Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  Father Peter accompanied us to the College gate, and on the way there he asked me if I would give the paper that I had read at the luncheon for publication in their review.

  But I thought your brother was the editor?

  He is, Peter answered, but that doesn’t make any difference.

  As I did not know Tom, the paper went to Peter, and it was published in the New Ireland Review. My contribution did not, however, seem to bring me any nearer Father Tom. He did not write to me about it, nor did he write asking me to contribute again; and when I came to live in Dublin, though I heard everybody speaking of him, no one offered to introduce us — not even Peter, whom I often met in the streets and once in the house where the young lady who had introduced us lodged. No one seemed willing to undertake the risk of introducing me to Tom, and the mystery so heightened my desire of Tom’s acquaintance that one day I invited Peter to walk round Stephen’s Green with me, in the hope that he might say, Let’s call on Tom. But at every step my aversion from Peter increased, without ever prompting the thought that I might dislike Tom equally. Peter Finlay is not an attractive name; there seems to be a little snivel in it, but Tom is a fine, robust name, and it goes well with Finlay; and all that I had heard about him had excited my curiosity. My friends were his friends, and they spoke of him as of a cryptogram which nobody could decipher, and this had set me wondering if I should succeed where others had failed, till at last the ridiculous superstition glided into my mind that Father Tom looked upon me as a dangerous person, one to be avoided — which was tantamount to the belief that Father Tom lacked courage, that he was afraid of me, as absurd a thought as ever strayed into a man’s head. But human nature is such that we seek an explanation in every accident.

  One day AE stopped to speak to somebody in Merrion Street. Turning suddenly, he said: Let me introduce you to Father Tom Finlay. I felt a look of pleasure come into my face, and I knew myself at once to be in sympathy with this long-bodied man, fleshy everywhere — hands, paunch, calves, thighs, forearm, and neck. I liked the russet-coloured face, withered like an apple, the small, bright, affectionate eyes, the insignificant nose, the short grey hair. I liked his speech — simple, direct, and intimate, and his rough clothes. I was whirled away into admiration of Father Tom, and for the next few days thought of nothing but when I should see him again. A few days after, seeing him coming towards me, hurrying along on his short legs (one cannot imagine Father Tom strolling), I tried to summon courage to speak to him. He passed, saluting me, lifting his hat with a smile in his little eyes — a smile which passed rapidly. One sees that his salute and his smile are a mere formality. So I nearly let him pass me, but summoning all my courage at the last moment I called to him, and he stopped at once, like one ready to render a service to whoever required one.

  I thought of writing to you, Father Tom, about a matter which has been troubling me; but refrained. On consideration it seemed too absurd.

  Father Tom waited for me to continue, but my courage forsook me suddenly, and I began to speak about other things. Father Tom listened to Gaelic League propaganda with kindness and deference; and it was not till I was about to bid him goodbye that he said:

  But what was the matter to which you alluded in the beginning of our conversation? You said you wished to consult me upon something.

  Well, it is so stupid that I am afraid to tell you.

  I shall be glad if you will tell me, he answered, taking me into his confidence; and I told him that I had been down at the Freeman office to ask the editor if he would publish a letter from me.

  But, Father Tom, what I’m going to say is absurd.

  Father Tom smiled encouragingly; his smile seemed to say, Nothing you can say is absurd.

  Well, it doesn’t seem to me that people are dancing enough in Ireland.

  You mean there isn’t enough amusement in Ireland? I quite agree with you.

  It’s a relief to find oneself in agreement with somebody, especially with you, Father Tom. Father Tom smiled amiably, and then, becoming suddenly serious, I said, Ever since I’ve been here I find myself up against somebody or something, and I told him about the touring company, admitting that perhaps the League did not find itself justified in incurring any further expenses. But our project for The Arabian Nights translation — could anything be more inoffensive — yet the Freeman — What is one to do?

  One mustn’t pay any attention to criticism. The best way is to go on doing what one has to do. In these words Father Tom seemed to reveal himself a little, and we talked about the cross-road dances. He said he would speak on the subject; and he did, astonishing the editor of the Freeman, and, when I next ran across Father Tom, he told me he had just come back from his holidays in Donegal, where he had attended a gathering of young people — the young girls came with their mothers and went home with them after the dance. These words were spoken with a certain fat unction, a certain gross moral satisfaction which did not seem like Father Tom, and I was much inclined to tell him that to dance under the eye of a priest and be taken home by one’s mother must seem a somewhat trite amusement to a healthy country girl, unless, indeed, the Irish people experience little passion in their courtships or their marriages. These opinions were, however, not vented, and we walked on side by side till the silence became painful, and, to interrupt it, Father Tom asked if I had seen Peter lately.

  Peter? I answered. What Peter? For I had completely forgotten him. Father Tom answered, My brother, and I said, No, I haven’t seen him this long while, and we walked on, I listening to Tom with half my mind, the other half meditating on the difference between the two brothers. Whereas Peter seemed to me to be sunk in the Order, Father Tom seemed to have struck out and saved himself. It was possible to imagine Peter reading the Exercises of St Ignatius, and by their help quelling all original speculation regarding the value of life and death; for he that reads often of the beatific faces in Heaven, and the flames that lick up the entrails of the damned without ever consuming them, is not troubled with doubt that perhaps, after all, the flower in the grass, the cloud in the sky, and his own beating heart may be parcel of Divinity. Tom must have studied these Exercises too, but it would seem that they had influenced Peter more deeply, and, thinking of Peter again, it seemed to me that to them might be fairly attributed the dryness and the angularity of mind that I observed in him. But how was it that these Exercises passed so lightly over Tom’s mind? For it was difficult to think he had ever been tempted by pantheism. He has had his temptations, like all of us, but pantheism was not one of them, and, on thinking the matter out, the conclusion was forced upon me that he had escaped from the influences of the Exercises by throwing himself into all manners and kinds of work. He is the busiest man in Ireland — on every Board, pushing the wheel of education and industry, the editor of a review, the author of innumerable text-books, a friend to those who need a friend, finding time somehow for everybody and everything, and himself full of good humour and kindness, outspoken and impetuous, a keen intellect, a ready and incisive speaker, a politician at heart, who, if he had been one actually, would have led his own party and not been led by it.

  One has to think for a while to discover some trace of the discipline of the Order in him. If he were a secular priest he would not bow so elaborately perhaps, nor wear so enigmatic a smile in his eyes. Father Tom is a little conscious of his intellectual superiority, I think. He is looked upon as a mystery by many people, and perhaps is a little eccentric. Intelligence and moral courage are eccentricities in the Irish character, and one would not look for them in a Jesuit priest. It seems to me that I understand him, but one may understand without being able to interpret, and to write Father Tom’s Apology would require the genius of Robert Browning. He could write his own Apology, and if he set himself to the task he would produce a book much more interesting than Newman’s. But Father Tom would not care to write about himself unless he wrote quite sincerely, and it would be necessary to tell the waverings that preceded his decision
to become a Jesuit. He must have known that by joining the Order he risked losing his personality, the chief business of the Order being to blot out personality. Now, how was this problem solved by Father Tom? Did the Order present such an irresistible attraction to his imagination that he resolved to risk himself in the Order? Or did he know himself to be so strong that he would be able to survive the discipline to which he would have to submit? If he wrote his Apology he would have to tell us whether he does things because he likes to do things efficiently, or because he thinks it right they should be done. This chapter should be especially interesting, and the one in which Father Tom would speculate on the relation of his soul to his intelligence! He values his intelligence — indeed, I think he prides himself on it. As a priest he would have to place his soul above his intelligence, and he would do this very skilfully.... But oneself is a dangerous subject for a priest to write about, and perhaps Father Tom avoids the subject, foreseeing the several difficulties that would confront him before he had gone very far. Once his pen was set going, however, he would not abandon his work, and any misunderstanding which might arise out of his Apology would revert to the co-operative movement of which he is so able an advocate. All the same, I reflected, it’s a pity that so delightful an intelligence should be wasted on agriculture, and I thought how I might ensnare Father Tom’s literary instincts.

  I’ve been thinking, Father Tom, I said, in our next walk, about the book you told me you once wished to write — The Psychology of Religion. A more interesting subject I cannot imagine, or one more suited to your genius, and I am full of hope that you will write that book.

  Father Tom muttered a little to himself, and I think I heard him say that there was more important work to be done in Ireland.

  What work?

  Father Tom did not seem to like being questioned, and when I pressed him for an answer, he spoke of the regeneration of the countryside.

  Mere agriculture, that anybody can do; but this book would be yourself, and Ireland is without ideas and literary ideals. We would prefer your book to agriculture, and you must write it. And ... I wonder how it is that you have never written a book; you are full of literary interests.

  Then, very coquettishly, Father Tom admitted that he had once written a novel.

  A novel! You must let me see it. And I stared at him nervously, frightened lest he might refuse.

  I don’t think it would interest you.

  Oh, but it would. I was afraid to say how much it would interest me — more it seemed to me than any novel by Balzac or Turgenev, for it would reveal Father Tom to me. However inadequate the words might be, I should be able to see the man behind them; and I pleaded for the book all the way to the College in Stephen’s Green.

  I shall have to go upstairs to my bedroom to fetch it.

  I’ll wait. And I waited in the hall, saying to myself, Something will prevent him from giving it to me. He may stop to think on the stairs, or, overtaken by a sudden scruple, he may go to Father Delany’s room to ask his advice. Father Delany may say, Perhaps it will be better not to lend him the book. If that happens he will have to obey his Superior. So did my thoughts wander till he appeared on the staircase with the book in his hand — a repellent-looking book, bound in red boards, which I grasped eagerly, and stopped under a lamp to examine. The print seemed as uninviting as tin-tacks, but a book cannot be read under a street lamp and in the rain, so I slipped the volume into my overcoat and hurried home.

  AE, I’ve discovered a novel by a well-known Irishman — a friend of yours.

  Have I read it?

  I don’t think so; you’d have spoken about it to me if you had. You’ll never guess — the most unlikely man in Ireland.

  The most unlikely man in Ireland to have written a novel? AE answered. Then it must be Plunkett.

  You’re near it.

  Anderson?

  No.

  Father Tom?

  I nodded, very proud of myself at having found out something about Father Tom that AE did not know.

  If Father Tom has written a novel I think I shall be able to read the man behind the words.

  Just what I said to myself as I came along the Green, and I watched AE reading.

  With a cast-iron style like that, a man has nothing to fear from the prying eyes, and he handed the book back to me.

  But let us, I replied, discover the story that he has to tell.

  AE looked through some pages and said, There seems to be an insurrection going on somewhere; the soldiers have arrived, and are surrounding a castle in the moonlight. AE always finds something to say about a book, even if it be in cast-iron, and I loved him better than before, when he said, Father Tom loves Ireland. That Father Tom’s love of Ireland should have penetrated his cast-iron style mitigated my disappointment.

  I wonder why he lent me the book?

  Possibly to prevent you worrying him any more to write The Psychology of Religion.

  Every time I go for a bicycle ride with him, or a walk, I am at him about that book — but it’s no use.

  A cloud appeared in AE’s face. He suspects Father Tom, I said to myself, of angling for my soul; and, to tease AE, I told him that I often spent my evenings talking to Father Tom, in his bedroom, on literary subjects, and that I had arranged with him for the publication of several short stories in the New Ireland Review.

  These stories are to be translated into Irish by Taidgh O’Donoghue, and Father Tom will probably get the book accepted as a text-book by the Intermediate Board of Education.

  But do you think that it was to write these stories that you came from England?

  Well, for what other purpose do you think I came? And to what better purpose can a man’s energy be devoted, and his talents, than the resuscitation of his country’s language? What do you think I came for?

  I hoped that you would do in Ireland what Voltaire did in France, that, whenever Walsh or Logue said something stupid in the papers, you would just reply to them in some sharp cutting letter, showing them up in the most ridiculous light, terrifying them into silence.

  I’m afraid you were mistaken if you thought that I came to Ireland on any enterprise so trivial. I came to give back to Ireland her language.

  But what use will her language be to Ireland if she is not granted the right to think?

  The filing of theological fetters will be a task for the next generation.

  Oh, Moore, Moore, Moore! he muttered, in his chimney-corner. And then, seeing him disappointed, the temptation to tread on his corns overcame me.

  Of what avail, I asked, are our ideas if they be expressed in a worn-out language? Moreover, it is not ideas that we are seeking. An idea is so impersonal; it is yours today and the whole world’s tomorrow. We would isolate Ireland from what you call ideas, from all European influence; we believe that art will arise in Ireland if we segregate Ireland, and the language will enable us to do that.

  However fast the language movement might progress, AE answered, Ireland will not be an Irish-speaking country for the next fifty or sixty years, and a hundred years will have to pass before literature will begin in Ireland; besides, you can’t have literature without ideas.

  The only time Ireland had a literature was when she had no ideas — in the eighth and ninth centuries.

  Oh, Moore, Moore, Moore!

  The bell rang, and we wondered who the visitor might be. Walter Osborne? John Eglinton? Hughes? Which of our friends? Edward, by all that’s holy! We were surprised and pleased to see him, for Edward lives outside my ring of friends; they meet him in the streets, and he is glad to stand and talk with them at the kerb, if the wind be not blowing too sharply. Thinking, therefore, that he had for a wonder yielded to a desire to go out to talk to somebody, my welcome was affectionate. But, alas! he had come to speak to me on some Gaelic League business, an opera that somebody had written, and hoped he was not interrupting our conversation.

  I cried, Good Heaven! and handed him the cigar-box, and we began to talk about
Yeats, and when we could find nothing more to say about either his mistakes or his genius, AE spoke to us about Plunkett’s ideas, and when these were exhausted Hyde’s mistakes were discussed with passion by Edward and me. We wanted a forward policy.

  If the Boers, I said, had only pressed forward after their first victories —

  I beg your pardon, Edward suddenly interrupted, but have either of you heard the news? The Boers seem to have brought it off this time, and he told us that Lord Methuen and fifteen hundred troops had been captured by the Boers.

  But what you say can’t be true. Edward. You are joking.

  No, I’m not. It is all in the evening papers.

  And you come here to talk Gaelic League business, forgetful of the greatest event that has happened since Thermopylae. If the Boers should win after all!

  It will be the same in the end, only prolonging the war.

  His words shocked me, and immediately the conviction overpowered me that nothing would be the same again, and I was lifted suddenly out of my ordinary senses. The walls about me seemed to recede, and myself to be transported ineffably above a dim plain rolling on and on till it mingled with the sky. An encampment was there in a hallowed light, and one face, stern and strong, yet gentle, was taken by me for the face of the Eternal Good, upreared after combat with the Eternal Evil. What I saw was a symbol of a guiding Providence in the world. There is one, there is one! I exclaimed. It is about me and in me. And all the night long I heard as the deaf hear, and answered as the dumb answer. A night of fierce exultations and prolonged joys murmuring through the darkness like a river. For how can it be otherwise? I cried, starting up in bed. Yet I believed this many a year that all was blind chance. And I fell back and lay like one consumed by a secret fire. Life seemed to have no more for giving, and I cried out: It is terrible to feel things so violently. It were better to pass through life quietly like Edward; and on these words, or soon after, I must have dropped away into sleep.