by A. J. Cronin
‘What do you know about the horrible affair?’
‘Well … everything … that she wasn’t to blame.’
There was a pause. Fitzgerald’s fine brow expressed annoyance, yet he gazed at the distraught youth before him with a kind of stately pity.
‘My dear young man, if you enter the priesthood, as I trust you will, and gain even half the experience which unhappily is mine, you will comprehend that certain social disorders demand equally specific remedies. You are staggered by this –’ He returned the phrase with an inclination of his head – ‘horrible affair. I am not. I even anticipated it. I know and abominate the whisky trade for its effect upon the brute mentality of the clods who constitute this parish. You and I may sit down and quietly enjoy our Lachryma Christi, like gentlemen. Not so Mr Edward Bannon. Enough! I make no allegations. I merely say, we have a problem, unhappily not unique to those of us who spend drab hours in the confessional.’ Fitzgerald paused to take snuff, with a distinguished wrist. ‘ What are we to do with it? I will tell you. First, legitimize and baptize the offspring. Secondly, marry the mother if we can, to as decent a man as will have her. We must regularize, regularize. Make a good Catholic home out of the mess. Weave the loose ends into our sound social fabric. Believe me Nora Bannon is highly fortunate to get Gilfoyle. He’s not so bright, but he’s steady. In a couple of years you’ll see her at mass with her husband and family … perfectly happy.’
‘No, no.’ The interruption was wrenched from Francis’ shut lips. ‘She’ll never be happy – only broken and miserable.’
Fitzgerald’s head was a trifle higher. ‘And is happiness the ultimate objective of our earthly life?’
‘She’ll do something desperate. You can’t compel Nora. I know her better than you.’
‘You seem to know her intimately.’ Fitzgerald smiled with withering suavity. ‘I hope you have no physical interest in the lady yourself.’
A dark red spot burned on Francis’ pale cheek. He muttered: ‘I am very fond of Nora. But if I love her – it’s nothing that would make your confessional more drab. I beg you –’ His voice held a low, desperate entreaty. ‘Don’t force her into this marriage. She’s not common clay … she’s a bright sweet spirit. You can’t thrust a child upon her bosom and a husband in her arms – because – in her innocence, she’s been …’
Stung to the quick, Fitzgerald banged his snuff-box on the table.
‘Don’t preach to me, sir!’
‘I’m sorry. You can see I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m trying to beg you to use your power.’ Francis mustered his flagging forces in a final effort. ‘At least give her a little time.’
‘That’s enough, Francis!’
The parish priest, too much master of himself, and of others, to lose his temper or his countenance for long, rose abruptly from his chair and looked at his flat gold watch. ‘I have a confraternity meeting at eight. You must excuse me.’ As Francis got up, he patted him reproachfully on the back. ‘My dear boy, you are very immature. Might I even say a little foolish? But thank God you have a wise old mother in Holy Church. Don’t run your head against the walls, Francis. They’ve stood for generations – against stronger batterings than yours. But there now – I know you’re a good lad. Come up and have a chat about Holywell when the wedding’s over. And meanwhile – as a little act of reparation for your rudeness will you say the Salve Regina for my intention?’
A pause. It was useless, quite useless. ‘Yes, Father.’
‘Good night then, my son … and God bless you!’
The night air was raw and chill. Defeated, crushed by the impotence of his youth, Francis dragged himself away from the Presbytery. His footsteps echoed dully on the closed pathway. As he passed the chapel steps, the sacristan was closing the side doors. When the last chink of light was gone, Francis stood, hatless, in the darkness, his eyes fixed on the wraith-like windows of the clerestory. He blurted out, in a kind of final desperation: ‘Oh, God! Do what’s best for all of us.’
As the wedding day approached, consuming Francis with a deadly, sleepless fever, the atmosphere of the tavern seemed insensibly to settle, like a stagnant pool. Nora was quiet, Polly vaguely hopeful; and though Ned still cringed in solitude, the muddled terror in his eyes was less. The ceremony would, of course, be private. But no restraint need operate upon the trousseau, the dowry, the elaborate honeymoon to Killarney. The house was littered with robes and rich materials. Polly, beseeching another ‘try-on’, with a mouthful of pins, waded through bales of cloth and linen, enveloped in merciful fog.
Gilfoyle, smugly observant, smoking the Union’s best cigars, would occasionally hold conference, upon matters of finance, with Ned. There was a deed of partnership, duly signed, and great talk of building, to accommodate the new ménage. Already Thad’s numerous poor relatives hung about the house, sycophantic yet assertive. His married sister, Mrs Neily, and her daughter, Charlotte, were perhaps the worst.
Nora had little enough to say. Once, meeting Francis in the passage she stopped.
‘You know … don’t you?’
His heart was breaking, he dared not meet her eye. ‘ Yes, I know.’
There was a suffocating pause. He could not sustain the torture in his breast. Incoherently he burst out, boyish tears starting in his eyes: ‘Nora … We can’t let this happen. If you knew how I’ve felt for you … I could look after you – work for you. Nora … let me take you away.’
She considered him with that strange and pitying tenderness. ‘Where would we go?’
‘Anywhere.’ He spoke wildly, his cheek wet and shining.
She did not answer. She pressed his hand without speaking, then went on, quickly, to be fitted for a dress.
On the day before the wedding, she unbent a little, losing something of her marble acquiescence. Suddenly, over one of those cups of tea which Polly inflicted upon her, she declared: ‘I believe I’d like to go to Whitley Bay today.’
Astounded, Polly echoed: ‘Whitley Bay?’ – then added in a flutter, ‘I’ll come with you.’
‘There’s no need.’ Nora paused, gently stirring her cup. ‘But of course if you want to …’
‘I do indeed, my dear!’
Reassured by that lightness in Nora’s manner – as though a bar of that old mischievous gaiety re-echoed, like distant music, in her being, – Polly came to view the excursion without disfavour. She had a gratified, bewildered idea that Nora was ‘coming round’. As she finished her tea she discoursed upon the beautiful Lake of Killarney, which she had once visited as a girl. The boatmen there had been most amusing.
The two women, dressed for the expedition, left for the station after the dinner hour. As she turned the corner Nora looked up towards the window where Francis stood. She seemed to linger for a second, smiled gravely, and waved her hand. Then she was gone.
News of the accident reached the district even before Aunt Polly was brought home, in a state of collapse, in a cab. The sensation throughout the city was impressive. Popular interest could never have been so stirred by the mere stupidity of a young woman stumbling between a platform and a moving train. It was the prenuptial timing which made the thing so exquisite. Around the docks women ran out of their doorways, gathering in groups, beshawled, arms akimbo. Blame for the tragedy was finally pinned upon the victim’s new shoes. There was enormous sympathy for Thaddeus Gilfoyle, for the family, for all young women about to be married and under the necessity of travelling by train. There was talk of a public funeral – with the confraternity band – for the mangled remains.
Late that night, how he knew not, Francis found himself in St Dominic’s church. It was quite deserted. The flickering wick of the sanctuary lamp drew his haggard eyes, a feeble beacon. Kneeling, stiff and pale, he felt, like an embrace, the remorseless foreclosure of his destiny. Never had he known such a moment of desolation, of abandonment. He could not weep. His lips, cold and stricken, could not move in prayer. But from his tortured mind there soared an offer
ing of anguished thought. First his parents; and now Nora. He could no longer ignore these testaments from above. He would go away … he must go … to Father MacNabb … to San Morales. He would give himself entirely to God. He must become a priest.
VI
During Easter, in the year 1892, an event occurred in the English Seminary of San Morales which set the place humming with a note of consternation. One of the students, in the subdiaconate, disappeared completely for the space of four entire days.
Naturally the Seminary had witnessed other seditions since its foundation in these Aragon uplands fifty years before. Students had mutinied for an hour or so, skulking to the posada outside the walls, hurriedly deranging conscience and digestion with long cigarros and the local aguardiente. Once or twice it had been necessary to drag some tottering recusant by the ears from the dingy parlours of the Via Amorosa in the town. But this – for a student to march out through the open gates in broad daylight and, half a week later, by the same gates, in even brighter light of day, to limp in again, dusty, unshaven, dishevelled, offering every evidence of horrible dissipation, and then, with no other excuse than ‘I’ve been for a walk!’ to fling himself upon his bed and sleep the clock round – it was apostasy.
At the recreation the students discussed it in awed tones – little groups of dark figures on the sunny slopes, between the bright green copperas-sprayed vineyards, with the Seminary, white and gleaming against the pale pink earth, beneath them.
It was agreed that Chisholm would undoubtedly be expelled.
The Committee of Examination had immediately been constituted. According to precedent, as in all grave breaches of discipline it was composed of the Rector, the Administrator, the Director of Novices and the Head Seminarian. After some preliminary discussion, the tribunal opened its proceedings, in the theological atrium, on the day following the runagate’s return.
Outside the solano was blowing. The ripe black olives fell from the blade-leafed trees and burst beneath the sun. A scent of orange flowers swept across from the grove above the infirmary. The baked earth crackled with the heat. As Francis entered the white and lofty-pillared room, its polished empty benches cool and dark, he had a quiet air. The black alpaca soutane stressed the thinness of his figure. His hair, cropped and tonsured, gave tautness to his face-bones, intensified the darkness of his eyes, his dark contained reserve. There was an odd tranquillity about his hands.
Before him, on the platform reserved for protagonists in debate, were four desks, already occupied by Father Tarrant, Monsignor MacNabb, Father Gomez and Deacon Mealey. Conscious of a mingling of displeasure and concern in the united gaze now upon him, Francis hung his head, while in a rapid voice Gomez, Director of Novices, read out the accusation.
There was a silence. Then Father Tarrant spoke.
‘What is your explanation?’
Despite the quietness which enclosed him Francis suddenly began to flush. He kept his head down.
‘I went for a walk!’ The words resounded lamely.
‘That is sufficiently apparent. We use our legs whether our intentions are good or bad. Apart from the obvious sin of leaving the Seminary without permission, were your intentions bad?’
‘No.’
‘During your absence did you indulge in alcoholic liquor?’
‘No.’
‘Did you visit the bullfight, the fair, the casino?’
‘No.’
‘Did you consort with women of ill fame?’
‘No.’
‘Then what did you do?’
Silence again, then the muttered inarticulate reply. ‘I’ve told you. You wouldn’t understand. I … I went for a walk!’
Father Tarrant smiled thinly. ‘ Do you wish us to believe that you spent these entire four days ceaselessly perambulating the countryside?’
‘Well … practically.’
‘What destination did you reach eventually?’
‘I – I got to Cossa!’
‘Cossa! But that is fifty miles away!’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘You were there for some specific purpose?’
‘No.’
Father Tarrant bit his thin lip. He could not brook obstruction. He had a sudden wild longing for the rack, the boot, the wheel.
Small wonder the mediaevalists had recourse to such instruments! There were circumstances which fully justified them.
‘I believe you are lying, Chisholm.’
‘Why should I lie – to you?’
A muffled exclamation came from Deacon Mealey. His presence was purely formal. As the chief prefect he sat there as a symbol, perhaps a cipher, expressive of the student body. Yet he could not restrain his earnest pleading.
‘Please, Francis! For the sake of all of the students … all of us who love you … I … implore you to own up.’
As Francis remained silent, Father Gomez, the young Spanish novice master, inclined his head and murmured to Tarrant: ‘I’ve had no evidence … none whatever, from the town. But we might write to the priest at Cossa.’
Tarrant shot a swift glance at the Spaniard’s subtle face.
‘Yes. That is decidedly an idea.’
Meanwhile the Rector had taken advantage of the lull. Older, slower than at Holywell, he leaned forward. He spoke slowly and kindly.
‘Of course, you must realize, Francis, that in the circumstances, so general an explanation is barely adequate. After all, it is a serious matter to play truant – not merely the breaking of the Seminary rule – the disobedience – but rather the underlying motive which prompted you. Tell me! Are you not happy here?’
‘Yes, I am happy.’
‘Good! And you’ve no reason to doubt your vocation?’
‘No! I want more than ever to try to do some good in the world.’
‘That pleases me greatly. You don’t wish to be sent away?’
‘No!’
‘Then tell us in your own words how you came to – to take your remarkable adventure.’
At the quiet encouragement, Francis raised his head. He made a great effort, his eyes remote, his face troubled.
‘I … I had just been to the chapel. But I couldn’t pray, I couldn’t seem to settle. I was restless. The solano was blowing – the hot wind seemed to make me more restless, the routine of the Seminary suddenly seemed petty and vexatious. Suddenly, I saw the road outside the gates, white and soft with dust. I couldn’t help myself. I was on the road, walking. I walked all night, miles and miles. I walked –’
‘All the next day.’ Father Tarrant bit out the satiric interruption. ‘And the next!’
‘That’s what I did.’
‘I never heard such a pack of rubbish in my life! It is an insult to the intelligence of the Committee.’
The Rector, with frowning resolution, suddenly straightened himself in his chair.
‘I propose that we temporarily adjourn.’ While the two priests stared at him in surprise, he said decisively to Francis: ‘You may go for the present. If we think it necessary we will recall you.’
Francis left the room in a dead silence. Only then did the Rector turn to the others. He declared coldly: ‘I assure you that bullying will do no good. We must go carefully. There is more in this than meets the eye.’
Smarting under the interference, Father Tarrant moved fretfully.
‘It is the culmination of an unruly career.’
‘Not at all.’ The Rector demurred. ‘He’s been eager and persevering ever since he came here. There is nothing damaging in his record, Father Gomez?’
Gomez turned the pages, on the desk, before him.
‘No.’ He spoke slowly, reading from the record. ‘A few practical jokes. Last winter he set fire to the English newspaper when Father Despard was perusing it in the common room. Asked why … he laughed and answered, ‘The Devil finds work for idle hands!’
‘Never mind that.’ The Rector spoke sharply. ‘ We all know Father Despard corners every paper that comes into this
Seminary.’
‘Then,’ Gomez resumed, ‘when deputed to read aloud in the refectory he smuggled in and substituted for The Life of St Peter of Alcantara a C R S tract entitled When Eva Stole the Sugar which – until he was stopped – induced much unseemly hilarity.’
‘Harmless mischief.’
‘Again …’ Gomez turned another page. ‘ In the comical procession the students got up, representing the Sacraments – you may remember, one dressed up as a baby representing Baptism, two others were got up as Matrimony, and so on – it was all done with permission of course. But,’ Gomez shot a dubious glance at Tarrant, ‘on the back of the corpse carried in for Extreme Unction, Chisholm pinned a card:
‘Here lies Father Tarrant
I’ve gladly signed his warrant.
If ever –’
‘That’s enough.’ Tarrant broke in sharply. ‘We’ve more to concern us than those absurd lampoons.’
The Rector nodded. ‘Absurd, yes. But not malicious. I like a young man who can knock some fun out of life. We cannot ignore the fact that Chisholm is an unusual character – most unusual. He has great depth and fire. He’s sensitive, inclined to fits of melancholy. He conceals it behind these high spirits. You see, he’s a fighter, he’ll never give in. He’s a queer mixture of childlike simplicity and logical directness. And, above all, he’s a complete individualist!’
‘Individualism is rather a dangerous quality in a theologian,’ Tarrant interposed acidly. ‘It gave us the Reformation.’
‘And the Reformation gave us a better-behaved Catholic Church.’ The Rector smiled mildly at the ceiling. ‘But we’re getting from the point. I don’t deny there’s been a gross breach of discipline. It must be punished. But the punishment cannot be rushed. I can’t expel a student of Chisholm’s quality without first knowing positively that he deserves expulsion. Therefore, let us wait a few days.’ He rose, innocently. ‘I’m sure you all agree.’
As the three priests left the platform, Gomez and Tarrant went off together.
