On Loving Josiah (22 page)

‘But how can someone be sure that they’re free? What if you fall in love with someone, for example? Does that mean that suddenly you’re no longer free, because you can’t control your own feelings?’ Josiah put down his scrubbing brush and looked up at his mentor.

Thomas answered, ‘But surely love is a good thing. When would you ever wish to control those feelings?’ When Thomas stood up and looked away, Josiah took hold of his hand and pulled him back towards him.

‘I would willingly be
your
slave,’ he said.

Thomas squeezed his hand but said nothing, either to quash or promote the sentiment. But the painting stopped soon afterwards, and another week went by.

The good, gentle, virtuous Dr Thomas Marius spent the week
justifying
, normalizing, and occasionally glorifying his relationship with the young Josiah. So he read reams of Greek and Latin
literature
, quite often spending his evenings in the Corpus library. In the spring term he was giving a series of lectures on Marcus Aurelius and Stoic philosophy, and he saw no reason not to get to grips with
Aurelius
’ love letters to his tutor. To be both wise and capable of love was beginning to seem to Thomas a perfect pathway through this life, for a life without feeling was meaningless. Human beings were born to
feel
, but this did not mean they should be reckless with such a
capacity
, rather they should learn to feel
correctly
and
within bounds
… and yet, when it came to love, why should there be any bounds? An infinite, boundless, constant love was unconditionally a good thing.

If the boy Marcus Aurelius remained constant in his devotion to his master, the nature of Fronto’s appreciation of his pupil shifted with time. At the beginning, Fronto sees their love in strictly
Platonic
terms; he distinguishes himself from Aurelius’ other suitors,
whom he disparagingly terms as
erotokoi
– lovers who desire him for themselves, who are possessive and needy and might even ‘pay a fee’ – while
he
gives money expecting nothing in return,
he
admires Aurelius disinterestedly, and appreciates the boy’s beauty as an
aesthetic
thing, not as something to be bought and used. But later on in his letters Fronto falls from his lofty ideals, he’ll give up his
consulship
to hold the boy in his arms. And whom do we like best, the younger or the older Fronto? Don’t we prefer him when he’s given up his highfalutin chatter? Isn’t being human first and foremost about needing and wanting?

Josiah’s progress in Latin was such that they were already
beginning
to read a few lines here and there from original texts. Thomas found him aphorisms to translate, which they would muse over together: Cicero said about himself that he sought the antidote to pain from philosophy –
Doloris medicinam a philosophia peto.
Is it possible, they discussed, to remove an emotional pain by rational thought alone? Thomas confessed that he had previously thought so but now he wasn’t so sure, while Josiah was the polar opposite, saying that so far he hadn’t been able to, but one day he thought he might. On Thomas probing into the nature of any
dolor
at his tender age, Josiah was evasive; though less so on the subject of destiny.
Quocumque trahunt Fata, sequamur
– wherever Fate drags us, let us follow, as suggested by Virgil. Josiah shocked Thomas by insisting that Fate would never get the better of him, that he was stronger than Fate itself, that if he wanted he could be in Scotland in
twenty-four
hours, or, for that matter, in any part of the world, because he had a passport and he knew where it was kept and he could just take it if he felt like it. Thomas limply asked Josiah where he’d been on holiday, anything to shift his strident tone, and Josiah told him he’d been on a school trip to Belgium to check out battlefields, but it had all been rubbish. So Thomas took him to a saying of Seneca,
Quos amor verus tenuit tenebit
– If the love which holds you together
is true, it will always hold you – and he asked Josiah if he felt more sympathetic to that particular sentiment.

Josiah shifted his tone completely. ‘A
verus amor
will hold people together forever,’ he said, sternly.

‘And how do you know about such a love?’ asked Thomas.

‘I know about parents, don’t I?’ he said.

‘Of course,’ repeated Thomas, and if there were a word to express being moved and disappointed all in one breath, that was what he felt then.

By the end of term, Josiah and Thomas had not only completed both volumes of the Oxford Latin course, but had applied three coats of white paint to Thomas’ walls. Thomas now decided that Josiah was ready to be introduced to Latin Literature proper, and, what with the advent of the Easter holidays and
Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses,
he found his old copy of Virgil’s
Eclogues
and suggested that a little pastoral poetry might be just the ticket.

Thomas knew from the first what he wanted to show Josiah. They plodded through the first eclogue like schoolmaster and schoolboy, and Josiah was quite frank, he found it both difficult and dull, and he wanted to read Catullus.

But Thomas was determined to read out the first two lines of the second eclogue (it was a bold venture, three sleepless nights’ worth) and so keen was he to know Josiah’s reaction to them, that his voice was flat and stilted.

‘Do you want to have a crack at translating any of that?’ Thomas asked, as if they were just any two lines.

‘These aren’t Latin names,’ observed the clever Josiah.

‘You’re right, they’re Greek. These pastoral idylls are directly
modelled on Greek lyric poetry. There’s the shepherd Corydon and Alexis.’

Josiah considered the first line. ‘Are they both male?’ he asked.

‘They are,’ said Thomas, who didn’t even dare look up.

‘“The shepherd Corydon burned for the beautiful Alexis.”’ Josiah translated with equanimity. ‘Why “burning”?’

‘That’s was good, Josiah, well done. “Burning” means “in love with” – aren’t there pop songs about “feeling the heat”? The next line’s more difficult, but we’ve just done the subjunctive – which verb is in the subjunctive?’

‘Was homosexuality quite mainstream, then?’ asked Josiah.

‘Corydon would not have called himself homosexual. He would have thought of himself as a man in love. Alexis is
formosus
, he is beautiful. The Greeks and Romans loved beauty wherever they found it. See what you make of the second line, Jo.’

‘I can’t do it,’ said Jo. ‘“
Domini
” means “of the master”.

‘Alexis was the “
delicias
” of his master, his master’s darling.’

‘So his master was in love with him too?’ asked Josiah, incredulous.

‘This is a story of unrequited love,’ said Thomas, using his sensible voice. ‘Now, which is the verb in the subjunctive?’

‘“
Speraret
”,’ said the good pupil.

‘And “
spero
” means?’

‘“Hope”,’ said Josiah. ‘He did not have a why he might hope, a reason to hope.’

‘That’s right, Corydon hasn’t a hope in hell, because Alexis’ employer is also in love with him.’

Josiah paused and said, ‘This is really strange, Tom. Is this normal life in Roman times?’

‘Among the upper classes it probably was.’

‘What, you mean they were all gay?’

‘They weren’t gay. But the culture was freer than ours, looser. The Romans didn’t categorize people like we do. As I said, they delighted
in beauty, wherever they found it. See here in line fifty-two, he’s in full pastoral flow, picking downy apples and chestnuts, “
mea quas
Amaryllis
amabat
”, which my Amaryllis used to love, because once he might have been picking apples and chestnuts with her and the mood, Josiah, just carries over: boys, girls, narcissus, fragrant dill and marjoram – it’s all in the one poem. And here, right at the end: “
me tamen urit amor
: quis enim modus adsit amori?
” “Love is consuming me, for can one set bounds to love?” For that is what sets love apart from everything else in this life, don’t you think, Jo? For love is limitless, timeless, eternal. Because it’s not an act of will, it’s a surrendering, it’s an act of faith. Love is in the realm of the divine. Can you understand that yet, Jo?’

‘I’ve known that forever,’ said Josiah.

That afternoon Thomas had a surprise for Josiah, for the theme of the day was smell, soft bilberries and yellow marigold, laurels and myrtle. And when Thomas said, rather seriously, ‘Sometimes man forgets he has a nose’, and Josiah laughed at him, Thomas announced with some passion, ‘Today, young Jo, I’m taking you to the
Botanical
Gardens. And then you won’t be quite so sniffy about noses.’

The day was the 21st March, when even officialdom recognizes a change in the seasons. And this first day of spring obliged them, the air was warm and sweet, it was a true gate between the seasons, and while they walked together to the gate on Hills Road, Thomas
suddenly
broke into Latin: “
iam ver egelidos refert tepores
” – there, you wanted Catullus – “Spring brings back warm days from cold” – do you notice the seasons changing, Jo?’

‘There’s a large beech tree in our garden. It’s a great, solid beautiful thing, beautiful in every season, naked and clothed, with or without its leaves.’

‘But you drew it naked, as far as I remember.’

‘That was the winter version. There’s a Summer one too, and an Autumn. Next week I’ll bring you the Spring.’

‘Do you write as well as draw? Have you ever tried your hand at poetry?’

Josiah shook his head.

‘Then I shall introduce you to John Clare,’ announced Thomas, and then he began to recite poetry right there on the pavement:

Then Thomas stopped in his tracks and said quite suddenly, ‘That is the point, dear boy, I’m happy. I know the quality of it. Catullus was happy too when he wrote that poem. He says he wants to go abroad to distant Asiatic lands. But perhaps we should go to Italy, what do you think? Would your Dad let you?’

‘I should think so,’ said Josiah.

‘I don’t see why we can’t bring him along with us.’

Josiah paused and said, ‘He doesn’t like the heat.’

‘Well, I shall ask him along anyway. I would want him to know this is all above board and with a view to your education, Jo. I think we should go to Italy, don’t you? To the gentle hills of Tuscany, and its rows of cypresses? Have you ever thought what a wonderful thing a future is? To have a future, and not to know the contents of it, but occasionally to glimpse and hope?’

‘I would like to go to Italy with you very much,’ said Josiah.

‘Well, I shall knock out some dates with your Dad,’ said Thomas. ‘I should very much like to meet him, you know, and tell him what a gifted son he has.’

‘He would like to meet you too,’ said Josiah, because it seemed like the right thing to say. ‘But he’s quite ill at the moment.’

‘The warmer weather will soon sort him out. Perhaps in a couple of weeks, what do you think? Invite me to tea. I should like to see that beech tree of yours in the flesh, as it were, on the cusp of getting dressed.’

‘I’ll fix something,’ said Josiah, distractedly. As they crossed the threshold between pavement and grass, Josiah said, ‘I never knew this place even existed.’

‘But your father was a gardener. Did he never try and inspire you?’

‘Of course he inspired me,’ said Josiah defensively. ‘When I was a boy…when I was younger, he would always consult me.’

‘
He
would consult
you
?’

‘Oh yes. He would say, “So shall we plant geraniums next year?” And he would blindfold me and teach me the different scents, even of leaves. I remember, he would tear them in two and make me smell them very hard.’