Old Men in Love

27: HEPWORTH DIXON’S REPORT

Hepworth Dixon was a journalist, novelist, editor and one of those busy, worldly, free-thinking yet discreet men who, in a phrase fashionable in late 19^th century England, were said to have gone everywhere and done everything. In the Baltic provinces of East Prussia — in Salt Lake City and Oneida Creek, U.S.A. — in England at Spaxton Bottom he noticed communities who had scandalized public opinion by practising new kinds of marriage. He investigated these communities and, in a two volume study called Spiritual Wives showed how they differed from highly sensational accounts in the popular press. His book was published in 1867. Here is his description of a visit to the Agapemone:

“No stranger is admitted into the Agapemone,” says Murray’s Handbook.

“The Abode of Love,” said Sir Frederick Thesiger, speaking as a prosecuting council, “is a family consisting of four apostate clergymen, an engineer, a medical man, an attorney, and two bloodhounds.”

“The Agapemone”, says Boyd Dawkins, the latest lay writer who has paid attention to this subject, “is surrounded by a wall from twelve to fifteen feet high.”

These statements are untrue. The Saints who are gathered at Spaxton have audacities and heresies enough without being charged with these idle tales.

As your carriage rolls from the quaint old streets of Bridgwater into the green country lanes, you seem to pass from the age of Victoria into the age of King Alfred. Saxon Somerset was, I fancy, as green and bright, with corn-sheaves on these slopes; stone homesteads, snug with thatch, upon these knolls; with village towers and spires among the trees; and with a slow but sturdy population, like those of Spaxton and Charlinch. The road is bad, the mire is deep, the descents are sharp. The lanes are sunk below hedges of thorns and briars, so that an unfriendly invasion would find it no easy task to push their way from town to town. Pull up the horses on the brow of this hill. The scene is beautiful with the beauty of western England. In front springs a dome of corn-field, crowned with the picturesque nave and tower of Charlinch church. At the base of this hillock flows the soft wooded valley towards Over Stowy, a place renowned in the poetry of Wordsworth and Coleridge. But what, in this valley at our feet in the winding lane on our left, is that fanciful group of buildings; a church to which the spire has not yet been built; a garden, cooled by shrubs and trees; a greenhouse thronged with plants; an ample sward of grass cut through by winding walks; a row of picturesque cottages on the road, a second row in the garden; high gates by the church; a tangle of buildings in the front and rear; farms, granaries, stables, all of the crimson with creeping autumnal plants? That group of buildings is the Agapemone; the home of our male and female saints.⁴⁸

In a few seconds we alight in front of the Abode of Love. The large gates are closed, but a side door stands ajar. The man who drives me seems surprized — he too had been told that no one is admitted into the Abode of Love. Once in his life, however, he had been taken into the stables by a groom who was proud of his horses, as he might very well be, since they had come from the royal stud. My driver tells me with a shudder that the strange people in the Abode play billiards on a Sunday in their church. He does not mind a game of nine-pins in the ale-house yard with other poor fellows on Sunday afternoons; but that is very different from gentlefolks hitting ivory balls in a church. As I entered by the open door a gentleman in black came from the house and shook my hand. This was the Rev. George Robinson Thomas, once a student of St David’s College, Lampeter, afterwards a curate at Charlinch, then a witness for Brother Prince and now First of the Agapemone’s Two Anointed Ones. His figure was tall, spare and well made, crowned with an intellectual head and pair of sharp blue eyes in a face no longer youthful, but whose every line showed he had been a scholar and preacher. Such was the gentleman known to me from report as the husband of Agnes Nottidge, the hero of an ale-house comedy, and defeated party in a scandalous court case.

Thomas led me into the chief room, which I saw at once was a church. Three ladies were seated near a piano at which one of them was playing. My name was mentioned to them; they curtseyed and left, their own names not having been pronounced. One of them, as I afterwards found by a lucky guess, had once been Julia Starky, daughter of a clergyman with high standing in society and of high repute in the English Church. She was now the second wife of Brother Prince but not, then or afterwards, made known to me by her married name.

After the usual remarks had been made about the fine morning and pleasant drive, I mentioned that the Agapemone farm — or farms? — were reputed to be the best managed in Somerset. Thomas said, “Under the old dispensation some of our Brethren were farmers. Would you like to visit Brother Prince’s room?”

I said I should first like to ask him four or five questions. He bowed, and bent himself to answer; but seemed ill at ease while we remained alone. Our talk was now and then broken by the entrance of some sister who slipped into the room, listened for a moment, then went away. I began to see that it is not the habit of this place to allow any brother or sister to hold private conversations with a guest. Each Saint appears to keep watch upon his fellow. Prince may dwell apart and hold himself accountable to none, but his people only speak in each other’s presence, moving in pairs, trios, and septets. I was soon struck by the fact that I was never left alone with either man or woman, a thing I never experienced in the homes of either German or American Saints. If we lounged in the lovely greenhouse, took a turn in the garden, idled about the stables and offices, either Sister Ellen, Sister Annie, or some other lady would slip in quietly to our side, and take her share in any talk that might be going on. In short, some sister kept me in sight and hearing until I drove away from the Abode of Love.

I first asked the reason for the high wall that Professor Dawkins says surrounds the estate. Thomas said, “There is no such wall. Dawkins may have got the idea from an equally mistaken local guide book. Soon after coming here we had a short length of wall built on the road-ward side of this church, to stop neighbouring rustics gazing in at us through the windows. They used to do that.” “Why do you keep bloodhounds?”

“We have none now but once we needed their protection. On several occasions we were physically assaulted by neighbours. In public.”

“Did you not seek redress through the courts?”

“Yes. We were awarded a farthing damages. It is now said that anyone can knock down four of us for a penny.”

Thomas cut short my four or five questions by leaving the room. In a minute he returned to offer me food — a cup of coffee, a biscuit, a glass of wine. Being fresh from my early meal and cigar I was declining his offer with thanks when his way of pressing his little courtesies struck me as like the manner of an Arab sheik, who offers you bread and salt, not simply as food but as a sign of peace. “Let it be a glass of wine.”

A woman brought in a tray with biscuits and two decanters; one of good dry sherry, the other of a sweet new port. She laid them on a table, bid me help myself and left. For half an hour I was left alone with these two bottles in the church.

Yes; in the church; lounging on a red sofa, near a bright fire, in the coloured light of a high lancet window filled with rich stained glass; soft cushions beneath my feet; a billiards table on my right; oak panelling round the walls; and above my head the sacred symbol of the Lamb and Dove, flanked and supported by a rack of billiard cues. This room, I knew, was that in which the Great Manifestation had taken place; that mystic rite through which living flesh is said to have been reconciled to God. Lovely to the eye, calming to the heart, this chamber was, and is. A rich red Persian carpet covered the floor, in contrast with the brown oaken roof. Red curtains draped the windows, the glass in which was painted a mystical device, a lamb, a lion and a dove — the lion standing on a bed of roses, with a banner on which these words are inscribed,

OH, HAIL, HOLY LOVE!

The chimneypiece was a fine oak frame of Gothic work, let in with mirrors. A harp stood in one corner of the room; a large euterpean in another.⁴⁹ A few books, not much used, lay on the tables — Young’s Night Thoughts, a Turner Gallery, Wordsworth’s Greece and a few more. Ivory balls lay on the green baize as if the Sisters had been recently at play. The whole room had in it a hush and splendour which affected the imagination with a kind of awe. How could I help thinking of that mystic drama in which Brother Prince had played the part of hero, “Madonna” Paterson the part of heroine? I was suddenly surprized by the feeling of being closely watched from very near. Yes! A face was pressed against the lowest part of a window opposite, the face of a small child with large, sad, questioning eyes. It disappeared as the First Anointed One returned.

“Do you work and play on Sundays?” I enquired.

“We have no Sundays,” he replied; “all days with us are Sabbaths, and everything we do is consecrated to the Lord. Will you now come in to see Brother Prince?”

“Oh, yes,” I answered softly; and the keeper of the Seven Stars and the Seven Golden Candlesticks led the way.

“Good day sir; I am glad to see you; take this chair,” said a gentleman in black, with sweet, grave face, a broad white neckcloth, and shining leather shoes. He had come to meet me at the door; he led me quietly into a luxurious parlour, and seated me in an easy chair beside the fire. The room was like a lady’s boudoir; the furniture was rich and good; the chairs were cosy; and the ornaments were of the usual kind. I had come to Spaxton from a country house; and nothing in the room appeared to be much unlike what I had left behind, except the men and women.

Prince sat in a semicircle of his elect; one brother and two sisters on either side, the Rev. Samuel Starky on the far left, the Rev. George R. Thomas on the far right. Starky, eldest and whitest of my seven hosts was a tall, stout man of sixty-one years, with mild blue eyes, a little weak and wandering in expression. His name was well known in these Somerset dales and woods, among the gentry of which the Starkys had always held their heads very high. Next to Starky were Sister Ellen and Sister Zoe; next to Thomas were Sister Annie and Sister Sarah. Two of the four ladies would have been thought comely in any place and one was very lovely. Sister Annie was a fine model of female beauty in middle life; plump, rosy, ripe; with a pair of laughing eyes, a full red cheek, and ripples of curling dark brown hair. Some softness of the place lay on her as on all the rest; hush in her movement, waiting in her eyes, silence on her lips. She was the only woman I saw at Spaxton who seemed in perfect health.

The second lady, Sister Zoe, was one of those rare feminine creatures who lash poets into song, who drive artists to despair, and cause common mortals to risk their souls for love. You saw, in time, that the woman was young, and lithe, and dressed in the purest taste; but you could not see all this at once; for when you came into her presence you saw nothing save the whiteness of her brow, the marble-like composure of her face, the wondrous light of her big blue eyes. She sat there, nestling by the side of Prince; in a robe of white stuff, with violet tags and drops, the tiny streaks of colour throwing out into relief the creamy paleness of her cheek. But for the gleaming light in her eye, Guercino might have painted her as one of his rapt and mourning angels. I do not know that I have ever seen a face more full of high, serene, and happy thoughts; yet gazing on her folded hands and saintly brows, an instinct in my blood compelled me, much against my will, to think of her in connection with that scene which had taken place in the adjoining church; the strangest mystery, perhaps the darkest iniquity of these days; through which Prince asserts, and Thomas testifies, that God has reconciled living flesh unto Himself. Of the other two ladies I shall only say that Sister Sarah is young and tall, and Sister Ellen about fifty-five years old. I was not told what names these ladies had been called in the world outside.

Wishing to learn if Sister Zoe and “Madonna” Paterson were one, I asked by what name I should speak to her.

“Zoe,” she replied.

“But think,” I urged; “I am a stranger; how can I use that sweet, familiar name?”

“Pray do so,” answered Zoe; “it is very nice.”

“No doubt; if I were here a month; meantime it would be easier for me to call you Miss — ”

“Call me Zoe,” she answered with a patient smile, “Zoe; nothing but Zoe.”

Looking toward Prince I said, “Do your people take new names on coming into residence, like the monks and nuns of an Italian convent?”

“Not like monks and nuns,” said Prince; “we do not put ourselves under the protection of our saints. We have no saints. We simply give ourselves to God, of whom this mansion is the seat. At yonder gates we leave the world behind; its words, its laws, its passions; all of which are things of the Devil’s kingdom. Living in the Lord, we follow His leading light, even in the simple matter of our names. They call me Belovéd. I call this lady Zoe, because the sound pleases me. I call Thomas there Mossoo, because he speaks French so well.”

I never got beyond this point with the Saints. When bidding them goodbye I said to Zoe, holding her hand in mine, “May I not hear some word to know you by when I am far away?”

“Yes; Zoe,” she said, and smiled.

“Zoe. . what else?”

Her thin lips parted as if to speak. Was the name that rose to her lips. . Paterson? Who knows? With her fingers linked in mine she turned to Prince, and whispered in melting tones, “Belovéd!” Prince told me in a voice of playful softness; “She is Zoe; you must think of her as Zoe; nothing else.”

The gentleman called Belovéd by his followers is fifty-six years old, spare in person with the traces of much pain and weariness on his pale cheek. His face is very sweet, his manner very smooth, his smile very soft and the key of his voice is low. He has about him something of a woman’s grace and charm, and in his eyes which were apt to close, you seemed to see a light from some other sphere. As we sat before his warm and cheery fire he seemed at once rapt into his own dreams. When the sound of voices roused him he crossed his hands upon his black frock,⁵⁰ put his shiny shoes on the rug and bore a luxurious part in a long, singular conversation.

“You hold,” I asked him, “ that the day of grace is past?”

“We know it is; the day of judgement is at hand.”

“You expect the world to pass away?”

“The old world is no more. God has withdrawn us from it.”

“How many are you in the Abode?”, I asked.

“About sixty souls in all.”

At this moment a manservant, dressed in sober black came into the room. I said, “You count the domestics in that number?”

“Yes. They are all members of our family and share its blessings.”

“Do you take the service needed in the house, each in turn, like the Brethren and Sisters of Mount Lebanon?” (I saw a faint smile ripple on the servant’s face.)

“Oh no,” broke in upon us Sister Ellen; “we do nothing of that kind; our people serve us; but they do it for love.”

“Do you mean that they serve you without being paid?”

The only reply to my question was a laugh from the lady and a grin from the domestic.

“Among these sixty inmates, how many are male and female? How many are young, how many grown up?”

“The sexes are nearly equal,” answered Thomas, “there are no children.”

“None at all?” I asked, thinking of the Great Manifestation, and what was said to have come of it.

“You do not understand the life we live here in the Lord. Those who married in the world aforetime now live as though they had not. We are as the angels in Heaven and have no craving after devil’s love.”

“What do you wish me to understand as devil’s love?”

“Love that is of the flesh — all love not holy, spiritual, and of God.”

“Have I not just seen a child through the church window? A little girl playing on the lawn?”

Prince seemed to be dreaming again. Thomas said with deep emotion, “She is a child of shame — a broken link in our line of life — Satan’s offspring in the flesh.”

A look of anguish clouded all their faces except Sister Zoe’s, whose sweetly serene countenance was quite unmoved.

“The work of that time,” put in Sister Ellen with a sigh, “was the saddest thing I have ever known. For a whole year we lay in the shadow of death, and near to hell; but God wrought out His purpose in us. It was a bitter time for all but most for our Belovéd.”

Poor little girl!

“Your rule of life is now — a rule of abstinence?”

“It is the rule of angels,” answered Prince. “we live in love, but not in sin; for sin is death and our life in the Lord is eternal.”

“Yet surely all men die?”

“Yes,” said Thomas, “they have mostly done so; but death is subject to the Lord in whom we live. We shall not die. We have no such thought.”

“But some among you have passed away; Louisa Nottidge, for example?”

“Yes, some erred and the Lord took them; but many examples do not make a necessary rule. If I saw the valley outside our Abode choking with ten thousand corpses, the sight would not convince me that I too would one day die.”

“Where do you put the departed ones?”

“Some are buried at the farm, some rest under the green lawn. We think that all bodies not saved eternally by Christ go back into the earth from which they sprang.”

“But you are all growing older! As more of you drop away you will be forced to see that death will come.”

“Not so,” said Belovéd, “we will never expect death. Death is a word that belongs to time.”

“But everyone lives in time.” “You live in time. We do not.”

“You see the sun rise and set,” I urged, “you know that yesterday was Friday, that tomorrow will be Sunday; that springtime passes and the harvest comes about.”

“Well, yes,” said Belovéd in a pitying tone, “we feel the flow you must take as your measure of time. It is no sign of change to us, who dwell for ever in the living God.”

Such is the Abode of Love. A dozen ardent clergymen, smitten with a passion to save souls, possessing power to warn and softness to persuade, after various grapplings with the world have left their posts and shut themselves up in a garden where they muse and dream, surrounding themselves with lovely women, eating from rich tables, pretending that their passions are dead, and waiting, in the midst of luxury and idleness, for the whole world to be damned!

Is this all? No; not quite all: in the meantime the reverend gentlemen play a game of billiards in what was once their church.