AND ANOTHER THING
How one woman rejected the world and still lived to enjoy it
PAUL JOHNSON
In a world increasingly dedicated to suc- cess and an ever-expanding gross national product, social, economic and even legal pressures combine to force women to pur- sue careers exactly like men. A good deal of European Union legislation, such as reg- ulations making provision of creches corn- pulsory, for example, is directed to 'keeping women in the work-force'. If a teenage girl were asked today what she intended to do in life and answered, 'Get married and have children,' she would instantly be treat- ed as a 'case'. Being a mere housewife is now thought of, by most women especially, as waste, cowardly, immoral, even — I heard the term used the other day — as `parasitical'. In Sydney, where they are notoriously direct, one woman asks anoth- er, 'What do you do — or are you just a Handbag?'
If a housewife is just a Handbag, then, what on earth is a nun? A Prayer-Book, I suppose. Yet throughout most of the histo- ry of our civilisation, becoming a nun was an honourable calling for a lady. It was con- sidered not merely natural but highly desir- able that large numbers of young women should profess themselves — that was the expression used — in the service of Christ and His church, leading lives of prayer and authority, sometimes away from the world behind convent walls, sometimes in it, car- ing for the sick and the poor, or educating children.
Until quite recently, a nun was to be found in every Catholic family. There were several in mine, ranged naturally among the aunts and great-aunts and cousins. Sometimes they would visit us, wearing magnificent habits which had scarcely changed since the 14th century, swishing into the room with a great rustle of skirt, rattling of rosary beads and crackling of starched linen, carrying with them a faint whiff of holy water and incense.
I never thought of nuns as strange, let alone sterile or frustrated. Committed to their care at the age of five, I found them warm, motherly creatures, severe on rare occasions but always loving. Nuns were part of life, among the nicer parts, certainly among the better parts. Their existence added to our security, since they prayed for us, constantly, devotedly; their orisons drifting up to heaven as naturally as the sun rose and set.
There are still, happily, many scores of thousands of these holy women left in the world, and no shortage of recruits even to the most demanding orders, like the bare- foot Carmelites. Recently, I lost a much- loved first cousin, Margo, who had been a nun all her adult life, and her death has set me thinking about the survival of this ancient form of dedication in our selfish world.
Margo was older than I was, a lively, laughing girl, full of poetry and jokes and funny sketches, fertile in new ideas and suggestions for having a good time. It seemed odd, at first, that she had decided to become a nun, a Bride of Christ rather than of some fortunate young man, and sink all her liveliness in the solemn vows and dark habit of a perpetual virgin dedi- cated to poverty, chastity and obedience. Odd, too, that her name was changed to Sister Thomas More — many nuns are called after outstanding male saints or mar- tyrs — as though her very sex was obliterat- ed in her transformation from a free spirit to a woman bound for life to divine service.
Yet it was not so odd as it turned out. Anyone who has read the life of St Thomas More knows that this likable man had an extraordinary gift for combining intense religious convictions and absolute dedica- tion to high principle with humour and irreverence. He romped and joked and gos- siped with his swarm of children even when he was Lord High Chancellor, in an age which prided itself on its solemn pomposi- ty. He delighted to play the Mr Bennett to his foolish wife's Mrs Bennett. He risked a crack or two even with his ferocious master, and he still had a one-liner in hand when, faint and crippled by imprisonment, he dragged his way up the steps of the scaf- fold. So his was not an inept name to be chosen by a serious-minded young woman `Would you ask questions for cash, Lord Greystoke?' who still harboured laughter in her heart.
So it proved. Margo, or Sister Thomas More, lived a life of unceasing toil and con- stant prayer but one lit by smiles and flash- es of wit. And in many ways her existence was not so very different to that of women in the outside world. She spent much of her time teaching children and looking after them. She had a gift for interesting them in the things she loved most after God — the grandeur of history, the glories of great lit- erature, the excitement of art. She com- posed poems and songs, which she set to music or matched to old folk-tunes, and the children loved to chant these spontaneous efforts. She wrote and circulated newslet- ters throughout her order, and kept in touch with correspondents throughout the world. She was a good typist and expert translator, an authority on the Vatican Council and the changes it brought into the Church. She became an able cook, fruitful in new dishes. Her convent house was famous for its simple hospitality and she delighted in organising outings, celebra- tions and sacred feasts. She was fond of barbecues, and brilliant at running them. She was active in the neighbourhood and persuaded Camden Council to have some nearby derelict houses refurbished for fam- ilies in need. In her own quiet way she was a practical supporter of sensible causes.
She was a member of a group which stud- ied the bible with Anglicans, and of another which shared scriptural insights with Jews. Every year on Good Friday she joined the Joint Witness walk which carri the Cross through central London. Her live of the psalms, her understanding of the sacred writings, her dedication to Christ's teaching were profound and reverent, but her eyes twinkled, her jokes were always ready, her relish for it all — her religion, her work, her life — was manifest. When we went to see her shortly before she died, she still sparkled, despite weakness and pain, and her resignation before death and the will of God was lit by a smile of content.
It is comforting to think that there are still many such good women left in the world, ignoring its horrific temptations, defying its abysmal dogmas of greed and ambition, brushing aside its relentless invitations to the pursuit of pleasure, and concentrating instead on the quiet pursuit of God's will. They seem to find profound happiness in it too. Best of all, they spend much of their time praying for the rest of us.
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