Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  ‘Father Moran, your reverence.’

  ‘I see that I’m interrupting you. You’re writing.’

  ‘No, I assure you.’

  ‘But you’ve got a pen in your hand.’

  ‘It can wait — a matter of no importance. Sit down.’

  ‘Now, you’ll tell me if I’m in the way?’

  ‘My good man, why are you talking like that? Why should you be in the way?’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure you’ve nothing to do, may I stay to supper?’

  ‘To supper?’

  ‘But I see that I’m in the way.’

  ‘No; I tell you you’re not in the way. And you’re going to stay to supper.’

  Father Oliver flung himself between Father Moran and the door; Father Moran allowed himself to be led back to the armchair. Father Oliver took the chair opposite him, for he couldn’t send Moran away; he mustn’t do anything that would give rise to suspicion.

  ‘You’re quite sure I’m not in the way — I’m not interfering with any plans?’

  ‘Quite sure. I’m glad you have come this evening.’

  ‘Are you? Well, I had to come.’

  ‘You had to come!’

  ‘Yes, I had to come; I had to come to see if anything had happened. You needn’t look at me like that; I haven’t been drinking, and I haven’t gone out of my mind. I can only tell you that I had to come to see you this evening.’

  ‘And you don’t know why?’

  ‘No, I don’t; I can’t tell you exactly why I’ve come. As I was reading my breviary, walking up and down the road in front of the house, I felt that I must see you. I never felt anything like it in my life before. I had to come.’

  ‘And you didn’t expect to find me?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t. How did you guess that?’

  ‘You’d have hardly come all that way to find me sitting here in this armchair.’

  ‘That’s right. It wasn’t sitting in that chair I expected to see you; I didn’t expect to see you at all — at least, I don’t think I did. You see, it was all very queer, for it was as if somebody had got me by the shoulders. It was as if I were being pushed every yard of the road. Something was running in my mind that I shouldn’t see you again, or if I did see you that it would be for the last time. You seemed to me as if you were going away on a long journey.’

  ‘Was it dying or dead you saw me?’

  ‘That I can’t say. If I said any more I shouldn’t be telling the truth. No, it wasn’t the same feeling when I came to tell you I couldn’t put up with the loneliness any more — the night I came here roaring for drink. I was thinking of myself then, and that you might save me or do something for me — give me drink or cure me. I don’t know which thought it was that was running in my head, but I had to come to you all the same, just as I had to come to you to-day. I say it was different, because then I was on my own business; but this time it seemed to me that I was on yours. One good turn deserves another, as they say; and something was beating in my head that I could help you, serve as a stay; so I had to come. Where should I be now if it were not for you? I can see you’re thinking that it was only nonsense that was running in my head, but you won’t be saying it was nonsense that brought me the night I came like a madman roaring for drink. If there was a miracle that night, why shouldn’t there be a miracle to-night? And if a miracle ever happened in the world, it happened that night, I’m thinking. Do you remember the dark gray clouds tearing across the sky, and we walking side by side, I trying to get away from you? I was that mad that I might have thrown you into the bog-hole if the craving had not passed from me. And it was just lifted from me as one might take the cap off one’s head. You remember the prayer we said, leaning over the bit of wall looking across the bog? There was no lonesomeness that night coming home, Gogarty, though a curlew might have felt a bit.’

  ‘A curlew!’

  ‘Well, there were curlews and plovers about, and a starving ass picking grass between the road and the bog-hole. That night will be ever in my mind. Where would I be now if it hadn’t been that you kept on with me and brought me back, cured? It wouldn’t be a cassock that would be on my back, but some old rag of a coat. There’s nothing in this world, Gogarty, more unlucky than a suspended priest. I think I can see myself in the streets, hanging about some public-house, holding horses attached to a cab-rank.’

  ‘Lord of Heaven, Moran! what are you coming here to talk to me in this way for? The night you’re speaking of was bad enough, but your memory of it is worse. Nothing of what you’re saying would have happened; a man like you would be always able to pick up a living.’

  ‘And where would I be picking up a living if it weren’t on a cab-rank, or you either?’

  ‘Well, ’tis melancholy enough you are this evening.’

  ‘And all for nothing, for there you are, sitting in your old chair. I see I’ve made a fool of myself.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. You see, if one didn’t do what one felt like doing, one would have remorse of conscience for ever after.’

  ‘I suppose so. It was very kind of you, Moran, to come all this way.’

  ‘What is it but a step? Three miles—’

  ‘And a half.’

  Moved by a febrile impatience, which he could not control, Father Oliver got up from his chair.

  ‘Now, Moran, isn’t it strange? I wonder how it was that you should have come to tell me that you were going off to drink somewhere. You said you were going to lie up in a public-house and drink for days, and yet you didn’t think of giving up the priesthood.’

  ‘What are you saying, Gogarty? Don’t you know well enough I’d have been suspended? Didn’t I tell you that drink had taken that power over me that, if roaring hell were open, and I sitting on the brink of it and a table beside me with whisky on it, I should fill myself a glass?’

  ‘And knowing you were going down to hell?’

  ‘Yes, that night nothing would have stopped me. But, talking of hell, I heard a good story yesterday. Pat Carabine was telling his flock last Sunday of the tortures of the damned, and having said all he could about devils and pitchforks and caldrons, he came to a sudden pause — a blank look came into his face, and, looking round the church and seeing the sunlight streaming through the door, his thoughts went off at a tangent. “Now, boys,” he said, “if this fine weather continues, I hope you’ll be all out in the bog next Tuesday bringing home my turf.”’

  Father Oliver laughed, but his laughter did not satisfy Father Moran, and he told how on another occasion Father Pat had finished his sermon on hell by telling his parishioners that the devil was the landlord of hell. ‘And I leave yourself to imagine the groaning that was heard in the church that morning, for weren’t they all small tenants? But I’m afraid my visit has upset you, Gogarty.’

  ‘How is that?’

  ‘You don’t seem to enjoy a laugh like you used to.’

  ‘Well, I was thinking at that moment that I’ve heard you say that, even though you gave way to drink, you never had any doubts about the reality of the hell that awaited you for your sins.’

  ‘That’s the way it is, Gogarty, one believes, but one doesn’t act up to one’s belief. Human nature is inconsistent. Nothing is queerer than human nature, and will you be surprised if I tell you that I believe I was a better priest when I was drinking than I am now that I’m sober? I was saying that human nature is very queer; and it used to seem queer to myself. I looked upon drink as a sort of blackmail I paid to the devil so that he might let me be a good priest in everything else. That’s the way it was with me, and there was more sense in the idea than you’d be thinking, for when the drunken fit was over I used to pray as I have never prayed since. If there was not a bit of wickedness in the world, there would be no goodness. And as for faith, drink never does any harm to one’s faith whatsoever; there’s only one thing that takes a man’s faith from him, and that is woman. You remember the expulsions at Maynooth, and you know what they were for. Well, that sin
is a bad one, but I don’t think it affects a man’s faith any more than drink does. It is woman that kills the faith in men.’

  ‘I think you’re right: woman is the danger. The Church dreads her. Woman is life.’

  ‘I don’t quite understand you.’

  Catherine came into the room to lay the cloth, and Father Oliver asked Father Moran to come out into the garden. It was now nearing its prime. In a few days more the carnations would be all in bloom, and Father Oliver pondered that very soon it would begin to look neglected. ‘In a year or two it will have drifted back to the original wilderness, to briar and weed,’ he said to himself; and he dwelt on his love of this tiny plot of ground, with a wide path running down the centre, flower borders on each side, and a narrow path round the garden beside the hedge. The potato ridges, and the runners, and the cabbages came in the middle. Gooseberry-bushes and currant-bushes grew thickly, there were little apple-trees here and there, and in one corner the two large apple-trees under which he sat and smoked his pipe in the evenings.

  ‘You’re very snug here, smoking your pipe under your apple-trees.’

  ‘Yes, in a way; but I think I was happier where you are.’

  ‘The past is always pleasant to look upon.’

  ‘You think so?’

  The priests walked to the end of the garden, and, leaning on the wicket, Father Moran said:

  ‘We’ve had queer weather lately — dull heavy weather. See how low the swallows are flying. When I came up the drive, the gravel space in front of the house was covered with them, the old birds feeding the young ones.’

  ‘And you were noticing these things, and believing that Providence had sent you here to bid me good-bye.’

  ‘Isn’t it when the nerves are on a stretch that we notice little things that don’t concern us at all?’

  ‘Yes, Moran; you are right. I’ve never known you as wise as you are this evening.’

  Catherine appeared in the kitchen door. She had come to tell them their supper was ready. During the meal the conversation turned on the roofing of the abbey and the price of timber, and when the tablecloth had been removed the conversation swayed between the price of building materials and the Archbishop’s fear lest he should meet a violent death, as it had been prophesied if he allowed a roof to be put upon Kilronan.

  ‘You know I don’t altogether blame him, and I don’t think anyone does at the bottom of his heart, for what has been foretold generally comes to pass sooner or later.’

  ‘The Archbishop is a good Catholic who believes in everything the Church teaches — in the Divinity of our Lord, the Immaculate Conception, and the Pope’s indulgences. And why should he be disbelieving in that which has been prophesied for generations about the Abbot of Kilronan?’

  ‘Don’t you believe in these things?’

  ‘Does anyone know exactly what he believes? Does the Archbishop really believe every day of the year and every hour of every day that the Abbot of Kilronan will be slain on the highroad when a De Stanton is again Abbot?’ Father Oliver was thinking of the slip of the tongue he had been guilty of before supper, when he said that the Church looks upon woman as the real danger, because she is the life of the world. He shouldn’t have made that remark, for it might be remembered against him, and he fell to thinking of something to say that would explain it away.

  ‘Well, Moran, we’ve had a pleasant evening; we’ve talked a good deal, and you’ve said many pleasant things and many wise ones. We’ve never had a talk that I enjoyed more, and I shall not forget it easily.’

  ‘How is that?’

  ‘Didn’t you say that it isn’t drink that destroys a man’s faith, but woman? And you said rightly, for woman is life.’

  ‘I was just about to ask you what you meant, when Catherine came in and interrupted us.’

  ‘Love of woman means estrangement from the Church, because you have to protect her and her children.’

  ‘Yes, that is so; that’s how it works out. Now you won’t be thinking me a fool for having come to see you this evening, Gogarty? One never knows when one’s impulses are true and when they’re false. If I hadn’t come the night when the drink craving was upon me, I shouldn’t have been here now.’

  ‘You did quite right to come, Moran; we’ve talked of a great many things.’

  ‘I’ve never talked so plainly to anyone before; I wonder what made me talk as I’ve been talking. We never talked like this before, did we, Gogarty? And I wouldn’t have talked to another as I’ve talked to you. I shall never forget what I owe to you.’

  ‘You said you were going to leave the parish.’

  ‘I don’t think I thought of anything except to burn myself up with drink. I wanted to forget, and I saw myself walking ahead day after day, drinking at every public-house.’

  ‘And just because I saved you, you thought you would come to save me?’

  ‘There was something of that in it. Gad! it’s very queer; there’s no saying where things will begin and end. Pass me the tobacco, will you?’

  Father Moran began to fill his pipe, and when he had finished filling it, he said:

  ‘Now I must be going, and don’t be trying to keep me; I’ve stopped long enough. If I were sent for a purpose—’

  ‘But you don’t believe seriously, Moran, that you were sent for a purpose?’ Moran didn’t answer, and his silence irritated Father Oliver, and, determined to probe his curate’s conscience, he said: ‘Aren’t you satisfied now that it was only an idea of your own? You thought to find me gone, and here I am sitting before you.’ After waiting for some time for Moran to speak, he said: ‘You haven’t answered me.’

  ‘What should I be answering?’

  ‘Do you still think you were sent for a purpose?’

  ‘Well, I do.’

  ‘You do?’

  The priests stood looking at each other for a while.

  ‘Can’t you give a reason?’

  ‘No; I can give no reason. It’s a feeling. I know I haven’t reason on my side. There you are before me.’

  ‘It’s very queer.’

  He would have liked to have called back Moran. It seemed a pity to let him go without having probed this matter to the bottom. He hadn’t asked him if he had any idea in his mind about the future, as to what was going to happen; but it was too late now. ‘Why did he come here disturbing me with his beliefs,’ he cried out, ‘poisoning my will?’ for he had already begun to fear that Moran’s visit might come between him and his project. The wind sighed a little louder, and Father Oliver said: ‘I wouldn’t be minding his coming here to warn me, though he did say that it wasn’t of his own will that he came, but something from the outside that kept pushing him along the road — I wouldn’t be minding all that if this wind hadn’t risen. But the omen may be a double one.’ At that moment the wind shook the trees about the house, and he fell to thinking that if he had started to swim the lake that night he would be now somewhere between Castle Island and the Joycetown shore, in the deepest and windiest part of the lake. ‘And pretty well tired I’d be at the time. If I’d started to-night a corpse would be floating about by now.’ The wind grew louder. Father Oliver imagined the waves slapping in his face, and then he imagined them slapping about the face of a corpse drifting towards the Joycetown shore.

  XIV

  THERE WAS LITTLE sleep in him that night, and turning on his pillow, he sought sleep vainly, getting up at last when the dawn looked through the curtains. A wind was shaking the apple-trees, and he went back to bed, thinking that if it did not drop suddenly he would not be able to swim across the lake that evening. The hours passed between sleeping and waking, thinking of the newspaper articles he would write when he got to America, and dreaming of a fight between himself and an otter on the shore of Castle Island. Awaking with a cry, he sat up, afraid to seek sleep again lest he might dream of drowning men. ‘A dream robs a man of all courage,’ and then falling back on his pillow, he said, ‘Whatever my dreams may be I shall go. Anything were b
etter than to remain taking money from the poor people, playing the part of a hypocrite.’

  And telling Catherine that he could not look through her accounts that morning, he went out of the house to see what the lake was like. ‘Boisterous enough; it would take a good swimmer to get across to-day. Maybe the wind will drop in the afternoon.’

  The wind continued to rise, and next day he could only see white waves, tossing trees, and clouds tumbling over the mountains. He sat alone in his study staring at the lamp, the wind often awaking him from his reverie; and one night he remembered suddenly that it was no longer possible for him to cross the lake that month, even if the wind should cease, for he required not only a calm, but a moonlight night. And going out of the house, he walked about the hilltop, about the old thorn-bush, his hands clasped behind his back. He stood watching the moon setting high above the south-western horizon. But the lake — where was it? Had he not known that a lake was there, he would hardly have been able to discover one. All faint traces of one had disappeared, every shape was lost in blue shadow, and he wondered if his desire to go had gone with the lake. ‘The lake will return,’ he said, and next night he was on the hillside waiting for the lake to reappear. And every night it emerged from the shadow, growing clearer, till he could follow its winding shores. ‘In a few days, if this weather lasts, I shall be swimming out there.’ The thought crossed his mind that if the wind should rise again about the time of the full moon he would not be able to cross that year, for in September the water would be too cold for so long a swim. ‘But it isn’t likely,’ he said; ‘the weather seems settled.’

  And the same close, blue weather that had prevailed before the storm returned, the same diffused sunlight.

  ‘There is nothing so depressing,’ the priest said, ‘as seeing swallows flying a few feet from the ground.’

  It was about eight o’clock — the day had begun to droop in his garden — that he walked up and down the beds admiring his carnations. Every now and again the swallows collected into groups of some six or seven, and fled round the gables of his house shrieking. ‘This is their dinner-hour; the moths are about.’ He wondered on, thinking Nora lacking; for she had never appreciated that beautiful flower Miss Shifner. But her ear was finer than his; she found her delight in music.