Lazy Saint
1860 was a vintage year. Abraham
Lincoln was elected president, and Annie Oakley was born. In Europe the year
marked the birth of Chekhov and Mahler, and Britain’s launch of HMS Warrior,
the first iron battleship. A far less celebrated person was also born that year
in England. She was Mabel Harris, my grandmother who, though she may not have
made it up there among those notables, would rate a few pages in anyone’s
family history.
Besides being a devoted mother, Mabel
– everyone called her May -- was a painter, author, musician and a bit of a
mystic. She was deeply religious, with a devotion to which only converts to
Catholicism can aspire. Many people said she was a saint but, when I was about
eight, I looked her up in Volume I of Butler’s
Lives of the Saints, and was disappointed not to find her there.
As a young woman, May was a startling
beauty -- part Wagnerian diva and part Pre-Raphaelite artist’s model -- tall,
with wavy, braided brown hair and an hourglass waist. So it wasn’t surprising
that John Harris, a mustachioed realtor, fell deeply in love with her and, in
her 30s -- late in life for those days – married her and presented her with
seven children in just over ten years: Margaret, John, Eleanor, Isabel,
Katherine, Andrew, and my mother, Peace.
But the marriage wasn’t to last for
long. John Harris, who had a lifelong passion for port wine and pretty women,
vanished one night around 1905, leaving May the house they lived in, but no
money and no income. Shortly after her husband’s disappearance, Andrew, who had
been born stone deaf, was killed in the street by a runaway horse. A year
later, Eleanor was crippled by polio.
May was distraught with concern for
her family. To feed them and pay the doctor’s bills, she sold the large house
in a prosperous section of the beautiful city of Winchester, and the family
moved to a smaller, less expensive one near the North Foreland lighthouse
outside Broadstairs, a little seaside town overlooking the English Channel.
This move realized enough money to cover the necessities of life, but there
were seven children to feed and educate. May’s father-in-law, who was fond of
her and the children, came to the rescue. Ashamed of what his son had done, he
not only provided financial security for May for the rest of her long life, but
also put his many grandchildren through private schools.
There’s an intriguing legend about
May’s conversion to Catholicism. Late one winter afternoon, she was playing the
organ, alone, at Minster Abbey, a remote, marshy place on the Thames Estuary,
where a monastery was founded in the 7th Century. She looked up and
saw a monk in a shadowy gallery overlooking the choir stalls. He was beckoning
to her, but though she searched for a door or staircase, there seemed no way up
to the gallery. A few days later she met Minster’s Abbot, and told him the
story. He shook his head. There was no
way up to that gallery, he said, because it had been closed-up for more than
three hundred years.
The result of this phantom summons
was that May, an Anglican, very soon became a Catholic. Perhaps buoyed by her
new faith, and by the unexpected generosity of her father-in-law, she
experienced an upsurge of creativity in her middle age. She took up painting,
producing pious Renaissance-style pictures, and sometimes huge flower-pieces as
much as six feet wide. One of these, I remember had a none-too-well-disguised
patch in one corner after her son, John, had poked some sharp-edged object
through the canvas in a fit of temper.
In the 1920s, in her early sixties, May
wrote and self-published a novella, First
Line of Defence, a 17,000 word story about a woman widowed during World War
I. The little book, dedicated to her parish priest, has vivid scenes of air
raids by Zeppelins over the town of Broadstairs. Her scenes in the communal air
raid shelters deep in the town’s chalk cliffs, are grippingly realistic and
evocative, though the story is almost painfully devout.
May was 71 when I was born. I never
remember her wearing anything other than black. A call on her was not so much a
visit as an audience. When we met, she was nearly always propped up on pillows,
dressed in her day clothes on her big bed upstairs. She spent a great deal of
time there, and it would have to be said that, if she were indeed a saint, she
was a somewhat lazy one. Outside, through the windows, lay the cliffs and,
beyond them, the sea, and the room seemed to me like some holy reliquary. There
was a large black crucifix over the bed, and statues were everywhere: the
Blessed Virgin, Saint Francis of Assisi, Saint Anthony, Saint Theresa, and
others. Rosaries dangled from both bedposts on hand for instant use.
Sometimes she’d descend and entertain
us on the piano in her elegant Victorian drawing room. Her favorites were the
Three B’s – Bach, Beethoven and Brahms, though sometimes she’d tackle short
virtuoso pieces by Chopin and Lizst.
I never heard my grandmother raise
her voice. My aunts told me that, when they were teenagers, and the Zeppelins
came over the Channel in the First World War, they’d all run to her for comfort
as the bombs fell and the shrapnel clattered on the roof of the house.
Unflappable, and exuding calm, she’d smile and say soothingly “It’ll pass,
dears. It’ll pass.”
The only occasion on which anyone
recalled May losing her temper was when her children found hefty crates of
Belgian chocolate washed onto the beach from a torpedoed tramp steamer. They
arrived at her door, grinning with chocolate-smeared faces, proudly presenting
their loads of foil-wrapped chocolate bars. But their mother, who feared the
chocolate might have been deliberately poisoned and floated ashore by the
Germans, flew into a rage and chided them for their lack of caution.
May Harris died in her sleep in the
spring of 1946. She was 86. Peace Birch -- née Harris -- my long-widowed widowed
mother, died in Broadstairs forty years later at much the same age. I’ve never
returned to the town, where Charles Dickens wrote David Copperfield, and where the mansion that inspired Bleak House broods on the cliff tops.
Nor have I ever seen a ghost, but it would neither surprise nor frighten me if,
along the narrow path near her house, I were to meet that lazy saint, rosary in
hand, on her way to Mass.
oo0oo
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