However, as I say, I adjusted myself to the situation, and got into a group of more or less peaceful friends who had more wit than obscenity about them and were, in fact, the more intelligent children in the three lower classes. I say intelligent; I mean, also, precocious.
But they had ideals and ambitions and, as a matter of fact, by the middle of my first year, I remember we were all furiously writing novels. On the days when we went out for walks, two by two into the country in a long line which broke up into groups at the edge of town, my friends and I would get together, walking in a superior way, with our caps on the backs of our heads and our hands in our pockets, like the great intellectuals that we were, discussing our novels. The discussion was not merely confined to telling the plot of what we were writing: a certain amount of criticism was passed back and forth.
For instance--I was engaged in a great adventure story, the scene of which was laid in India, and the style of which was somewhat influenced by Pierre Loti. It was written in French. At one point in the story I had the hero, who was in financial difficulties, accept a loan of some money from the heroine. This concept evoked loud cries of protest from my confreres, who found that it offended all the most delicate standards required in a romantic hero. What do you mean, accept money from the heroine! Allous donc, mon vieux, e'est impossible, ca! C'est tout a fait inoui! I had not thought of that at all, but I made the change.
That particular novel was never finished, as I remember. But I know I finished at least one other, and probably two, besides one which I wrote at St. Antonin before coming to the Lycee. They were all scribbled in exercise books, profusely illustrated in pen and ink--and the ink was generally bright blue.
One of the chief of these works, I remember, was inspired by Kingsley's Westward Ho! and by Lorna Doone, and it was about a man living in Devonshire in the sixteenth century. The villains were all Catholics, in league with Spain, and the book ended in a tremendous naval battle off the coast of Wales, which I illustrated with great care. At one point in the book a priest, one of the villains, set fire to the house of the heroine. I did not tell my friends this. I think they would have been offended. They were at least nominal Catholics, and were among the students who lined up two by two to go to Mass at the Cathedral on Sunday mornings.
Having friends is important. Merton learns this. Currently, I am sitting again at a check-in desk at the hospital, scanning the badges of employees coming in for their shifts. The door where I'm stationed isn't very busy, so I have a great deal of time to think and read and write for the next four hours. And what I'm thinking about is social distancing.
My wife bridles against social distancing. She can't stand the idea of being at home, unable to physically go out, be around people, interact, laugh, have the possibility of meeting a friend she hasn't seen in months, catch up on job and family and loves and losses. She wanted to go grocery shopping this afternoon, even though we now have enough non-perishables and perishables in our cupboards and fridge to last us three weeks. I know her urge to go to Meijer is not out of necessity. It's out of the urge for normalcy, clinging to the habits and routines pre-pandemic. That's what it's all about. She wants life to rewind, time to somehow reverse itself. There are so many things I used to do two weeks ago--small things--that have evaporated in this time of corona. Here's one of those small losses involving friends that effects me greatly today . . .
My book club was supposed to meet at my house this evening. At 5 p.m., my friends would have descended upon my home, books tucked under their arms, bearing food. Dishes to share. Soup. A salad. Dessert bars. My contribution would have been a parmesan-artichoke bomb. We would have sat around my living room, laughing, catching up, and talking about this month's read: Amor Towles' A Gentleman in Moscow.
I find it ironic that we chose this book for this month. (The choice was made back in December, before anyone had even heard of Wuhan.) It's the story of a Russian count who is sentenced to house arrest by a Bolshevik tribunal. He must live in an attic room of a luxury hotel near the Kremlin. The year is 1922, and the count cannot leave the hotel for the rest of his life. He's confined to the same people and places, day after day. A Gentleman in Moscow is a 462-page novel about extreme social distancing, in a way.
It is Sunday. Normally, the first half of my day is spent in church, worshiping and fellowshipping. Instead, I got up early this morning and watched a live-streamed Catholic Mass. Then I watched a Lutheran worship service. I finished up by watching a Methodist service led by one of my best friends who is a lead pastor at a church in downstate Michigan. Sitting in my living room, puppy in my lap, I listened to three separate messages from pastors in three separate churches of three separate Christian denominations. Yet all of their messages were about the same thing: even though things seem hopeless, we are not alone.
The count in A Gentleman in Moscow, in his confinement, forges a new life of love and friendships. He doesn't let the walls of his prison hold him in chains. Instead, his life expands in ways he never imagined. Even though I didn't step foot in a church this morning, I worshiped with Catholics and Lutherans and Methodists, and I was not alone.
Eventually, my wife will be able to go grocery shopping on Sundays again. And, eventually, my book club will meet again, and we will laugh and eat and argue about books. Until then, we will forge new ways of being together.
Saint Marty might be physically distancing, but socially, he's more in touch than ever.
