by A. J. Cronin
Again the marks were read aloud, to the usual mixed reception, and the disconsolate six removed from the stage. Now, no more than four candidates were alive to face the final set piece, and of these it had now become apparent that Desmonde and the novice from the Abruzzi would survive to meet in the grand finale.
An intermission now occurred during which the string orchestra played the first part of Vivaldi’s ‘ Four Seasons’.
Meanwhile, Desmonde and the Abruzzian were called before the committee and given the respective totals of their marks, which indicated that Desmonde was leading by nine points. They were then asked to name their ‘choice’ piece. The selection of the little novice was ‘ O Sole Mio’, a great favourite, in fact a crowd pleaser to an Italian audience, though less so to these informed committee critics, who now looked expectantly at Desmonde. Obviously, since he was already ahead, he must choose a simple piece to avoid all possibility of technical error. However, to the astonishment of the committee, he said: ‘I choose the Prize Song from Die Meistersinger.’
A silence, then:
‘You will sing in Italian?’
‘Not at all.’ Desmonde permitted his glance to rest for an instant on the Cardinal. ‘I will sing in the original German.’
Another silence, then the President said:
‘That will be a great treat for all of us … but of course you know, the difficulties … the risk…’
At this point the Cardinal intervened.
‘If this brilliant young priest wishes to sing this superb song, then you must let him sing it. He is not afraid, nor am I.’
Thus, when the Vivaldi came to an end amid some polite applause, the President of the Society stepped forward and announced the choices of the two finalists. The novice from the Abruzzi must sing first.
And some moments later the lovely melody of ‘O Sole Mio’ fell upon enraptured Italian ears, long familiar with a song popularised, sung by countless mediocre tenors, throughout the country. The gallery went wild, even joining in the song. Alas, worse was to come, for the little Abruzzian, scenting triumph in this mass success, actually raised his right arm and conducted the yelling choir. More, more applause when he had finished. He returned to his seat flushed and smiling.
Now Desmonde must sing, to a restless, excited, seething gallery. He advanced, handed his music to the pianist, and waited patiently at the front of the stage, calmly observing the Marchesa and Fr Petitt watching him with straining intensity. Then at last there was total silence. He began to sing.
As the superb opening bars of that magnificent song swelled upwards, the test song of the Meistersinger, purposely difficult, a strange, trance-like stillness seemed to embrace, to elevate and ennoble the listeners. Desmonde himself seemed to lose himself in the Wagnerian meaning and intention of this noble song, the straining aspiration it bestowed upon, the singer. He became Walther seeking the recognition of his splendid voice and admittance to membership of the élite, the immortals. All, all he gave, knowing, and rejoicing in, the supreme effort.
When it was over and he stood, his eyes uplifted, exhausted and unknowing of his surroundings, a dead silence fell upon his listeners. Then came a roar that lifted the roof, sweepings upwards from all parts of the great auditorium, from the standing, cheering crowd.
A standing ovation, unsurpassed in the history of the Society, which went on and on until the President came forward and, his face wreathed, in smiles, took both of Desmonde’s hands and shook them repeatedly.
‘My dear Father Desmonde, words fail me. Believe me, we shall know more of you in Rome, and soon, since I personally will see to it. You are too precious to be lost in the wilds of Ireland.’ Then he raised a hand to still the audience.
‘Members of the Society, ladies and gentlemen. Your overwhelming response has confirmed our careful markings that Father Desmonde Fitzgerald is the winner of the Golden Chalice. And as Honorary President of the Society I have great pleasure in presenting the Chalice to him now, together with a little replica that he may retain as a constant reminder of his triumph here today.’
Amidst further cheers, he held up the Chalice, to which was attached a small jeweller’s box, and presented it to Desmonde.
People were now leaving the hall, indeed, the Abruzzi party with other disappointed groups had already sadly departed. The Marchesa and Fr Petitt had come forward to the foot of the platform steps, to catch the attention of the Cardinal.
‘Your Excellency, may I present my hostess and my tutor?’
‘Present! Good Heavens! Come here at once, Marguerita, you naughty girl.’ He kissed her hand. ‘I see you are at your old games, entertaining distinguished Irishmen, always handsome ones, too.’
‘Father Desmonde has just lost his dear mother. So I have adopted him.’
‘Then we must get him back to Rome, soon, for you.’
‘And you, little Father …’ He had turned to Fr Petitt. ‘It is you who have taught your pupil some useful tricks.’
‘Oh, your Excellency!’ Between past tension and present excited delight, Petitt scarcely knew what he was saying. ‘Desmonde is himself bursting with all sorts of tricks.’
The Cardinal smiled. ‘Let them give you the case for that lovely thing, otherwise it may be coveted and stolen. You have your car, Marguerita? Good! Then I shall bid you all a very happy auf wiedersehen.’
When he had gone, the Marchesa took Desmonde’s arm and pressed it to her side.
‘You see, darling Desmonde, my heart is still beating like mad. Oh, I am so excited, so deliriously happy. I can’t tell you how wonderful you were, standing before all that crowd, like a young god, and singing, singing like an angel. But we must get home. Father Petitt has his case, and I have got you. Now come.’
They left by the stage door. The car stood outside and they were off, exhausted but triumphant, to the Via della Croce.
Together in the rear seat, while little Petitt sat in front clutching his trophy to his breast, the Marchesa drew Desmonde’s head upon her shoulder.
‘Tonight we shall rest and tomorrow also, for you must be worn out with strain, and I, an old woman, am quite exhausted, supporting you with all my strength when you were singing. But on Monday and all of next week we shall have fun, with lots of parties, the opera too, here in Rome, and also a quick trip to La Scala, where I have an abonnement.’
‘But, dear Madame, I should be in Ireland next week.’
‘The Irish won’t mind, they are an easy-going people. And, also, you have earned and deserve a holiday. Finally, as my adopted son, you must obey me. I want you to be happy.’
‘Father Petitt will stay, also?’
‘We could not detain him if we wished. Once he has the Chalice engraved with your name and college he will be off like a rocket to give Fr Hackett the joyful news.’
When they reached the peace and comfort of the Villa Penserosa Desmonde went immediately to his room and wrote a few words on one of his cards. He then took the card and his little gold replica, summoned the maid and asked her to place both on Madame’s dressing table. He then took a hot, relaxing bath and, wrapped in a big towel, lay down on his bed. How pleasant to think of his success and of the coming festivities. Kilbarrack seemed a long way off, a different world, in which he would return to the crudities of peasant life, to a dilapidated church filled with artistic horrors, stations of the Cross so lurid as to hurt the eye, little faceless, factory-made statues of the Virgin in blue and white, a pervading smell of candle grease, stale incense, and odours normally associated with the stable. Well, he must endure it. In the meantime, let there be joy, music, refinement and all the pleasures he had so richly earned.
Part Three
Chapter One
The arrival of Desmonde at Kilbarrack was not auspicious, nor did it raise the dampened spirits of the new curate. The day had been wet from morning and the railway journey from Dublin to Wexford a painful reminder of the native indolence of Irish trains. One hour late at the junction, he
had to wait another hour for the local that dawdled to his destination. Here, disgorged with his suitcase on to the rain-swept single platform, he looked, in vain for a cab. Ten minutes went by before one appeared, drawn by a nag that in all probability had never won the Irish Derby.
‘Hey! Hey! Can you give me a lift?’
From beneath a mantle of sodden potato sacks came the answer.
‘Sure and I can. Step up, your reverence.’
Desmonde stepped up, hoisting his valise to the rear of the cab and taking his seat beside the driver.
‘So you expected me?’
‘I did.’ The driver laid the whip gently on the horse’s dripping rump. ‘I met the noon train for ye on the Canon’s instructions. I’m Michael.’
‘Sorry you had the double journey, Michael.’
‘Ah, ’tis no trouble, your reverence, no trouble at all. I do all kinds of a job for the Canon, besides bein’ sidesman at the church. I’ll take you by the Cattle Market and up the High Street, ’twill give ye a look at the town.’
Kilbarrack, no different from a hundred other unflourishing country towns, was no surprise to Desmonde. He had known them as a boy. But as they jogged past the litter-strewn yard, the corner pubs, the licensed grocer, the butcher, baker, the ironmongers spread of farm implements across the pavement, and again more pubs, all viewed through a curtain of mist and rain, he felt himself a long, long way from the Via Veneto and the delightful mansion of the Marchesa in Via della Croce.
Did the jarvey read his thoughts?
‘Bit of a change for you, your reverence. And for us an’ all. The whole town is buzzin’ with the luck we have getting our new young father fresh and straight from none other than the Holy City.’
‘I hope I’ll do well for you, Michael. I’ll try.’
‘You will an’ all. When I saw ye standin’ there on the platform sae young and handsome, for a’ the rain, I fair took to ye.’ As they had turned uphill away from the main street, he bent down to Desmonde, lowering his voice. ‘You’ll forgive me, your reverence, if I give ye a bit of a word to the wise. The Canon’s a fine-man, a grand man, he’s done wonders for us here, but ’tis not a bad notion to go sweet and gentle with him for a start. Once ye know him and he knows you … he’d fight the Devil himself for ye, if you grasp my meaning. Well, there’s the church for ye, with the school to the side, across the yard, and the presbytery behind.’
The church, built of a good grey stone, twin-spired, and surprisingly large, impressed Desmonde with its size and quality. It dominated the town and, with the adjacent school and presbytery, all of the same fine cut stone, was offset by a grove of trees that merged up into the woods beyond.
‘It’s wonderfully fine stonework, Michael, both the church and the school.’
‘It is, sir, an’ all. And ’twould have to be, to please Madame Donovan.’
But now they had drawn up before the neat porticoed stone house and the driver was lifting out the valise. Desmonde jumped down.
‘What do I owe you, Michael?’
‘Nothing whatsoever, your reverence. It’s all a little matter between the Canon and myself.’
‘Take this, Michael, from me.’
‘May I live to be a hundred,’ Michael touched his hat and whipped up, ‘before I let your reverence pay me.’
Desmonde watched him go with a sense of warmth behind his damp, chilled ribs. Then he turned, took up his bag and pressed the bell.
Almost at once the door was opened by a short, neat, full-fleshed little woman in a well-laundered, well-ironed white overall, who greeted him with a smile that revealed her own even teeth, creditably white, for her age, which could have been fifty.
‘So it’s yourself at last, Father. Come right in. We were afraid you had missed the noon train. You must be drenched. Let me take your case.’
‘No, no, thank you.’
‘Then let me have your coat, it’s fair soaked.’ He removed the coat and gave it to her. ‘Now, I’ll show you to your room. The Canon is out to a meeting of the school board, but he’ll be home by six.’
As they went into the tiled hall, which afforded Desmonde a fleeting impression of a massive hat and umbrella stand, a statue in a niche and a huge brass gong, she continued, after neatly arranging his coat on a hanger: ‘I am Mrs O’Brien, the housekeeper, and have so been, by the grace of God, for the past twenty odd years.’
‘I’m very happy to know you. Mrs O’Brien.’ Desmonde held out his free hand. She took it with a pleasant smile that made her dark eyes sparkle. Almost black they were, against her smooth pale skin.
‘But how cold and damp you are,’ she half turned as she led the way up the waxed oak staircase, ‘and half starved no doubt. Did you miss your dinner?’
‘I had breakfast on the boat.’
‘So here you are all the way from Rome to Kilbarrack with nothing but rolls and coffee in your stomach.’ She turned towards him in the upstairs corridor and pushed open a door. ‘This is your room, Father, and I trust you’ll find it in order. The bathroom is the end of the passage. I’ll be with you again in no time at all.’
The room was small and simple. A white enamelled single bedstead well made up with spotless linen, a crucifix above; a plain deal chest of drawers against one wall; a little fold-down mahogany bureau against the other; behind the door a prie-Dieu of the game polished wood; a square yard of carpet beside the bed on the glistening linoleum floor; and over all, the polished sheen of cleanliness and care. A room such as Desmonde had hoped for – not quite a monastic cell, of course, but suggestive of the ascetic life without loss of essential comfort. He put his suitcase on the chest; opened it and began to unpack his things, slipping them into the drawers below. The photograph of his mother he placed on top of the bureau, and beside it his little framed replica of the Bartolommeo ‘Annunciation’.
He then became aware that his feet were uncomfortably wet, and, kicking off his shoes, he had begun to peel off his sodden socks when there came a knock on the half open door. Mrs O’Brien stood there with a tray.
‘I’m relieved. Father,’ she smiled, ‘you’ve had the good sense to change your feet – they were fair squelching. Now just leave your wet things and I’ll take them down for a proper drying.’ With one hand she lowered the flap of the bureau and put down the tray. ‘Now here’s your tea, with something to keep you going till supper at seven o’clock.’
‘Thank you, immensely, Mrs O’Brien. You are terribly kind.’
‘Have you plenty dry socks?’
‘I believe I have another pair.’
‘One other! That will never do, young Father – not in Kilbarrack with our roads, not to mention our weather. We’ll have to start the needles clicking.’ She had been glancing at his pictures. ‘I see you have your treasures set out.’
‘One is of my mother, who died last year. The other Lady, I believe, needs no introduction to you.’
‘Indeed not, and how nicely you put it. And what would befit you more, Father Desmonde, than to come to us in such company? Now take up your tea while it’s good and hot.’
She gave him a smile of real warmth, picked up his wet socks and shoes, and went out, quietly closing the door.
The tea, indeed, was hot, strong, immensely elevating. Equally delectable were two hot, buttered, home-baked soda scones and a thick slice of Madeira cake that still bore the fragrance of the oven.
Desmonde’s view of Kilbarrack, pre-formed with deep foreboding, but softened already by his reception, now mellowed further, melted one might say, under the succulent impact of that heavenly cake. Restored, fortified, he thought: I will take a look at the church. He found the socks; pulled on his slippers and went downstairs.
Approaching with the inimitable Michael he had noticed a glass-covered passage leading across the courtyard. Conspicuously, it opened off the far end of the hall. A moment later he was on his way to the church.
On his last day in Rome Desmonde had made a final sentimental pilgr
image to St Peter’s. The image of that noble creation was fresh in his mind, as he entered the parish church of that dirty, impoverished Irish country town. He expected, and braced himself for, a shock, a chapel of conventional design with a lurid altar and daubed horrors of the Stations of the Cross deforming the walls.
He did, indeed, receive a shock, which caused him abruptly to sit down. He could not believe his eyes. The church was exquisitely and supremely beautiful, pure Gothic, the stonework of the finest quality and workmanship. The nave was lofty with aisles on either side. The Gothic pillars, supporting arches of delicate tracery, led the eye upwards to the lofty roof. The Stations of the Cross were also cut from the stone, simple in design but executed with grace and delicacy. The main altar, richly gilt, with a magnificent fretted reredos, lit up the Sanctuary and compelled the eye.
Instinctively Desmonde dropped to his knees, to give thanks for this heavenly, unexpected blessing, a noble church in which he felt he could strengthen and expand his sacred calling, increase his love and devotion to his Saviour. He was still in prayer when, suddenly, an organ pealed, and a choir of boys’ voices began to sing the hymn ‘ Crown Him with many Crowns’.
Immediately, Desmonde rose and hurried to the rear of the church, then up a winding staircase to the organ loft. A choir of boys, conducted by a young man, were practising the hymn and, at Desmonde’s sudden materialisation, they broke off.
‘Oh, please don’t stop. I’m sorry to interrupt you.’ He went forward to the young man and held out his hand. ‘I am Father Desmonde Fitzgerald.’
‘I’m the schoolmaster, John Lavin, Father. We’re having our usual practice.’
‘Forgive me,’ Desmonde said. ‘ I’m literally stunned to hear such fine singing … and that unusual lovely hymn too, down here in the wilds of Wexford.’
