by A. J. Cronin
During the next two days an air of suspended doom overhung the unhappy Francis. He was not restrained. No apparent ban was placed upon his studies. But wherever he went – to the library, refectory or common room – an unnatural silence struck his fellows, followed swiftly by an exaggerated casualness which deceived no one. The knowledge that he was the universal topic gave him a guilty look. His Holywell companion, Hudson, also in the subdiaconate, pursued him with affectionate attentions and a worried frown. Anselm Mealey led another faction which clearly felt itself outraged. At recreation they consulted, approached the solitary figure. Mealey was the spokesman.
‘We don’t want to hit you when you’re down, Francis. But this touches all of us. It’s a slur upon the student body as a whole. We feel that it would be much finer and manlier if you would make a clean breast and own up to it.’
‘Own up to what?’
Mealey shrugged his shoulders. There was a silence. What more could he do? As he turned away with the others he said:
‘We’ve decided to make a novena for you. I feel it worse than the others. I hoped you were my best friend.’
Francis found it harder to maintain his pretence of normality. He would start off to walk in the Seminary grounds, then stop, sharply, recollecting that walking had been his ruin. He drifted about, aware that for Tarrant and the other professors he had ceased to exist. At the lectures he found he was not listening. The summons to the Rector he half hoped for did not come.
His sense of personal stress increased. He failed to understand himself. He was a purposeless enigma. He brooded over the justification of those who had predicted that he had no vocation. He had wild conceptions of setting out as a lay brother to some dangerous and distant mission. He began to haunt the church – but secretly. Above all there existed the necessity of putting on a face to meet his little world.
It was on the morning of the third day, Wednesday, that Father Gomez received the letter. Shocked but deeply gratified, his resourcefulness confirmed, he ran with it to the Administrator’s office. He stood, while Father Tarrant read the note, like the intelligent dog awaiting its reward, a kind word or a bone.
Mi Amigo,
In reply to your honoured communication of White Sunday,
I deeply regret to inform you that inquiries have elicited the fact that a Seminarian, of such bearing height and colour as you define, was observed in Cossa on April 14th. He was seen to enter the house of one Rosa Oyarzabal late that evening and to leave early the following morning. The woman in question lives alone, is of a known character, and has not frequented the altar rail for seven years. I have the honour to remain, dear Padre, Your devoted brother in Jesus Christus,
S ALVADOR B OLAS P P Cossa
Gomez murmured: ‘Don’t you agree it was good strategy?’
‘Yes, yes!’ With a brow of thunder Tarrant brushed the Spaniard aside. Bearing the letter like something obscene, he strode into the Rector’s room at the end of the corridor. But the Rector was saying his mass. He would be occupied for half an hour.
Father Tarrant could not wait. He crossed the courtyard like a whirlwind and, without knocking, burst into Francis’ room. It was empty.
Checked, realizing that Francis must also be at mass, he struggled with his fury as an ungovernable horse might fight its bit. He sat down, abruptly, forcing himself to wait, his dark thin figure charged with lightning.
The cell was barer even than the others of its kind, its inventory a bed, a chest, a table, the chair he occupied. Upon the chest stood one faded photograph, an angular woman in a frightful hat holding the hand of a white-clad little girl: Love from Aunt Polly and Nora.
Tarrant repressed his sneer. But his lip curled at the single picture on the whitewashed walls, a tiny replica of the Sistine Madonna, Our Lady of Chastity.
Suddenly, upon the table, he saw an open notebook: a diary. Again he started, like a nervous horse, his nostrils dilated, a dark red fire in his eye. For a moment he sat, battling his scruples, then rose and went slowly towards the book. He was a gentleman. It was repugnant to pry like a vulgar chambermaid, into another’s privacy. But it was his duty. Who could guess what further iniquities this scroll contained? With relentless austerity upon his face, he picked up the written page.
‘… was it Saint Anthony who spoke of his “ill-judged, obstinate and perverse behaviour”? I must console myself in the greatest despondency I have ever known, with that single thought! If they send me away from here my life will be broken. I’m a miserable crooked character, I don’t think straight like the others, I cannot train myself to run with the pack. But with my whole soul I desire passionately to work for God. In our Father’s house there are many mansions! There was room for such diversities as Joan of Arc and … well, Blessed Benedict Labre who let even the lice run over him. Surely there is room for me!
‘They ask me to explain to them. How can one explain nothing – or what is so obvious as to be shameful? Francis de Sales said: “I will be ground to powder rather than break a rule.” But when I walked out of the Seminary I did not think of rules, or of breaking them. Certain impulses are unconscious.
‘It helps me to write this down: it gives my transgression the semblance of reason.
‘For weeks I had been sleeping badly, tossing through these hot nights in a fever of unrest. Perhaps it is harder for me here than for the others – judged at least by the voluminous literature on the subject, wherein the steps to the priesthood are represented as sweet untroubled joys, piled one upon another. If our beloved laity knew how one has to fight!
‘Here my greatest difficulty has been the sense of confinement, of physical inaction – what a bad mystic I should make! – always aggravated by echoes, stray sounds, penetrating inwards from the outer world. Then I realize that I am twenty-three, that I have done nothing yet to help a single living soul, and I am fevered with unrest.
‘Willie Tulloch’s letters provide – in Father Gomez’ phrase – the most pernicious stimuli. Now that Willie is a qualified doctor and his sister Jean a certified nurse, both working for the Tynecastle Poor Law Board and enjoying many thrilling, if verminous adventures, in the slums, I feel that I should be out and fighting too.
‘Of course I shall, one day … I must be patient. But my present ferment seems heightened by the news of Ned and Polly. I was happy when they decided to remove from above the tavern and have Judy, the child, to live with them in the little flat which Polly had taken at Clermont, on the outskirts of the city. But Ned has been ill, Judy troublesome, and Gilfoyle – left to manage Union Tavern – a most unsatisfactory business partner. Ned, in fact, has gone to pieces, refuses to go out, sees no one. That one impulse of blind unthinkable stupidity has finished him. A baser man would have survived it.
‘The pattern of life sometimes demands great faith. Dear Nora! That tender platitude conceals a thousand avenues of thought and feeling. When Father Tarrant gave us that practical talk – agenda contra – he said most truly: ‘Some temptations cannot be fought – one must close one’s mind and fly from them!’ My excursion to Cossa must have been that kind of flight.
‘At first, though walking fast, I did not mean to go far when I passed through the Seminary gates. But the relief, the sense of escape from myself which the violent exercise afforded, drove me on. I sweated gloriously, like a peasant in the fields – that salty running sweat which seems to purge one of human dross. My mind lifted, my heart began to sing. I wanted to go on and on until I dropped!
‘I walked all day without food or drink. I covered a great distance, for, when evening drew near, I could smell the sea. And as the stars broke out in the pale sky, I came over the hill and found Cossa at my feet. The village, harboured on a sheltered creek where the sea barely lapped, with blossoming acacia trees lining its single street, had an almost heavenly beauty. I was dead with tiredness. There was an enormous blister on my heel. But as I came down the bill the place welcomed me with its quiet pulse of life.
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��In the little square the villagers were enjoying the cool air, scented with acacia flowers, the dusk made dimmer by the lamps of the little inn, where at an open doorway stood two pine benches. Before the benches in the soft dust some old men were playing bowls with wooden balls. From the creek came the booming of frogs. Children laughed and ran. It was simple and beautiful. Though I now realized that I had not a peseta in my pocket, I seated myself on one of the benches outside the door. How good it was to rest. I was stupid with fatigue. Suddenly, in the quiet darkness beneath the trees, the sound of Catalan pipes rang out. Not loud – low, attuned to the night. If one has not heard these reeds, or the shrill, sweet native tunes, one cannot fully estimate the gladness of that moment. I was enchanted. I suppose, as a Scot, I’ve the lilt of the pipes in my blood. I sat as though drugged by the music, the darkness, the beauty of the night, my utter weakness.
‘I had resolved to sleep out on the beach. But presently, as I thought to move there, a mist rolled in from the sea. It fell like a mystery upon the village. In five minutes the square was choked with twisting vapour, the trees dripping, and everybody going home. I had reached the conclusion, unwillingly, that I must go to the local priest to “give myself up”, and get a bed, when a woman seated on the other bench suddenly spoke to me. For some time I had felt her gazing at me with that mixture of pity and contempt which the mere sight of a religious seems to provoke in Christian countries. Now, as if she read my thoughts, she said: “They are tight people there. They will not take you in.”
‘She was about thirty years of age, dressed quietly in black, with a pale face, dark eyes and a thickened figure. She continued indifferently:
‘“There is a bed in my house if you wish to sleep in it.”
‘“I have no money to pay for a lodging.”
‘She laughed scornfully. “ You can pay me with your prayers.”
‘It had now begun to rain. They had closed the fonda. We both sat on the wet benches under the dripping acacia trees in the deserted square. The absurdity of this seemed to strike her. She rose.
‘“I am going home. If you are not a fool you will accept my hospitality.”
‘My thin soutane was soaked. I had begun to shiver. I reflected that I could send her money for my room on my return to the Seminary. I got up and walked with her down the narrow street.
‘Her house was halfway down the row. We descended two steps into the kitchen. When she had lit the lamp, she threw off the black shawl, put a pot of chocolate on the fire and took a new loaf from the oven. She spread a red-checked tablecloth. Bubbling chocolate and hot bread made a good smell in the small clean room.
‘As she poured the chocolate into thick cups, she looked at me across the table. “You had better say grace. That improves the flavour!” Though now there was no mistaking the irony in her voice, I said grace. We began to eat and drink. The flavour needed no improvement.
‘She kept watching me. She had once been a very pretty woman, but the remnants of her beauty made her dark-eyed olive face seem hard. Her small ears were close to her head and pierced with heavy gold rings. Her hands were plump like the hands of a Rubens Madonna.
‘“Well, little padre, you are lucky to be here. I have no liking for the priests. In Barcelona, when I pass them I break into open laughter!”
‘I couldn’t help smiling. “You don’t surprise me. It’s the first thing we learn – to be laughed at. The best man I ever knew used to preach in the open air. The whole town turned out to laugh at him. They named him, in mockery, Holy Daniel. You see, there’s so little doubt nowadays that anyone who believes in God is a hypocrite or a fool!”
‘She took a slow drink of chocolate, watching me over her cup. “You are no fool. Tell me, do I please you?”
‘“I think you are charming and kind.”
‘“It is my nature to be kind. I’ve had a sad life. My father was a Castilian noble who was dispossessed by the Madrid Government. My husband commanded a great ship in the Navy. He was lost at sea. I myself am an actress – living quietly here at present until my father’s estate is recovered. Of course you understand that I am lying.”
‘“Perfectly!”
‘She didn’t take this as a joke as I had hoped. She reddened slightly. “You are too clever. But I know why you are here, my runaway priestling; you are all the same.” She got over her fit of pique, and mocked: “ You forsake Mother Church for Mother Eve.”
‘I was puzzled, then her meaning dawned on me. It was so absurd I wanted to laugh. But it was annoying too – I supposed I’d have to clear out. I had finished my bread and chocolate. I rose and took my hat. “Thank you exceedingly for my supper. It was excellent.”
‘Her expression changed, all the malice driven out of it by surprise. “So you are a hypocrite then.” She bit her lip sulkily. As I went to the door she said suddenly: “Don’t go!”
‘A silence. She said defiantly:
‘“Don’t look at me like that. I’m entitled to do as I choose. I enjoy myself. You should see me Saturday evenings, sitting in the Cava at Barcelona – more fun than ever you’ll have in your miserable little life. Go upstairs and sleep.”
‘There was a pause. Her attitude now seemed reasonable; and I could hear the rain outside. I hesitated, then moved towards the narrow stairs. My feet were swollen and smarting. I must have limped badly, for she exclaimed suddenly, coldly: “What is the matter with your precious foot?”
‘“It’s nothing … only blistered.”
‘She studied me with those strange unfathomable eyes.
‘“I will bathe it for you.”
‘In spite of all my protests she made me sit down. When she had filled a basin with warm water she knelt and took off my boot. My sock was sticking to the raw flesh. She softened it with water and drew it off. Her unexpected kindness embarrassed me. She bathed both my feet and put some ointment on them. Then she stood up.
‘“That should feel better. Your socks will be ready for you in the morning.”
‘“How can I thank you?”
‘She said unexpectedly in an odd dull tone: “ What does one do with a life like mine!” Before I could answer she raised the pitcher in her right hand. “Do not preach at me or I will break your head. Your bed is on the second landing. Good night.”
‘She turned away towards the fire. I went upstairs, found a small room beneath the skylight. I slept as though stunned.
‘Next morning when I came down, she was moving about the kitchen, making coffee. She gave me breakfast. As I took my leave I tried to express my gratitude. But she cut me short. She gave me her sad peculiar smile. “You are too innocent to be a priest. You will be a great failure.”
‘I started back for San Morales. I was lame and rather scared of my reception. I was afraid. I took my time.’
Father Tarrant remained motionless at the window for a long moment, then quietly replaced the diary upon the table, reminded by a glint of recollection that it was he who had first asked Francis to keep it. Methodically he tore the Spanish priest’s letter into fragments. The expression on his face was quite remarkable. For once it lacked its bleakness, that iron austerity seared into every feature by pitiless self-mortification. It became a young face, flooded with generosity and thoughtfulness. With his clenched hand still holding the pieces of the letter, slowly, almost unconsciously, he struck his breast three times. Then he spun round and left the room.
As he descended the broad staircase Anselm Mealey’s solid head came up and around the spiral balustrade. Observing Father Tarrant, the model seminarian dared to pause. He admired the Administrator to excess. To be noticed by him was a heavenly joy. He ventured modestly:
‘Excuse me, sir. We are all very anxious. I am wondering if there is any more news … concerning Chisholm?’
‘What news?’
‘Well … of his leaving.’
Tarrant contemplated his creature with remote distaste. ‘Chisholm is not leaving.’ He added, with sudden violence, ‘You fo
ol!’
That evening as Francis sat in his study, dizzy and unbelieving under the miracle of his redemption, one of the college servants silently handed in a packet. It contained a superb figure of the Virgin of Montserrat carved in ebony, a tiny masterpiece of fifteenth-century Spanish craftmanship. No message accompanied the exquisite thing. Not a word of explanation. Suddenly, with a wild consuming thought, Francis remembered he had seen it above the prie-dieu in Father Tarrant’s room.
It was the Rector, meeting Francis at the end of the week, who put his finger on the manifest inconsistency. ‘It strikes me, young sir, that you have escaped gey lightly, through a sinister screen of sanctity. In my young days playing truant – “ plunking” we called it – was a punishable crime.’ He fixed on Francis his shrewd and twinkling gaze. ‘As a penance you might write me an essay – two thousand words – on “ The Virtue of Walking.”’
In the small universe of a seminary the very walls have ears, the keyholes diabolic vision. The story of Francis’ escapade came gradually to light, was fitted, piece by piece, together. It grew, gained indeed, as it passed from lip to ear. Assuming the facets of the finished gem, it seemed likely to descend – a classic in the Seminary’s history. When Father Gomez had the final details, he wrote fully to his friend the parish priest of Cossa. Father Bolas was much impressed. He wrote back, a glowing five-page letter, of which, perhaps, the final paragraph merits quotation:
Naturally, the pinnacle of achievement would have been the conversion of the woman, Rosa Oyarzabal. How wonderful it would have been had she come to me and wept, on her knees, in true contrition, as the result of our young apostle’s visitation! But alas! She has gone into partnership with another madam and opened a brothel in Barcelona, which I grieve to report is flourishing.
3. An Unsuccessful Curate
I
