There’s a Norah Lofts’s novel that I’m always excited to read again at this time of the year - her “Michael and All Angels” which is very specifically set on 29 September (today, in fact! and an important “Quarter Day” in the traditional calendar). Reading a novel that’s all about the turn of the seasons is all the more poignant when the leaves are turning gold and there’s an autumn crispness to the air.
This year, for a change, I thought I’d break my own tradition and read another of her novels instead. For at this time of the year I can’t help looking forward excitedly to the colder, darker nights and the run-up to Christmas.
I know, I know - and mincepies already on the shelves at the supermarket, tsk! But I’ve always enjoyed the long build-up to Christmas more than Christmas itself. It must be something from my childhood when “back to school” in September meant the excitement of learning new carols and starting to make decorations.
The nights drawing in make me feel snug and tingly - just the mood for a bit of early Christmas sentiment with a novel that sounds like a Christmas carol.
By the first few chapters I was immediately struck, however, by the distinct lack of sentimentality. Though set in biblical times with all the colour of the ancient-world - shepherd boys, water jars and donkeys - the tone feels realistic and contemporary with gritty dialogue and complex psychology.
The clever use of interior monologue, in particular, gets us right inside the characters’ heads, up close to the thoughts they don’t share with the outside world. For example, there’s:
- Young Mary trying to repress her intense sensitivity to the suffering of others that makes her so different (“Being miserable about donkeys did them no service. So stop it; think about something else. Think about spring” p4).
- Joseph deciding, from expediency, love and one-off drunkenness, to marry Mary in spite of everything (“Man, you’re tipsy! Get to your bed” p22).
- Mary’s mother Anne, assertive and self-assured, but privately fretting about her daughter’s pregnancy (“There was nothing to having a baby, nothing at all, no need to fuss. If you were sick, you were sick and if your back ached, it ached and you bore it without complaint” p122).
- The disillusioned drunken innkeeper, watching snowflakes fall, “Like life, he reflected, his thoughts as idle and aimless as the snow; out of the dark, a brief space in the light, and into the dark again. No permanence, and no point” (p162).
From the very opening pages there are unsettling presentiments of what the reader knows will inevitably be coming later:
- The boy with the overburdened donkey accidentally jabbing young Mary with his donkey goad so that “the point struck into her side” and leaks blood (p11).
- Mary telling the “fundamentally kind natured” but naturally disbelieving Joseph about her Angel, as “the last rays of the sun made a halo about her pale, calm face” (p18).
- Mary feeling “the prick of the long sharp thorns” as she leans, overwhelmed and lonely, against the fence her father Joachim has “planted to keep out the foxes” (p19).
- The rare and valuable coin that Zacharias and Elisabeth give Mary as a wedding present is embossed with “a full-blown rose, exact, even to a thorn” (p51) - a traditional symbol for Christ’s passion.
The novel’s full of random cruelty and harshness, of people being spiteful and hateful to each other. For example:
- “I’m glad your mother didn’t hear that,” said the woman who intended to inform Mary’s mother at the first possible moment” (p7).
- The passive-aggressive kitchen workers in the house next-door to Melchior’s, gleefully giving his starved elderly servant Senya a parcel of rubbish pretending it’s food (p39).
- In turn, Senya venting her bitter disappointment on her unfed pig, vengefully and “savagely” butchering it (p40).
- Innocent young girls in Balthazar’s childhood village thrown live to the crocodiles to appease the tribal god, the Great Crocodile N’Zana (p86).
- Balthazar had been promised his freedom from slavery by a kindly(-ish) Roman master but the cunning greedy heir destroys the document to keep him enslaved.
The characters feel like modern people with their troubled lives full of contradictions, complexes and difficulties:
- Mary’s sharp-tongued, life-hardened mother Anne, worried sick about how her gentle dreamy girl will cope with married life.
- Mary’s gentle and much older cousin Elisabeth, married for forty years and childless, embarrassed and self-conscious (“They’d look on her as a poor self-deluded creature” p50) when her devout husband Zacharias tells her he’s had an angelic message that she’ll be pregnant.
- Melchior who’s clever but “so stupid about simple things” (p30) after a remote life spent in an ivory tower (stone and glass, actually) obsessively peering at the stars.
- Gaspar, the brutal, wily and godless leader of a fierce barbarian army of horseback desert fighters, now reluctantly ruling fallen Jexal (a kind of Babylon?) and thrilled with the new adventure of joining Melchior’s quest.
- Balthazar, enslaved and castrated as a 12-year old, gentle and intelligent, dreaming about “the world made new, with no more slavery, men of all colours made equal, the rich giving their goods to feed the poor” (p102) and joining Melchior and Gaspar in fulfilment of an ecstatic vision.
- Ephorus, the dissolute tavern keeper at Bethlehem, guarding his tragic secret of lost love, and kept “idle, drunken, will-less” (p161) by his bitter disillusioned wife Eunice (“hot and flushed and formidable” p164) who nags husband and guests alike.
- Josodad the shepherd, broken and suicidal with “unassuageable grief” (p183) at the death of his favourite son Nathan (crucified for anti-Roman terrorism).
- Vatinius, the centurion at the Bethlehem garrison, straightforward, hardworking and unambitious - in contrast to Quintilius, his old legionary best buddy (in the romantic sense too) who’s now fat, rich and powerful through hooking up with a senator sugar daddy (p222).
- Herod, King of Judea, cunning, dangerous and with such psychopathic tendencies that he “had on at least three occasions placed policy before paternal feelings and murdered his sons as though they were enemies” (p192).
For people with religious beliefs, the novel might be read, I’m sure, as an allegory of life as a pilgrimage - overcoming distance and hardship to arrive at a state of grace: the rhetorical question of the title as a kind of spiritual cry of the heart.
On the other hand, I enjoyed the novel enormously, not so much for its religious dimensions, but simply because it’s such an intriguing and compulsive alternative account of the historical circumstances at the time of Jesus’ birth.
I was especially fascinated by the multi-dimensional back-stories of characters that we probably only vaguely remember today as children wearing tea-towels in Christmas nativity plays - if they even still happen?
Some of the sentences that particularly pleased or puzzled me along the way included these:
- “The administrative service was now much depleted and about three times as efficient as it had been” (p64).
- “Was it possible to visualise a woman, the ostensible wife of a carpenter, going about her household tasks, with complete right to call herself the Mother of God?” (p131).
- “Well,” [the innkeeper’s wife] said briskly, but not unkindly, “this is a fine to-do. But don’t fret. We’ll manage” (p169).
- “He thought, in plain peasant fashion, that it you knocked on the door of a human friend, once and again and again, and had no answer, you’d conclude that he was not there, or that he was, for some reason, no longer your friend. Did not the same apply to God?” (p188).
- “And suddenly they were all smiling. Joseph with his faith restored, Melchior with his errand done, Balthazar who had seen this wonderful thing, and Gaspar who had found his heart. Even Mary, burdened with the weight of knowledge … smiled, as any woman does, feeling the weight and warmth of her child” (the serene closing words of the novel).