Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Monsignor Maryzic was ready waiting, now with a canvas bag in hand. He nodded to Pickles, went striding after, and with long legs soon caught the other up — and kept up with him, even though it was evident his company wasn’t wanted and the effort cost him all his breath.

  No word was spoken until they were trudging through the soft dry sand above water mark, when the old man puffed, ‘Steady for vun minute, Stephen.’ Glascock halted, but would not look anywhere but ahead through the casuarinas, even when the archpriest shook his bag to make liquid sounds and said, ‘Some excellent Bourbon giffen me by American admiral.’

  Getting his breath, the old priest moved off again, holding the pace down now, and able to talk: ‘On voyage I am torture’ by sin of uncharity undt t’irst, because I cannot open a bottle for drinking alone. Zerefore I come Doing a Parish, as zey say. You know zat ver’ expressive Australianism, I presume?’

  The young priest glanced under heavy brows, grunting, ‘The word is Perish.’

  ‘Zat is vot I say. Do you know, der Protestants haf vun hymn, Rescue Der Perish In? I hear zem singing. I vunder is it der state of der parochial finances or of der parson’s cellar zat is vorrying zem.’ Anyone who knew Monsignor would guess he was up to his drollery. Glascock ignored it. The old man sighed; ‘Vell, I hope you haf cool vater in your vater-bag.’

  They reached the presbytery. Glascock saw his unwanted guest into a canvas chair, went off to get water and glasses. He was so long in coming back, that the slaty eyes quizzed him sharply. The blue eyes looked blank, glassy, like one not yet properly conscious from having been stunned, or recovered from grief that had necessitated washing the eyes.

  There were two black bottles on the table. Monsignor took hold of one to do the pouring — a stiff one and a thimbleful. The latter he shoved across the table to Glascock, saying, ‘You can get drunk ven I am gone. Meanvile, I vont your full intelligence.’ He watered his drink sparingly. On the other hand, Glascock soused his modicum as if with contemptuous deliberation. The old man raised his glass: ‘Your health, Stephen.’ Glascock only grunted in reply. The old man took a long pull, sighed, settled back in his chair.

  A brittle silence; till Monsignor asked gently, ‘Vell, my son . . . haf you not somezing to say to me?’

  The man answered coldly, ‘I supposed you wanted to say something to me.’

  ‘I haf so . . . but can I initiate mitout appearance of asserting aut’ority of superior?’

  ‘Aren’t you here in the role of disapproving superior?’

  ‘First I am here as your friendt.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I can zink of nuzzing but our friendtship.’

  Glascock swigged his weak liquor. The old man finished his drink, poured another stiff one for himself. When he had taken a pull at it, and fastened the slaty eyes on the glassy blue, he breathed, ‘So?’ Glascock almost sneered in reply: ‘I assume you’ve been apprised of my ecclesiastical misconduct by the Very Reverend David?’

  The old priest clucked his disapproval, rumbled, ‘Vot haf happen’ to your charity zat you mock a poor pagan you haf both inspired undt disillusioned?’ He sipped, looked up to meet the blue eyes now looking hot with defiance. He said, ‘You are behafing like a naughty schoolboy, Stephen.’

  Glascock snapped, ‘Why not . . . when you come to me as dominie?’

  ‘I say I come as friendt.’

  ‘The dominie’s dodge . . . It hurts me as much as you.’

  The old man drank again, sank back, avoiding the hot eyes to stare away to the silvery glimpse of sea beyond the casuarinas. Still staring away, after a moment he asked, ‘You intend to marry zis girl?’

  That was a blow between the blue eyes, the way they blinked. Glascock’s voice was husky as he answered, slowly, ‘No.’

  Monsignor glanced at him, then away again. ‘So I vood suppose. She is goot girl . . . undt goot Jewess vill marry only mit her people.’

  Glascock’s voice took an edge: ‘The reason she won’t marry me is because she can’t have children . . . because of what those Nazi bastards did to her. She wants to dedicate her life to looking after Aborigines.’

  ‘Der Jewish voman is alvays mutter first. She is der mutter of mutters. Der Mutter of Gott vos Jewess.’ Then the slaty eyes bored the blue. ‘You vill marry some ozzer voman?’

  Again Glascock was taken aback. He swallowed, muttered, ‘No.’

  ‘Vy not . . . ven you haf renounce your vow?’

  ‘I . . . love this girl.’

  The old man nodded. ‘Ja . . . I cannot see you indulging for lust.’ The blue eyes dropped. The rumbling voice went on: ‘Vot vill you do now she is tek from you?’

  The dark head dropped. Glascock muttered, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You vish to follow?’

  ‘She wouldn’t want me to.’

  ‘Vize young voman . . . Jewishly vize.’

  The blue eyes rose, hostile again. The slate held them compellingly. The voice rumbled: ‘You do not expect me to ignore der very significant fact zat she is Jewish?’ The heavy brows above the blue eyes rumpled in a frown. Still the rumble continued: ‘Ever since she vos so strangely to come into your life, more undt more haf you lean to Judaism . . . until now I vood call you vot der Jews vood . . . Proselyte of Der Gate . . . vun of der Unchosen who yearn outside . . . you, a Priest of der People!’ The last was barked.

  Glascock flamed. ‘I’m a priest no longer.’

  ‘Vot are you, zen . . . vot blacks call Bloody Nutching?’

  Glascock snorted, shot to his feet.

  Maryzic looked up into the angry face, to say quite mildly, ‘Only am I testing you, my son. Pliss to sit down.’

  Glascock breathed hard: ‘I’ll not submit to hierarchical bullying. I’m finished with the Church.’ His voice rose: ‘Understand that, Your Right Reverence . . . I’m finished with the Church!’

  The old man sighed: ‘Because of a daughter of Israel . . .’

  Glascock’s voice was too sharp: ‘No . . . she has nothing to do with it. She didn’t like it . . . wanted me to keep my faith. But I see it as a false faith.’

  The old man turned to his glass. ‘Pliss to explain.’

  Glascock was still breathing hard: ‘I’ve always doubted the Dogma.’

  ‘Alvays?’

  ‘From the age of reason.’

  The old priest sipped, sighed, ran thick peasant’s fingers through white hair. ‘Doubt is der Cross all religieux bear . . . fait’ is our strengt’ to bear it.’ He now doubled the other’s ration of whisky, and pushing the glass towards him, said, ‘Pliss to sit, Stephen . . . undt listen to me for fifteen minute. I am not here to discipline . . . nor to preach or plead. All I vont is to test der reality of your renunciation . . . undt also to test der value of mein own fait’. You need not spik. Pliss to sit and mit me drink.’

  Reluctantly the young man complied. They drank in silence.

  The old priest gazed away again as he spoke: ‘Vile ve are sailing here, zinking mooch about you, I recall vot you tell me of your call to der priesthood . . . how you vere so mooch affected by your own fader’s brutality undt lechery, his cruelty to your mutter . . . how you are move’ to gif solace to suffering pipple . . . der solace only a priest can gif . . . and how der goot Gott grant you der grace to minister to your penitent fader on his death-bed. Of all telling of vocation I haf hear, I know none zat is so pure example of Christian Charity. You haf show zat same charity here in choosing zis poor curacy, because you belief der Aborigines are more in need of ministration, temporal even more zan spiritual, zan any ozzer . . .’

  Glascock cut in: ‘I was a boy of thirteen when I received my vocation. I was still a boy when I went to my father’s bedside. The fact is that my mother was a weak personality, incapable of dealing with my brute of a father as she should have, if only for her children’s sake. As to my father, he was a stupid egoist, actually so insecure that he stayed with my mother for the security she gave him and the means to compensate
for his weakness by torturing her . . . and he was so scared of Hell that he believed I, his own son, might be able to get him out of it better than another priest.’

  ‘Poor simple pipple like zat are first responsibility of der priest. Zat solace you brought to your fader, voteffer you zink of it, vos true Christian Charity.’ After pausing to drink, the old man went on, again to the distance: ‘Let me tell you of my own vocational experience. It should be of special interest to you, because concerning Jews. It vill also explain somezing of mein attitude to Jews, vich lately you haf hinted, ven I haf spik of your preoccupation mit Judaism, as Anti-Semitism.’ A little pause. ‘I haf tell you before zat zere vos large Jewish community in town vere I grow up . . .’

  Glascock cut in sardonically: ‘You mean outside that town . . . Beyond the Pale . . . in accordance with the Christian Charity of your good Catholic country!’

  The old priest was unruffled: ‘Ja . . . Beyond der Pale. Der Jews live in Judische Shtettel . . . as der Chosen of Gott, vich zey do not consider us poor Christians . . .’

  Again Glascock interrupted: ‘There would be no Anti-Semitism but for Semitism, eh?’

  ‘Exactly. But you did not vish at first to spik. Pliss to let me tell my story.’

  Glascock swigged his drink. Monsignor went on: ‘I also vos t’irteen at time of vocation. A ver’ impressionable time in life of boy . . . der moost. To Jews it is year of Bar Mitzvah, ven a boy properly become a Jew . . . Son of Der Covenant. I presume you know all zis. Vell, it happen in my year t’irteen zere is special festivity in Shtettel because of Bar Mitzvah of several boys. Jews haf more joy in festivity zan ozzer pipple. I zink it is because zere feasts are truly part of zere ’istory . . . and each is proof of a continuity of existence in vich zey don’t qvite belief. Anyvay, a Jewish festival vould alvays irritate der Christians . . .’

  ‘Christian charity!’

  The old man appeared to ignore it. ‘Passover, der Feast of Esther, Jewish New Year, undt der rest, vos alvays special time for pulling out Jew’s beard, force-feeding him pig-meat, baptising him in piss. It sound bad . . . but actually in my experience zere vos nefer der terrible brutality of der Pogrom. As I see it, der Pogrom happen’ only ven der Jews lose zere usual vonderful control of zemself in petty persecution, and by hitting back gif excuse for der cruelty nefer too deep down in peasants and petty officials of zose days and place. But zis time I spik of vos vun ven Ivan der Peasant vas feeling too mooch his own ineptitude because zings vere bad in agriculture. Zings vere bad for Jews, too . . . vorse . . . but nuzzing can stop a feast for zem. Vun Jew is in town, too happy because of his nachat in his son become Son of Der Convenant. Maybe he is a little drunk. Anyvay, zose who set on him kill him, and zen crucify him, upside down, on a dunny door . . .’ Glascock groaned aloud. Maryzic commented: ‘You have to see zese stupid peasant pipple as zey are . . . ignorant, superstitious . . .’

  ‘Good sons of the Catholic Church!’

  ‘So zey belief. Der Crucifixion and Jew are effer in der front of zere mind.’

  ‘It was the Romans crucified Christ.’

  ‘Der Testament say, Der Jews cry out: “Avay mit him, crucify him!”’ The old man added with a sidelong look: ‘But you do not credit der New Testament now?’

  ‘How can a rational person believe what is mixed up with the silliness of the Resurrection and Ascension . . . as silly as any primitive Mohammedan’s belief that the Prophet’s spirit rode to Paradise on a stallion, while his mortal remains are in a golden coffin hanging perpetually between heaven and earth?’

  The old priest sighed: ‘Rational person . . . primitive person. Vos I not telling you about primitive pipple . . . pipple not rational? Let me continue. Zese primitive, irrational, wretched pipple, who med up moost of zat Christian community I grow up in, kill a Jew because he is happy. Did I say more? Vell, zen, let me tell you zat Jews are not super-human. Zey can get vicious, too . . . Life for life, eye for eye, toot’ for toot’, to quote zem. Because of zis Bar Mitzvah festival, zere are in der Shtettel some big, strong, not-so-pious Jews. Zese are voodsmen, who vork mit axe undt horse-team. Zey demand revenge, march on der town mit axe undt goad. Der town-pipple are ready vaiting. So vill begin der pogrom zat vill at last leaf der Shtettel a smoking ruin, men, vomen, children, old volk, torn to pieces . . . because to Jews to be afflicted is to come close to Gott, undt sooch strange holiness drive mad zese ozzers who not yet know Gott but vont to so mooch, until zey are like volves for blutt. But zere is no violence. Der Parish Priest get between. He spik not to his own pipple, but to der Jews, in Hebrew, telling zem his pipple vere brutal t’rough ignorance and fear and frustration. He quote from Old Testament, saying: “Vill you, in definance of your teaching, mek convenant mit Death undt mit Hell agreement?” He ask zem on zere charity to depart in peace. Zis I know, because as young priest myself I ask him.’

  The old man sipped, sighed: ‘I myself am ver’ mooch relief to see zose Jews go avay, because I also am infected by zat fever of frustration and hate of vot I cannot understand, vich vos against my training, because my fader was merchant undt vos friendtly to Jews. But it is only relief I feel zen. Der full significance of der power of der priest for goot did not come to me till I see him use it on our own pipple. After zose Jew voodmen go avay, der vorst element of der town start drinking undt soon come to t’ink zey haf been made fool. Zey rouse up der town undt go march on der Shtettel. But zere, vaiting outside der Pale is Fader Haenke. He say: “In name of Lord Jesus Christ you vill not pass. If pass you do, moost you kill me, der Vicar of Christ among you, vich vill mean killing Christ again, and proving to zese Jews zat our Fait’ is empty.” He make Sign of Cross. Der mob do same, turn and go home. It is zen I see more zan power of vun man for goot, but of der Church. Zat is zat man’s power. So did I get my call.’

  The old man drank, but with eyes fixed on the other’s face, which was hard with unacceptance. Setting down his glass he said, ‘You are not so impress’ mit mein call as I mit yours.’

  Glascock answered stiffly, ‘I’m not impressed by the way your Christians acquitted themselves. First it was the intelligent constraint of the Jew that checked their barbarity, which was stopped finally only through superstitious fear.’

  Monsignor asked quietly, Tear of vot, my son?’

  ‘Of what you’ve already named . . . the power of the Church.’

  ‘Der name I use is Power of der Church for Good.’

  ‘By bringing up the Crucifixion, making the Sign of the Cross . . . in short, by means of hocus-pocus!’ The effort left the young man pale, sweating, breathless.

  The old man merely blinked, then asked quietly, ‘Do you not know of hocus-pocus in Judaism?’

  Glascock growled, ‘Judaism is a simple relationship between Man and the unknown quantity called God.’

  Monsignor Maryzic pondered it a moment, then with a slight shrug as if dismissing it, said, ‘Der ram’s horn, or Shofar, blown in der synagogue on Day of Atonement is rich in symbolism. It is reminiscent of Gott’s reprieve of Isaac, ven his father Abraham vood sacrifice him to prove his fait’. Der bend of der Horn represent der humility of Man before der Almighty. Zere are many notes to be blown, each mit own sacred name undt meaning. Der purpose of der ram’s horn is to call on der pipple as der Voice of Gott: Here, oh, Israel, remember t’y Gott! Hocus-pocus if you like. Call der Elevation of der Host in celebration of der Mass hocus-pocus . . . but find me more inspired symbol of vot is basic in religion. Man’s need to feel bot’ humility before der Infinite and union mit it. Call der Crucifix hocus-pocus . . . but show me vot can mit greater force express Man’s Inhumanity to Man, vich is our primary sin and veakness, der fault zat mek dark der bright image in vich der Almighty haf created us.’ A pause to drink.

  The old priest went on: ‘You say Judaism is simple relationship betveen Man undt Gott . . . by vich I infer, from your expressed hostility to der Church, zat it is unemcumber by ecclesiasticism. Vell, let us get back to der synagogue undt der r
am’s horn. You know, of course, of der Minyan, der gazzering of ten male Jews, over der age of t’rteen, Sons of der Covenant, mitout vich no ritualistic religious service can be held? Zat is a congregation far in excess of ecclesiastical requirements of der Church, in vich efen the most holy Sacrament of der Eucharist need only single Celebrant and Communicant. But vy congregation in any fait’? Der answer vos giffen by der Lord Jesus Christ . . . For vere two or free are gazzer togezzer in My Name, zere I am in midst of zem. Vich mean, of course, zat few men are able to commune mit der Infinite alone. Hence der Church, der Synagogue, der ceremonial zat you call hocus-pocus. Der difference betveen der Church undt der Synagogue is zat der Church is Catholic, for all Mankind, vile der Synagogue is for vun tribe only, der Jews. Ritual is Art. Appreciation of Art and ability to practise it is giffen only to Man. In religion Art reach its highest form because it is selfless. Der priest is der keeper of zis art . . . the Catholic Priest the moost dedicated, because his curacy is for all his bredren. I repeat to you zat der vast majority of Mankind is simple as savages. Only der Church, adapting itself to Man’s need alvays, efen in der name of Gott, slow to change as Man is, but ever changing, can gif Man solace in der agony of his struggle tovards his Divine Destiny . . . can assure him zat Destiny.’