1907: “The Double Commandment: Reverend Crale in Duplicity and Matrimony”
From “Cat Among The Pigeons” (Privately circulated)
It would seem the Church has taken quite literally the imperial injunction to multiply. The Rev. Archibald Crale, lately of the Church Missionary Society and less lately of God, has contrived to convert both Mombasa and Nairobi by means of the altar, though—alas—not the same altar. His simultaneous devotion to two wives, two parishes, and no commandments has finally earned him the theological distinction of being defrocked in duplicate.
The Colonial Messenger reports that “the Reverend has fallen,” as if gravity were the sin. One spouse, Mrs. Eleanor Crale (née Pritchard), resides in Mombasa, still firm in her belief that her husband was detained by missionary work and perhaps an excess of natives. The other, Mrs. Agnes Crale (née Dunbar), the daughter of a Scottish missionary of formidable sobriety, discovered her error only when both women, summoned by a curious diocesan commission, arrived wearing identical wedding rings and contrasting expressions of righteousness.
The trial that followed in Nairobi was described by The East African Gazette as “a test case of Christian propriety in the tropics.” It was, in truth, a farce performed for an imported audience of clergymen who perspired like moral fountains in the heat. One might have expected the Reverend’s defence to rest upon the confusion of calendars or the peculiarities of native law; instead, he declared he had “acted in prayerful ignorance.” A convenient phrase—ignorance being the one commodity the Church imports duty-free.
The diocesan judge, Archdeacon Penruddock (“a man,” as the Kenya Chronicle notes, “of mild temper and limited sense”), concluded that “the accused had erred through zeal rather than appetite.” The Archdeacon is clearly unfamiliar with zeal. Crale was sentenced to two years’ imprisonment—a light penance for a man who had managed to turn monogamy into foreign policy.
As always when religion misbehaves, the scandal has been accepted as an opportunity for collective moral rehearsal. The Church Missionary Society has issued its circular assuring the public that “faith remains unsullied.” Indeed it does—faith, not practice, being the Society’s principal interest. The Times Colonial Supplement reports an “atmosphere of sadness and renewed resolve.” I call it what it is: a clerical stampede to the nearest confessional exit.
London, of course, has reacted with its usual pious amusement. Lady Ventnor, never accused of asceticism, observed at luncheon that “if missionaries must adopt native customs, they might at least choose the prettier ones.” Colonel Basing, who spent three years in Uganda teaching the concept of loyalty, confided that “African climates make marriage atmospheric.” The Archbishop remains silent, perhaps out of embarrassment, perhaps because he has run out of adjectives. The faithful have taken to murmuring Crale’s name in the same tone they once reserved for miracles—something regrettable, but worth talking about.
Meanwhile, the true heroine—Miss Dunbar, or Mrs. Agnes Crale, depending on which church one consults—has returned to Edinburgh, triumphant in her petition for full marital rights and public vindication. The Scots Missionary Record calls her “a steadfast lily among thorns.” Lily she may be; steadfast she certainly is. Her solicitor reports that half the Church has offered to testify on her virtue, which must be extremely weary by now.
In Mombasa, Mrs. Eleanor continues to preside over the mission compound, declaring her intent to “forgive and forget, though not necessarily in that order.” She is much admired locally for her “forbearance,” which is to say, her ability to overlook adultery while seated comfortably in the shade. Her brother has written to the Home Prayer Circular lamenting that “the enemy has triumphed.” Quite so—the enemy being good sense.
The colonial clergy, undeterred by the wreckage, have seized upon the affair as proof of the urgent need for more supervision. The proposal currently circulating the Colonial Office recommends “a registry of missionary marriages, to avoid any further embarrassment to the Society or the Crown.” One can only applaud bureaucratic ingenuity. We may not stop sin, but by God, we shall number it.
From my vantage in Norwich, I can only admire the exquisite symmetry of it all: the missionary who conquers the heathen heart and is conquered by his own; the wives who, in sundered continents, console themselves with rival sainthood; the piety that collapses, not from temptation, but from logistics. It is Empire rendered as bedroom comedy—with the Lord as the most forgiving spectator.
In truth, I do not blame the Reverend. The Church makes chastity its currency and then over-mints the coin. If missionaries are to transplant civilisation, they might at least be given varieties to graft from. What hope has an earnest man among the equatorial passions when his instructions are sent from Lambeth disguised as pamphlets on abstinence?
The Ecclesiastical Review of last month asks, with touching solemnity, “What lesson are we to draw?” I offer one: that virtue exported in bulk tends to arrive spoiled. Empire, in its religious pursuits, seems determined to demonstrate that the Gospel flourishes best in scandal. After all, the souls of Africa have gained two new churches from the debris, both claiming the superior blessing of former Mrs. Crales.
Meanwhile, the defrocked Archibald Crale occupies a modest cell in Nairobi, teaching scripture to fellow inmates, most of whom, being thieves, find him a source of professional inspiration. I hear he has begun an autobiography, Faith in Duplicate, to be published in England by some enterprising house that still confuses notoriety with holiness. His dedication—“To my wives, in equal affection”—is expected to cause seizures at the Missionary Society’s breakfast table.
It remains to be seen whether the Church will emerge chastened or merely relieved. History suggests the latter. The British Empire has always preferred its morality like its tea—strong in colour, weak in substance, and easily sweetened for export.
From The Chaplain’s Quarterly Review (March 1908): “The fault, if any, lay in the human heart.” Indeed. Though one suspects the heart in question had rather too much company.
One rejoices, at least, that religion continues to entertain where it cannot enlighten. As Lady Dundle remarked last evening over lobster mousse, “The Almighty must find us such splendid company—so inventive in disgrace, so enduring in outrage.” I raised my glass to that. London, ever devout, drinks to repentance before it begins.
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