Not a very pretty little poem, but interesting. So even by Emily Dickinson’s day, in the mid- and faithful nineteenth century, people had lost their expectations, had they? Better an ignis fatuus. Was that what Evelyn’s own faith consisted of? She had put her own religion down as Quaker, not much wanting to see the G of E. vicar on his rounds, but he had visited her nevertheless, apologising for the absence, that day, of a suitable Quaker: should he instead try to find the Methodist minister? Not to bother, Evelyn had said, for such demarcation disputes seemed even more irrelevant than the glossy novels. She had conversed civilly with the vicar about the threatened demolition of huge, draughty, disused St. Matthew’s church on the corner. Sebastian had once attended cub meetings in one of its damp halls. What would replace it? A block of flats, a nursery school, a youth club, a community centre, the new offices of the National Book League? Secular substitutes, and so much more useful than the original, dear God, which had not, even in its prime, been a handsome church, though Betjeman had found a few kind words to say for it: it had been built in late Victorian days, when people built grandly and vainly to conceal their waning faith. Why regret its passing? Religion was very out of date these days, and would probably not revive, though the vicar had not been able to admit as much. Most people did not find religion at all interesting, and those that did were an odd lot. The vicar, Evelyn suspected, was not one of them. She thought with some envy of Phillipa Denham, who had become a devout Catholic. Belief had certainly enlarged Phillipa’s behaviour, for instead of indulging in idle gloom, she now devoted much of her time to visiting the terminally ill. Some considered this neurotic, though Evelyn did not. But, nevertheless, could not share Phillipa’s conviction. She herself would never manage anything better than a pretence of belief, a working hypothesis. Better than nothing, perhaps. And yet some people appeared to manage quite well without any pretence at all. Kate, for example. But then Kate had not been brought up to it.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit. Poor is he who has nothing. He who is poor in spirit is receptive of all spirit. Now God is the spirit of spirits. The fruit of the spirit is love, joy, and peace. See to it that you are stripped of all creatures, of all consolation from all creatures. For certainly as long as creatures comfort and are able to comfort you, you will never find true comfort. But if nothing can comfort you save God, truly God will comfort you.” Meister Eckhart. Evelyn knew the passage by heart. She lay back on her high hospital pillow and shut her eyes. Meister Eckhart had written that a good few centuries before Emily Dickinson, and had no doubt believed it. Had he himself found love, joy, and peace? Perhaps, perhaps. But how could one strip oneself of all creatures when it was only through them that one could express one’s love? Love, joy, and peace. Well, one could probably manage without them, after all. For the time being, at least.