Monsignor Quixote

by Graham Greene

  ‘Quixote? Not surely . . .’

  ‘An unworthy descendant,’ Father Quixote interrupted him.

  ‘And your friend?’

  ‘As for myself,’ the Mayor said, ‘I cannot claim to be a true descendant of Sancho Panza. Sancho and I have a family name in common, that’s all, but I can assure you that Monsignor Quixote and I have had some curious adventures. Even if they are not worthy to be compared . . .’

  ‘This is a very good wine,’ Señor Diego said, ‘but, José, go and fetch from the second barrel on the left . . . you know the one . . . only the very best is worthy of Monsignor Quixote and his friend Señor Sancho. And it is only in the best wine of all that we should toast damnation to the priests here.’

  When Father José had gone, Señor Diego added with a note of deep sadness, ‘I never expected a grandson of mine to be a priest.’ Father Quixote saw that there were tears in his eyes. ‘Oh, I am not running down the priesthood, monsignor, how could I do that? We have a good Pope, but what a suffering it must be at Mass every day even for him if he has to drink such bad wine as José’s old priest buys.’

  ‘One takes the merest drop,’ Father Quixote said, ‘you hardly notice the taste. It’s no worse than the wine that you get dolled up with a fancy label in a restaurant.’

  ‘Yes, you are quite right there, monsignor. Oh, every week there are scoundrels who come here to buy my wine so that they can mix it with other wine and they call it Rioja and advertise it along all the roads of Spain to deceive the poor foreigners who don’t know a good wine from a bad.’

  ‘How can you tell the scoundrels from the honest men?’

  ‘By the quantity they want to buy and because they often don’t even ask for a glass first to taste it.’ He added, ‘If only José had married and had had a son. I started teaching José about the vineyard when he was six years old and now he knows nearly as much as I do and his eyesight is so much better than mine. Soon he would have been teaching his son . . .’

  ‘Can’t you find a good manager, Señor Diego?’ the Mayor asked.

  ‘That’s a foolish question, Señor Sancho – one I would expect a Communist to ask.’

  ‘I am a Communist.’

  ‘Forgive me, I am not saying anything against Communists in their proper place, but their proper place is not a vineyard. You Communists could put managers in all the cement works of Spain if you liked. You could have managers over your brickworks and your armament firms, you could put them in charge of your gas and electricity, but you can’t let them manage a vineyard.’

  ‘Why, Señor Diego?’

  ‘A vine is alive like a flower or a bird. It is not something made by man – man can only help it to live – or to die,’ he added with a deep melancholy, so that his face lost all expression. He had shut his face, as a man shuts a book which he finds he doesn’t wish to read.

  ‘Here is the best wine of all,’ Father José said – they had not heard him approach – and he began to pour into their bowls from a large jug.

  ‘You are sure you took from the right barrel?’ Señor Diego demanded.

  ‘Of course I did. The second on the left.’

  ‘Then now we can drink damnation to the priests of these parts.’

  ‘Perhaps – I am really very thirsty – you would allow me to drink a little of this good wine before we decide on the toast?’

  ‘Of course, monsignor. And let us have another toast first. To the Holy Father?’

  ‘To the Holy Father and his intentions,’ Father Quixote said, making a slight amendment. ‘This is a truly magnificent wine, Señor Diego. I have to admit that our cooperative in El Toboso cannot produce its equal, though ours is an honest wine. But yours is more than honest – it is beautiful.’

  ‘I notice,’ Señor Diego said, ‘that your friend did not join in our toast. Surely even a Communist can toast the Holy Father’s intentions?’

  ‘Would you have toasted Stalin’s intentions?’ the Mayor demanded. ‘One can’t know a man’s intentions and one can’t toast them. Do you think that the monsignor’s ancestor really represented the chivalry of Spain? Oh, it may have been his intention, but we all make cruel parodies of what we intend.’ There was a note of sadness and regret in his voice which surprised Father Quixote. He had been accustomed to aggression from the Mayor: an aggression which was only perhaps a form of self-defence, but regret was surely a form of despair, of surrender, even perhaps of change. He thought for the first time: Where will this voyage of ours finally end?

  Señor Diego said to his grandson, ‘Tell them who the Mexicans are. I thought all Spain knew of them.’

  ‘We haven’t heard of them in El Toboso.’

  ‘The Mexicans,’ Father José said, ‘have come from Mexico, but they were all born here. They left Galicia to escape poverty and escape it they did. They wanted money and they found money and they have come back to spend money. They give money to the priests here and they think they are giving to the Church. The priests have grown greedy for more – they prey on the poor and they prey on the superstition of the rich. They are worse than the Mexicans. Perhaps some of the Mexicans really believe they can buy their way into Heaven. But whose fault is that? Their priests know better and they sell Our Lady. You should see the feast they are celebrating in a town near here today. The priest puts Our Lady up to auction. The four Mexicans who pay the most will carry her in the procession.’

  ‘But this is unbelievable,’ Father Quixote exclaimed.

  ‘Go and see for yourself.’

  Father Quixote put down his bowl. He said, ‘We must go, Sancho.’

  ‘The procession will not have started yet. Finish your wine first,’ Señor Diego urged him.

  ‘I am sorry, Señor Diego, but I have lost my taste for even your best wine. You have told me my duty – “Go and see for yourself.’”

  ‘What can you do, monsignor? Even the bishop supports them.’

  Father Quixote remembered the phrase he had used against his own bishop and he resisted the temptation to repeat it, though he was sorely tempted to use the words of his ancestor: ‘Under my cloak a fig for the King.’ ‘I thank you for your generous hospitality, Señor Diego,’ he said, ‘but I must go. Will you come with me, Sancho?’

  ‘I would like to drink more of Señor Diego’s wine, father, but I can’t let you go alone.’

  ‘Perhaps in this affair it would be better if I went alone with Rocinante. I will come back for you. It is the honour of the Church which is concerned, so there is no reason for you . . .’

  ‘Father, we have travelled the roads long enough together not to be parted now.’

  Señor Diego said, ‘José, put two cases of the best wine in their car. I shall always remember how under this fig tree I was able to entertain for a short while a descendant of the great Don.’

  2

  They knew they were approaching the town when they began to pass many village folk on their way to the feast. It proved to be a very small town, hardly more than a village, and they could see the church, built on a hill, from far away. They passed a bank, the Banco Hispano Americano, which was closed like all the shops. ‘A big bank for so small a place,’ the Mayor commented, and a little further down the road they passed five more. ‘Mexican money,’ the Mayor said.

  ‘There are moments,’ Father Quixote replied, ‘when I am inclined to address you as compañero, but not yet, not yet.’

  ‘What do you propose to do, father?’

  ‘I don’t know. I am frightened, Sancho.’

  ‘Frightened of them?’

  ‘No, no, frightened of myself.’

  ‘Why are you stopping?’

  ‘Give me my perchera. It’s behind you under the window. My collar too.’

  He got out of the car and a small group gathered in the street to watch him dress. He felt like an actor who is watched by friends in his dressing-room.

  ‘We are going into battle, Sancho. I need my armour. Even if it is as absurd as Mambrino’s he
lmet.’

  He sat again behind the wheel of Rocinante and said, ‘I feel more ready now.’

  There must have been a hundred people waiting outside the church. Most of these were poor and they hung shyly back to give Father Quixote and Sancho better places near the entrance, where there was a group of men and women who were well dressed – tradesmen perhaps or employees of the banks. As the poor separated to allow Father Quixote to pass, he asked one of them, ‘What is happening?’

  ‘The auction is over, monsignor. They are fetching Our Lady from the church.’

  Another told him, ‘It went better than last year. You should have seen the money they paid.’

  ‘They started the auction at a thousand pesetas.’

  ‘The winner paid forty thousand.’

  ‘No, no, it was thirty.’

  ‘That was the second-best bid. You wouldn’t think there was so much money in all Galicia.’

  ‘And the winner?’ Father Quixote asked. ‘What does he win?’

  One of the crowd laughed and spat on the ground. ‘Salvation for his sins. It’s cheap at the price.’

  ‘Don’t listen to him, monsignor. He laughs at all holy things. The winner – it’s only fair – he has the best place among those who carry Our Lady. There is great competition.’

  ‘What is the best place?’

  ‘In front on the right.’

  ‘Last year,’ the jester said, ‘there were only four bearers. The priest has made the stand bigger this year, so that there will be six.’

  ‘The last two paid only fifteen thousand.’

  ‘They had fewer sins to pay for. Next year, you will see, there will be eight bearers.’

  Father Quixote made his way nearer to the church door.

  A man plucked his sleeve. He held out two fifty-peseta pieces. ‘Monsignor, would you give me a hundred-peseta note?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to give to Our Lady.’

  They were singing a hymn now in the church and Father Quixote could feel the tension and expectation in the crowd. He asked, ‘Won’t Our Lady accept coins?’

  Over their shoulders he could see the sway to and fro of a crowned head, and he crossed himself in union with those around him. The coins slipped from the fingers of his neighbour who scrabbled on the ground to retrieve them. Between the heads of this man and that he got a glimpse of one of the bearers. It was the man with the striped tie. Then as the crowd retreated to make room the whole statue came for a moment into view.

  Father Quixote could not understand what he saw. He was not offended by the customary image, with the plaster face, and the expressionless blue eyes, but the statue seemed to be clothed entirely in paper. A man pushed him to one side, waving a hundred-peseta note, and reached the statue. The carriers paused and gave him time to pin his note on the robes of the statue. It was impossible to see the robes for all the paper money hundred-peseta notes, thousand-peseta notes, a five-hundred-franc note, and right over the heart a hundred-dollar bill. Between him and the statue there were only the priest and the fumes of the incense from his censer. Father Quixote gazed up at the crowned head and the glassy eyes which were like those of a woman dead and neglected – no one had bothered even to lower her lids. He thought: Was it for this she saw her son die in agony? To collect money? To make a priest rich?

  The Mayor – he had quite forgotten that the Mayor was there behind him – said, ‘Come away, father.’

  ‘No, Sancho.’

  ‘Don’t do anything foolish.’

  ‘Oh, you are talking like that other Sancho, and I say to you as my ancestor said when he saw the giants and you pretended they were windmills – “If you are afraid, go away and say your prayers.”’

  He took two steps forward and confronted the priest as he swung his censer to and fro. He said, ‘This is blasphemy.’

  The priest repeated, ‘Blasphemy?’ Then he noticed Father Quixote’s collar and his purple pechera and he added, ‘monsignor.’

  ‘Yes. Blasphemy. If you know the meaning of the word.’

  ‘What do you mean, monsignor? This is our feast day. The feast day of our church. We have the blessing of the bishop.’

  ‘What bishop? No bishop would allow . . .’

  The bearer with the extravagant tie interrupted. ‘The man is an impostor, father. I saw him earlier today. He wore no pechera then and no collar, and he was buying wine from that atheist Señor Diego.’

  ‘You have made your protest, father,’ the Mayor said. ‘Come away.’

  ‘Call the Guardia,’ the Mexican called to the crowd.

  ‘You, you . . .’ Father Quixote began, but the right word failed him in his anger. ‘Put down Our Lady. How dare you,’ he told the priest, ‘clothe her like that in money? It would be better to carry her through the streets naked.’

  ‘Fetch the Guardia,’ the Mexican repeated, but the situation was far too interesting for anyone in the crowd to stir.

  The dissident called out, ‘Ask him where the money goes.’

  ‘For God’s sake come away, father.’

  ‘Go on with the procession,’ the priest commanded.

  ‘Over my dead body,’ Father Quixote said.

  ‘Who are you? What right have you to interrupt our feast? What is your name?’

  Father Quixote hesitated. He hated to use the title to which he felt he had no real claim. But his love for the woman whose image loomed above him conquered his reluctance. ‘I am Monsignor Quixote of El Toboso,’ he announced with firmness.

  ‘It’s a lie,’ the Mexican said.

  ‘Lie or not, you have no authority in this diocese.’

  ‘I have the authority of any Catholic to fight blasphemy.’

  ‘Ask him where the money goes,’ the voice, which sounded too arrogant in his ears, called again from the crowd, but one cannot always choose one’s allies. Father Quixote took a step forward.

  ‘That’s right. Hit him. He’s only a priest. This is a republic now.’

  ‘Call the Guardia. The man’s a Communist.’ It was the Mexican who spoke.

  The priest tried to swing his censer between the statue and Father Quixote as though he expected that the smoke might hold him back, and the censer struck Father Quixote on the side of his head. A trickle of blood curved round his right eye.

  ‘Father, we’ve got to go,’ the Mayor urged him. Father Quixote thrust the priest aside. He pulled the hundred-dollar bill off the statue’s robe, tearing the robe and the bill. There was a five-hundred-franc note pinned on the other side. This one came away easily and he let it drop. Several hundred-peseta notes were split into pieces when he snatched at them. He rolled them into a ball and tossed it away into the crowd. The dissident cheered and there were three or four voices which joined him. The Mexican lowered the pole of the statue’s stand which he was supporting and the whole affair reeled sideways so that Our Lady’s crown tipped drunkenly over her left eye. The weight was too much for another Mexican who let go of his pole and Our Lady went crashing to the earth. It was like the end of an orgy. The dissident led a group forward to salvage some of the notes and there was a confused struggle with the bearers.

  The Mayor grasped Father Quixote by the shoulder and pushed him out of the way. Only the Mexican with the tie noticed and screamed above the noise of the fray, ‘Thief! Blasphemer! Impostor!’ He took a deep breath and added, ‘Communist!’

  ‘You’ve done quite enough for today,’ the Mayor said.

  ‘Where are you taking me? Forgive me. I am confused . . .’ Father Quixote put his hand to his head and took it away blood-stained. ‘Did somebody hit me?’

  ‘You can’t start a revolution without bloodshed.’

  ‘I didn’t really mean . . .’ In his confusion he allowed the Mayor to lead him away to the place where Rocinante waited. ‘I feel a little giddy,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why.’

  The Mayor looked back. He saw that the Mexican had detached himself from the fight and was talking to the pries
t, flailing his arms.

  ‘Get in quick,’ the Mayor said, ‘we have to be off.’

  ‘Not that seat. I have to drive Rocinante.’

  ‘You can’t drive. You are a casualty.’

  ‘But she doesn’t like a strange hand.’

  ‘My hands are no longer strange to her. Didn’t I drive her all the way back to rescue you?’

  ‘Please don’t overstrain her. She’s old.’

  ‘She’s young enough to do a hundred.’

  Father Quixote gave way without further protest. He sank back in his seat as far as Rocinante permitted. Anger had always exhausted him – and even more the thoughts which were liable to come after. ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ he said, ‘whatever will the bishop say if he hears?’

  ‘He certainly will hear, but what worries me is what the Guardia will say – and do.’

  The needle on the speedometer approached a hundred.

  ‘Causing a riot. That’s the most serious crime you’ve committed so far. We have to find sanctuary.’ The Mayor added, ‘I would have preferred Portugal, but the monastery of Osera is better than nothing.’

  They had driven in silence for more than half an hour before the Mayor spoke again. ‘Are you asleep?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s not like you to be so silent.’

  ‘I am suffering from one indisputable aspect of the Natural Law. I very much want to relieve myself.’

  ‘Can’t you hold on for another half hour? We should be at the monastery by then.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t.’

  Unwillingly the Mayor brought Rocinante to a halt beside a field and what looked like an ancient Celtic cross. While Father Quixote emptied his bladder the Mayor read the inscription which was nearly worn away.

  ‘That’s better. I feel able to talk again now,’ Father Quixote told him when he returned.

  ‘It’s very odd,’ the Mayor said. ‘Did you notice that old cross in the field?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s not as old as you might think. 1928 is the date and it’s been put up in that field far from anywhere in memory of a school inspector. Why there? Why a school inspector?’

  ‘Perhaps he was killed at that spot. A motor accident?’