British writer Elizabeth Goudge published her novel, Pilgrim’s Inn, in 1948. It details the struggles of an English family to move from London to a country inn soon after World War II. The plot is at once nostalgic and forward-looking at a time when pre-war certainties have been obliterated by the conflict that decimated Europe. Seen from the early days of the twenty-first century, readers may be tempted to pity the naiveté of the characters struggling to come to terms with their spiritual, emotional, and physical exhaustion by placing their hope in the future while anchoring it to the past. But those readers would be naive to do so.
A central motif of the novel centers around a medicinal herb: Rue is bitter, with astringent qualities. According to Goudge, it has the folk name “Herb o’ Grace o’ Sundays.” Not coincidentally, that is also the inn’s name: the Herb of Grace.
Living at the Inn means different things to the novel’s various characters. For Nadine, a beautiful woman, coming to the Inn means discarding her previous life and the double-mindedness that finds her married to one man and in love with another.
“I’m happy,” said Margaret. “Aren’t you?”
“No,” said Nadine, pouring out her coffee.
“What is it that you haven’t got, Nadine?” asked Margaret bluntly.
“Some saving grace,” said Nadine. “Something that you have and I have not. Some sort of astringency. I don’t know what it is.” … An astringent grace. Not one of the flowing graces. Astringent, like an herb. Herb of Grace….
The common definition of the verb, “rue,” is “bitter regret” as in, “he will rue the day;” but before the word meant bitterness, it mean repentance.
I am struck by the astringent quality of repentance. After one deals with the shame of sin and–by the help of the Holy Spirit–screws up the courage actually to repent and not just hide from the consequences of one’s actions or inactions, then the astringency of repentance kicks in. Repentance is a grace, but often a bitter one, for while its astringency can cause our sins to shrivel, it must also tighten our resolve and our determination to live a life of penitence:
Without a word he went away and left her. She groped her way to the armchair and sat down. It was done. She had denied. It was over…. No, it wasn’t…. That was where she had gone wrong before. There was never a last step, but only one more step. Nothing is ever over; it is all a continuing process. Lying back in her armchair she shut her eyes and made her submission to the process; it seemed somehow a personal submission to a personal power, a reorientation of herself…. Yes, she said…. Well, what next? She had denied…. Now she had to learn to laugh.
Tightness. Tension. Even temptation. They never go away. Repentance is frequently a bitter choice: uncomfortable, unpleasant, even painful. It is hard for me to understand, even after all these years and so many Lents, that choosing the harder path, the astringent path, will lead to joy. I have dodged it so many times before. Yet I intend this time and this Lent to make a better, more astringent beginning.
