The Minstrel Boy

by A. J. Cronin

  Finally, speaking more slowly, Beauchamp came to the upper group and presently Desmonde was called to the platform to accept his books, receiving some applause as he gracefully bowed and retreated. Then it was my turn. And how relieved and pleased I was, for my mother’s sake, at the roar that greeted my appearance and continued until Beauchamp raised his hand. He began to speak, presumably about me, since there were more cheers, but although I caught the phrase ‘our admirable Shannon’ my attention, and indeed my eyes, were fixed on an envelope which lay on top of the pile of books.

  At last the ordeal was over, Beauchamp awkwardly shook hands with me and I had hobbled back to my seat, where my mother, crimson with pride, pressed my hand and gave me a look I shall never forget, a look that sustained me during the hard years that followed.

  Another prayer, and we were all dismissed and crowding towards the doors. I saw my mother down College Hill to the tramway stop and before I put her on the tram I handed her the envelope.

  ‘This is five guineas in cash, my prize for the English essay competition. Will you kindly go to your Jewish friend and get back your brooch?’

  Before she could answer she was in the tram and moving off, while I, feeling horrendously sentimental and dramatic, turned up the hill again.

  At the school, the tower clock showed twenty minutes past six. I went immediately to Fr Jaeger’s study. He was there, seated in his usual chair, not busy in any way and looking, I thought, rather more than usually pensive.

  ‘I hoped you would come, Alec. Your mother got my letter?’

  ‘Yes, she did, sir, and sternly refused to disclose its contents.’

  ‘Good!’ he said, and smiled. ‘I did want to see you, Alec, not to talk about the game – that’s all dead history, but because I may be … going away, fairly soon.’ He glanced at his wrist-watch. ‘But aren’t you supposed to be at the dance?’

  ‘The more of that I miss, sir, the better. And I did want to thank you for giving me the essay prize. You knew I needed the money.’

  ‘What nonsense is this? Your essay was miles ahead of the others. You have a bit of a gift in that direction.’

  ‘Well, sir,’ I laughed, ‘I shall employ it in writing prescriptions. But please tell me, are you going on holiday?’

  ‘Not exactly, but I shall be away.’

  A silence fell. I saw that he was not smoking. I said:

  ‘Shall I fill you a pipeful, sir?’

  This I often did for him, when we were talking football. However, he shook his head.

  ‘I’m rather off my pipe, Alec.’ He paused. ‘I seem to have a ridiculous spot on my tongue which is interesting your future colleagues, somewhat.’

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Moderately.’ He smiled. ‘ But I shall know more on Monday, when I go back for their report.’

  I was silent. I did not like the sound of this at all.

  ‘So they might keep you to have it out?’

  ‘We shall know next week. Possibly I might go later on to our base at Stonyhurst. At any rate, I wanted to say good-bye and wish you well in your university career. I have no doubts about you, because you have got it here,’ he touched his brow, ‘and here.’ He closed his fist and thumped himself hard on the chest. ‘ I can’t say,’ he went on, ‘that I have the same confidence in the future of your friend. Fitzgerald is like the curate’s egg, good, very good, in parts, but the rest of it …’ he shrugged and shook his head. ‘But, really, Alec, you must get to the dance or they’ll think you’re funking it. I’ll see you downstairs, I am going to the church for a while.’

  He came to the door of the school, stood, and put out his hand, which clasped mine firmly while he looked straight into my eyes.

  ‘Good-bye, Alec.’

  ‘Good-bye, sir.’

  He turned and moved towards the church, while slowly, very slowly and sadly, I made my way across the street and uphill to the Convent. I had read tragedy in Jaeger’s brave eyes. And with reason.

  He had a cancer of the tongue, already with secondaries in the larynx and elsewhere. Six months later, after three operations, and untold agony, he was dead. His one little indulgence in a life of stark austerity had killed him.

  Some premonition of this must have been in my mind as I was admitted to the Convent. The dance was already in progress, couples moving sedately round under the watchful eyes of a group of senior nuns seated on the platform. Desmonde doing his best with a few capers to enliven the party.

  Dancing had not been in my curriculum, but I took up one of the wallflowers, gathered in a distressful group, and made the circuit with her several times while she breathed heavily into my right ear as we trod on each other’s feet. I then turned her over to an unsuspecting boy and sat down beside a nice, quiet, grey-eyed girl.

  ‘Thank goodness, you’re not dancing.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m entering my novitiate tomorrow.’

  ‘For the Convent here?’

  She inclined her head. Then: ‘Is that boy, carrying on there, Fitzgerald, the one who’s going to be a priest?’

  ‘Yes, he goes off to the Seminary on Monday.’

  ‘You’re not serious. In two days’ time?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I couldn’t believe anyone could go on clowning like that, practically on the eve of giving himself to Our Lord.’

  I said nothing, having no wish to be drawn into a discussion on pre-novitiate behaviour.

  ‘You must be the Shannon boy. The good footballer who just won the bursary.’

  ‘How on earth do you know?’

  She smiled. ‘We talk about you boys over here.’

  ‘Yet you’re going to be a nun?’

  ‘Yes, I am, I can’t help it.’

  This delightful answer made me smile, and we began to talk very agreeably to one another, until suddenly she checked herself. ‘I think I must go now.’

  ‘So soon, just as we are beginning to like each other.’

  She blushed, most attractively. ‘ That’s why I must go … I’m beginning to like you too much.’

  She stood up and held out her hand.

  ‘Good-night, Alec.’

  ‘Good-night, dear little sister.’

  I watched her to the door across the room. I hoped she would look round. She did, for a long, long moment, then lowered her eyes and was gone.

  I decided to go too, but at that moment all the nuns on the platform stood up as a very old and venerable nun appeared, escorted by a young sister and walking slowly with a stick. Instantly a chair was produced, placed in the centre of the stage. She sat down.

  The dancers had immediately become still, for this was the Convent’s Mother Superior. After gazing down benevolently she said quite distinctly:

  ‘Would the Fitzgerald boy come forward?’

  Immediately, nimbly, Desmonde mounted the platform, bowed and stood before her to attention, then gracefully sank to one knee.

  ‘You are the Irish boy who sings?’

  ‘Yes, Reverend Mother.’

  ‘Father Beauchamp has spoken to me of you. First, dear Desmonde, for your peace of mind, I would wish to assure you that I did not receive my education at the Borstal Reformatory, which you seem to know of, in the vicinity of Eton.’

  Desmonde blushed as the surrounding nuns dissolved in giggles. The famous letter had apparently become a Convent joke.

  ‘Do forgive me, Reverend Mother. It was stupid fun.’

  ‘You are already forgiven, Desmonde, but you must do penance.’ She paused. ‘I am an old Irish woman, who still pines for her homeland to which now she will never return. Would you oblige me, therefore, by singing one, just one, Irish song, or ballad, that might ease my longing?’

  ‘I will indeed, Reverend Mother. With the greatest pleasure in the world.’

  ‘Do you know “ Tara”? Or “The Minstrel Boy”?’

  ‘I know both.’

  Then sing. She closed her eyes and turned an expectant ear as D
esmonde took a long breath and began to sing, first one, then the other, of these old ballads. And never did I hear him sing better.

  ‘The harp that once through Tara’s halls,

  The soul of music shed,

  Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls

  As if that soul were fled …’

  ‘The minstrel boy to the war is gone,

  In the ranks of death you’ll find him.

  His father’s sword he has girded on,

  And his wild harp slung behind him …

  The minstrel fell, but the foeman’s chain

  Could not bring his proud soul under.

  The harp he loved ne’er spoke again,

  For he tore its chords asunder.

  And said, “ No chains shall sully thee,

  Thou soul of love and bravery.

  Thy songs were made for the brave and free,

  They shall never sound in slavery.”’

  And what a tableau! Against a frieze of nuns, the old, the very old Mother Superior, eyes closed, half reclining in her chair, and at her side, this angelic fair-headed, blue-eyed youth pouring his heart out in song.

  When it was over, no one moved, until the Rev. Mother spoke, through streaming tears.

  ‘Thank you, dear Minstrel Boy. May our Lord bless and keep you for giving an old woman a taste of heaven, before she may get there.’

  She rose, helped to her feet, and smiled to us below.

  ‘Now let the dance resume.’

  When she had left the stage, the fun did indeed begin, led by Desmonde, elated by his triumph, and ready for action. He had induced the jolly stubby little number, now identifed as captain of the hockey team, to join him in a combined version of the Irish Jig and the Highland Fling.

  I would have wished to go over to him for just one last good-bye. But we had really said this after the game, and to the lively strains of ‘The Campbells Are Coming’, thumped out on the piano, I went out into the cool night air.

  My mother was waiting on me when I got home. As I kicked off my shoes in the hall she called out:

  ‘I hope you’re hungry, dear. I have a lovely Welsh rarebit for you.’

  I was hungry. I stepped into the kitchen. She was there, arms outstretched, the brooch gleaming on her bosom.

  Part Two

  Chapter One

  Desmonde entered the Seminary of St Simeon in the village of Torrijos, some ten kilometres from Toledo. His letters to me thereafter were frequent but irregular. Following the initial letter, which gave an interesting account of the seminary and its whereabouts, they became rather dull and repetitious, since they had little to offer beyond the minutiae and monotony of monastic life. However, towards the end of Desmonde’s preparation for the priesthood two letters reached me which had a definite interest and, indeed, a direct bearing on Desmonde’s subsequent career. I shall therefore reproduce the first and the two terminal letters in detail.

  As for myself, since I shall eventually come into Desmonde’s life again, it may be briefly noted that my career at the university was proceeding rigorously in circumstances little different from those that had attended my school days. The same half-empty little flat, the same plain food and porridge, the same loving devotion of my mother. Ambition alone sustained us. We did not complain, since we were not alone. Other poor students were there, vying with each other, desperate for success. In that era, now remote, large sustenance grants were not lavishly and indiscriminately bestowed. Clever, ambitious boys would come from poor farms in the north carrying a sack of meal to sustain them till the next Meal Monday, a free day by university statute to enable them to return to the parental farm for fresh supplies.

  Yet however harassed by hard work and recurrent examinations, I often thought of Desmonde and, refreshed by his letters, I had an odd conviction that when he was ordained I should again see, and be near, him.

  My dear Alec.

  Behold your beloved friend, your fidus Achates, in Spain, within sight of the noble walled city of Toledo, embraced by the benign sun of the Midi, but miserable, forlorn, desolated at the parting from my mother, and in dread of the long joyless future stretching endlessly before me.

  But first I must serve the sweets before offering you the bitters.

  Two days after our last meeting, I set out for Rome with my dear mother who, although far from well, insisted on accompanying me. Our journey was pleasant and uneventful and, on arrival, we proceeded to our hotel, the Excelsior in the Via Veneto, where we were shown to our rooms, both large, cool, and away from traffic noise.

  The purpose of our stop in the Eternal City was not only to rest, although this was almost a necessity for my mother, but to renew certain contacts made by my father during his frequent visits, when he had come to purchase old manuscripts or books, and to review and catalogue the libraries of great houses. It was pleasing to find that he was not forgotten. And soon, indeed, our telephone began to ring, and cards were left for us at the concierge’s office. Old Monseigneur Broglio called, a frightful old, bore, with a large appetite, who did however get us the entrée to the Vatican. There were others. Most delightful and hospitable of all, the Marchesa di Varese had us several times to her absurdly large and beautiful old house on the Via della Croce. My father had spent many weeks as her guest arranging and cataloguing her enormous, and enormously valuable, library. I feel sure she was half in love with my dear dad, for she was particularly nice to me, promising to help me in any way if I had need of her.

  She it was who supplemented the old Monseigneur in arranging our audience with His Holiness. And how memorable, how touching was that meeting – not a private audience, of course – this is accorded only to royalty or to the famous – but a meeting in the great hall, fifteen minutes in advance of the general audience.

  We were there in time, I assure you, I in my black suit, my mother also in the required black, the fine dress and lace mantilla provided by the Marchesa. We waited in a little ante room, then were conducted to the near end of the audience chamber, a part sealed off by a velvet rope. There again, we waited for perhaps two minutes. When the Pope entered, accompanied by the papal secretary, I experienced a tremor almost ecstatic. Such dignity, serenity, such an abiding sense of goodness that radiated towards us as, briefed by the secretary, he greeted us by our names, spoke, in perfect English, of my father – whom he had known when Cardinal Pacelli – and of ‘all that he had done for the Church’. He talked first to my mother, then to me, extolling the great good that active young priests could accomplish in the world of today and, with a look in his eye that may have previsaged Toledo, discoursed on the virtues of self-sacrifice and penance. This might well have continued beyond the specified fifteen minutes, for I could see His Holiness was not bored with us, but suddenly behind us, at the far end of the hall, the great doors swung open and a horde swept in of … guess what, Alec? … American Navy sailors, who came forward en masse with unsuppressed excited cries: ‘ There he is, fellers! There’s His Holiness. Quiet now, don’t shout!’

  When silence was restored and they were all grouped in their own section, the secretary indicated that we should kneel.

  I did so, but His Holiness made a restraining touch upon my mother’s shoulder and whispered: ‘Do not kneel, dear lady.’

  He then blessed us, before these silent attentive witnesses.

  Do you remember, Alec, that moment in your empty room when I asked you to bless me? This was the same unreal, unworldly, inexplicably presanctified feeling, magnified, of course, but in essence identical. In future, therefore, I shall with difficulty refrain from addressing you as Your Holiness.

  We were conducted out by the private staircase, and that evening dined in state with the Marchesa. Next day we were in the rapide for Madrid.

  Since my mother had looked forward to this Spanish visit and had saved a substantial amount from her annual stipend to pay for it, I decided not to go direct to the seminary but to spend two more days in the Spanish capital. On our a
rrival I took a taxi direct to the Ritz Hotel, where, with dispatch and supreme courtesy, we were installed in a suite overlooking the gardens.

  What a superb hotel, Alec – I unhesitatingly award it two extra stars-beyond the four it already possesses. My mother had a real rest, relaxing under the orange trees, while I took a good look at the Prada, disappointing rather, too many huge portraits of Spanish kings, but with, of course, that wonderful, unsurpassable Velazquez: Las Meninas. Mother did worry a little over the lateness of dinner, but when we sat down all was forgiven. A mouth-watering cuisine.

  On the morning of our third day I made all arrangements for a courier to see my mother safely, that evening, into the compartment I had booked for her on the Madrid, Paris, Calais express. We set off in a large Hispano Suiza limousine for Toledo and the seminary.

  At the forbidding gates of that institution, as my dear mother embraced me in a last good-bye, I had a sudden frightful premonition that this was indeed a final parting, that I should never see her again. I waited, watching the car until it was out of sight and also, let me admit, until I had wiped my eyes after a good weep, then I passed through the huge gates of the seminary and asked the gateman, in Spanish, to take me to the Father Superior’s office. He seemed surprised that I spoke his language, and very willingly picked up my suitcase and escorted me across a wide courtyard towards the central part of the college, a delightful old Andalusian abbey on which, however, two horrible tall modern concrete wings have been added. Inside, we went up a fine old black olive wood staircase, then outside a forbidding door, of the same dark wood, he put down my bag. I gave him a couple of pesetas. Again, he seemed surprised and pleased.

  ‘It is useful the Señor has Spanish. All the servants are Spanish.’

  ‘All men?’

  ‘But assuredly, Señor. Father Superior Hackett would have no others.’

  I knocked at the door, received no answer, but went in, unutterably startled and surprised to see a tall dark priest kneeling in prayer at a prie-Dieu before a crucifix fixed on the wall. Beneath the crucifix in an enclosed glass receptacle lay, believe it or not, Alec, a severed human hand. Before I could recover, the kneeling figure spoke.