the death of any woman, especially a woman I loved. I suppose becoming a priest was a way of keeping that vow. Perhaps, lad, I am too selfish a person to live completely in the world. Being a priest is a good life. It gives you the choice of thinking only of yourself and God. I do not think I would have made a good husband and father. I like too much sitting underneath a tree and just thinking.”

*

After the works of Homer, Father Stephen introduced us to the teachings of Socrates, as related by his former student Plato, which then led on to Plato’s own philosophies. I reflected in later years that a great part of the reason he was so drawn to the study of Greek was that he was very much a devotee of Socrates from ancient times. Sometimes, I am even tempted to think—knowing full well I sin most mightily in allowing myself such thoughts—that Father Stephen would have been hard pressed to say whose teachings were greater: Socrates or Jesus Christ. Though Father Stephen’s priestly calling would no doubt win out in the end, to declare the teachings of the Son of God as being the greater.

Father Stephen was a wonderful teacher who forever thought of different ways to aid us four on the paths of learning. On many an occasion he wrote a brief play that all of us would then act out in order to help us to grasp some of the reasonings of Plato and Socrates…

*

Within a dark wood-panel chamber, bright sunlight beams through a high lattice window, showering diamond shapes over the forms of four children. Sitting together on a low bench, the two boys and two girls fidget, holding lutes upon their laps. From a stool near the hearth, where a low fire burns, Father Stephen arises, straightening the folds of his grey cassock.

“So, my young players, we all know well our parts. Shall we make a start, do you think?”

The children look at one another, then back at the priest; one boy gives him a quick nod. Gazing at them with a serious glint, Father Stephen lifts his chin.

“All right then, I shall leave the chamber. But when I return, remember ’tis not Father Stephen you see, but Socrates from times long gone.”

The priest strides over to the nearby door. Without a backward glance, he closes the door behind him. The room now emptied of Father Stephen’s presence, the children sneak glances at one another, straightening their forms. George begins to strum a song on his lute, humming under-breath. Tom lays a hand on the chords of his cousin’s instrument.

“No more, coz. He’s coming back.”

Pushing open the door, Father Stephen enters the room, but his stance and walk has changed, and gives an air of a more ancient man. He comes and sits amongst the children, picking up a spare lute from the floor and begins to tune it.

George clears his throat.

“Good morrow, Grandfather.”

Mary and Anne nudge one another and laugh, Mary biting her lower lip when her giggles threaten to become uncontrollable. With a quick frown at the girls, Tom, sitting beside Father Stephen, strikes up a more serious pose, peering at the man in a puzzled fashion.

Appearing to notice, Father Stephen gives Tom a broad smile.

“My name is Socrates. Could you give me the pleasure, young man, of knowing yours?”

George nudges Tom in the ribs, and Tom squirms with embarrassment, but he still manages to sputter out: “Phaidros, sir.”

“Oh, please, please, Phaidros! Not Sir! We are all students here. I am here to learn. Just as you are here to learn.”

Tom looks more boldly at his teacher.

“But, you are a grown man, master! Why do you come here, Socrates?”

“Oh, because of a dream, Phaidros.”

“A dream?” The boy speaks as if bewildered.

The priest plays three notes upon his lute before looking again at Tom.

“Yes, I dreamt that my God came to me and told me to make music. But I do not know if the God meant me to make music with my soul or my hands. So here I am!”

The girls giggle again; Tom ignores them and pretends to be confused.

“How can you make music with your soul, Socrates?”

“What a good question, my boy, and I have always thirsted for knowledge and answers to good questions. But I tell you, Phaidros, the longer I have lived, the more I have realised simply this: the more I have sought to know, the less I am able to answer. Nonetheless, Phaidros, let me try for you an answer; you can tell me if you think the answer is good or bad. Close your eyes, Phaidros.”

Tom closes his eyes. Anne, gesturing with a finger to her lips to George and Mary, swings herself around on the bench, crouching upon her knees. She places her hands across Tom’s eyes, grinning over his shoulder at Father Stephen. The priest grins at her, but then returns his gaze to Tom.

“What do you see, boy?”

“Nothing but darkness.”

“Can you see a beginning or end to the darkness?”

Aware of Anne balanced behind him, Tom grins and gives a slight shake of the head.

“No. Not really.”

Anne takes away her hands from Tom’s eyes, lowering them to rest on his shoulders.

Father Stephen lets out a contented sigh.

“I feel ’tis likewise with the soul. The soul is the unseen part of us, which is infinite compared to our seen part. I believe the only true part of us is the soul; thus the only true music is that which is made by the soul. Does this help, Phaidros?”

“No. I do not understand.”

“Nor do I, but at least knowing that we do not understand leaves us free to gain understanding.”

*

Aye—this was the type of bait our wise old priest put before our young noses; firstly in English, then gradually adding Greek words. Eventually we were reciting our plays entirely in Greek. Regarding my memory of this particular play, I felt at the time that Father Stephen made use of the word
infinity
deliberately—as a little girl, Anna was always fascinated with the concept of something going on forever and ever.

One of the loveliest memories of my childhood (and there are so many to remember) is of Anna sitting on Father Stephen’s lap, under a favourite spreading oak tree, trying to determine what sort of things could be described as infinitudes and the kind of things that were not.

“Father Stephen, do you think there are an infinite number of people?”

“Little one, infinity means that the number has no end. I think it should be possible to count all the people in the world.” Father Stephen appeared to be in a half-doze as he sat there shaded from the sun.

Anne stayed silent for a moment, clearly pondering what he had said. Then she looked back up at him, and shook him hard to gain his full attention.

“But, Father, people keep on having babies. So the number keeps on going on and on. Would that not mean there are an infinite number of people?”

Wide-awake now, he looked long at Anne, then laughed his great, deep rumble of a laugh.

“Anne! You are a clever girl! That’s a very interesting concept. But when people die, surely…”

Anne broke excitedly into his reasonings.

“But, Father, there will always be more people to replace a person who has died. When father and mother die, there is George, Mary and I to take their places. And my children will take my place when I die—I want lots and lots. So the number keeps on going on and on and on…”

“What a philosopher I have in you, my child.” Father Stephen smiled broadly at her. “Just keep asking your questions, my dear, and I will run out of answers… which is how it should be… yea, how it should be.” And he leaned his body against the trunk of the oak, and looked at the sky. I looked too, my gaze following the branches that reached up for the sky, a sky sliced into blue daedal shapes by verdant leaves.

*

George, Anne, and I were all swept away by the idealism of Socrates. Especially the romance of this noble man dying for his ideals, and often we wondered aloud to each other if any of us would ever be brave enough to do likewise if the opportunity arose.

Even though, for other reasons than Socrates, I know now how Anne and George proved their bravery to the world. Anne, on the day before her death, joked with her attendants about how her slender neck would give the executioner an easy job, saying also she foresaw how history would see her: Anne Lack-a-head.