A Great Farewell

 Last night Call the Midwife – the BBC's cosy, corny, sentimental, occasionally brilliant Sunday-night drama – finally came to an end, after 14 years. Well, it might be back with a prequel or even a spin-off, but it's certainly over for me, because Sister Monica Joan – the oldest nun and by far the most interesting , with all the best lines – died. And a beautiful death it was, perfectly staged, with a serene Sister Monica Joan happily embracing the end of her sublunary life. To the end, she had all the best lines, speaking in perfectly formed sentences and drawing on a lifetime of reading good literature, by no means all of it devotional. Listening to her, I suddenly realised that most of the time she was speaking in a loose iambic pentameter, the rhythm that comes most naturally to an English speaker – that's why her lines always sounded so good. Judy Parfitt, who is now 90 years old, played the ancient Sister to perfection. If this was her last role, she has made a great farewell. 
 With Sister Monica Joan's death and funeral, we saw more on-screen religious ritual than has been seen in a drama for years, and I hope it might have been eye-opening for some who never think of such things. At the funeral, Sister Julienne (the ever lovely Jenny Agutter) read a poem, 'The Old Astronomer to His Pupil', which I had never heard of. In fact, it was two lines – 
   'Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
    I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night'
– from a much longer poem by one Sarah Williams, an English poet who died at the age of 30, in 1868, the year of its publication. Heavily influenced by Browning, it remains by far her best-known poem, if only for those two lines. I suspect they will become popular for readings at funerals now – and, who knows, perhaps there will be a new appreciation of the beauty and healing power of a Christian funeral...