The Minstrel Boy

by A. J. Cronin

  Slowly, with perfection of movement and colour, the ceremony continued, a tapesty woven in gold and scarlet, slowly unrolled. Only when the Cannon turned to read the Epistle did Desmonde look towards that end front pew, realising with a start that Madame’s eyes were steadily fixed upon him. She looked happy, a good augury for the news she would give him from Switzerland, and in her neat suit of fine, blue Donegal tweed, as fascinating as ever.

  The service resumed, the bell rang for the Consecration and again, presently, for the moment of Holy Communion. The children stood, came in perfect order, knelt at the altar rails and Desmonde, alone, came slowly to place the Eucharist, for the first time, upon the childish tongues. Then came the parents of the children, followed by great numbers of the congregation, the Canon descending now to assist Desmonde. And finally, the last of all, came Madame, kneeling, looking upwards to receive, and meeting, in that same glance of spiritual love, the eyes of Father Desmonde.

  Soon, now, the Mass was over, the organ played, the choir sang the final hymn ‘Christ the Lord is risen today’. Back in the vestry, as they disrobed, the Canon whispered:

  ‘Perfection, lad. You never put a foot wrong.’

  Back in the school hall the children were seated at a long table for their Communion breakfast, a substantial meal of cereal, bacon and eggs, toast, tea, and fruit cake, served under the supervision of the schoolmaster. Madame was already there with a little prayer book. The Key of Heaven, for each child, and soon Desmonde and the Canon came in.

  ‘Don’t rise!’ called the Canon, stifling an incipient movement. ‘Go on with your breakfasts. And God bless you all.’

  He turned to Madame Donovan and bowed. ‘Happy to see you home again, Madame. Didn’t you think, thanks to you, that the church looked beautiful?’

  ‘The Mass was beautiful.’ She turned to Desmonde. ‘It was perfection. I was deeply touched. And these sweet children, so well prepared…’

  ‘Ah, yes, Madame,’ cut in the Canon. ‘’Twas a lovely sight. If only the rails at which the poor little things knelt had been more in keeping…’

  ‘Be quiet, Canon,’ Madame laughed. ‘You may get your rails sooner than you expect. In the meantime, how do you stand with your Dew?’

  ‘I have not lipped it during Lent, Madame. And even out of Lent I sip, once a day, no more than two fingers full, as Desmonde will testify, yet, an’ all, I have a feeling I may be getting low.’

  ‘You’ll have a fresh case from Dublin immediately.’

  The Canon bowed low. ‘I thank a most generous lady.’

  ‘And what of you, Desmonde? Would an invitation to drink tea be acceptable?’

  ‘Eminently, Madame.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ Madame smiled at him. ‘ We’re behaving like characters in one of Cavalli’s horrible operas – Ormindo for choice. You may come at four.’

  When she had gone Desmonde walked round the long table, before following the Canon to the door. As he passed the girl in the voile dress, he met her radiant glance and whispered: ‘That was a good prayer, Peggy dear.’

  Upstairs in the presbytery, Mrs O’Brien, looking flurried for once, was in the dining room.

  ‘I’m sorry. Canon, and Father Desmonde, I’ve been so busy with the children’s breakfasts, as ye see, I have only a ham sandwich for you. But I’ve a lovely saddle of lamb for this evening.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mrs O’Brien. You never fail us. And I’ll take my daily drop of the Dew with the sandwich.’

  ‘Wasn’t it a tremendous congregation?’ said Mrs O’Brien, putting the bottle on the table. ‘ Never, never in my life did I see the church so full … and with some of the tough characters from Donegan’s Corner.’

  ‘Are you acquainted, Mrs O’Brien,’ said the Canon, measuring an exact two inches into the glass, ‘with that old song that begins: ‘As I came out one morning from Tipperary town …”?’

  ‘No, Canon.’

  ‘Well it ends like this, or nearly so.’ And the Canon boomed forth: ‘’Twas the little pigs that done it, och the dear little pigs.’

  ‘Desmonde,’ resumed the Canon, when Mrs O’Brien had departed, shaking her head, ‘I see a case of the Dew on the horizon and also, God willing, a set of altar rails in pure Carrara marble. Go down for your tea to dear Madame and be very, very sweet to her.’

  Chapter Ten

  In the early afternoon Desmonde set out to walk to Mount Vernon. He was happy, supremely happy: that admixture of spiritual joy and physical well-being that matched the brightness of this lovely day. How well everything had gone this morning: his splendid Mass, the sweetness of the children’s, First Communion. He prayed every day to the Holy Spirit for success in his vocation. That prayer had indeed been answered.

  As usual he was early at the Mount: Madame had gone out on a round of visits to her tenants, but Bridget, emerging from the servants’ hall, where she appeared to be entertaining friends, assured him that he was expected for four o’clock tea. And indeed, Desmonde had barely begun to walk up and down the terrace when the big landaulette swished up the drive and Madame stepped out, briskly, before Patrick could get to the door.

  ‘Take all these things to Bridget.’ She spoke sharply. ‘The scones, soda bread and vegetables.’

  ‘May we have some of the scones, Madame?’ Patrick spoke with unusual humility. ‘You did say, Madame, with your kind permission, that we might have a few friends in to have a bit of a Easter party.’

  ‘Take them all!’ She turned on her heel, came up the steps and to Desmonde, who had bent forward to kiss her hand, ‘Not now, please.’

  Only when Patrick had removed the car did she smile, faintly, a rather forced smile, barely showing her beautiful teeth, pressed firmly together.

  ‘You must forgive me. I’m in a teasing mood. The more you give, the more people demand from you. New water pipes, more tiles on the barns, a new floor in the kitchen and, if you please, two new bathrooms with hot and cold showers.’

  Desmonde smiled. ‘What a pity, Madame, that today’s Irish peasant won’t walk in his bare feet to the yard pump to wash himself.’

  ‘No wit, please. And last evening a worrying, most ungrateful letter from Claire. But enough. Go into the sun room and I’ll be there presently.’

  Madame was indeed in a bad mood, and not alone for the reasons she had stated. Always she had been regarded as the luminary, the leading figure, the cynosure of all eyes at her own beautiful church, St Teresa’s. But now, this handsome little curate, emerging from nowhere, or at least from Italy, had stolen, her thunder. This morning she had felt herself slighted, almost ignored and, though she repressed the feeling, had even wished that he might make some slip, a human faux pas, in the perfection of his performance.

  She had decided, while making the upsetting round of her tenants, that Desmonde must be taken down. He was altogether too complete. There must be a flaw in his perfection and it had become her duty to expose it.

  She was smiling when she entered the sun room, took both his hands, and made him sit beside her on the sofa.

  ‘Desmonde, dear, Bridget has given me the weird story of the song recital on the wireless that afternoon when I was out. Come, now, you really were regaling yourself with a few student ditties.’

  Desmonde smiled. ‘The piano was open, so inviting. I trust I was not taking a liberty, Madame.’

  ‘Good Heavens! Of course not. And as it’s still some little time until we are served tea – they’re having quite a party in back – I would love you to sing to me now.’

  He glanced at her oddly.

  ‘I have hitherto refrained, Madame … since you don’t sing yourself.’

  ‘Tut, tut! You’ll hear about that one day, and perhaps soon … I adore to hear good singing and now I wish to be entertained.’

  He paused: ‘What shall I sing to you? A hymn, an old Irish song, something operatic?’ She was looking at him inquiringly. ‘When I was in Italy I had the advantage of hearing many of the best operas …
in Rome, but mainly at La Scala in Milan.’

  She forced a laugh. ‘Did you make the pilgrimage to Milan on foot?’

  ‘No, Madame. I had the extreme good fortune to be taken by Madame la Marchesa di Varese, in her magnificent Isotta limousine. As you may know, she is an elderly lady, with her own box at La Scala, passionately devoted to music.’

  ‘And to you?’ As he ignored the question, which was almost a sneer, she continued: ‘ So what is your taste now, in operas?’

  ‘I tired of the little tear-jerkers.’ He smiled as he used the phrase. ‘Of dear Donizetti, and Bizet, and Puccini: La Bohème, for example, is such nonsense. My taste turned to the grand operas. Verdi and Mozart. Don Giovanni is a great opera. I also love the Spaniard de Falla.’

  ‘Surely you forget Wagner.’

  ‘I am always carried away by Wagner’s thunder, against my will. But he has written some extremely fine pieces.’

  She looked up at him endearingly. ‘ Do you know the Prize Song in Die Meistersinger?’

  ‘That is probably one the most beautiful songs ever written … ‘Yes, Madame, I know it … moderately well.’

  ‘Could you, would you sing it for me? It is frightfully difficult …?’

  ‘For you, Madame, I will try…’

  She seemed almost to relent. ‘Don’t worry if you break down, dear Desmonde. We’ll choose something simpler.’

  ‘Thank you, Madame,’ Desmonde said simply. He was now perfectly aware that she had chosen this song, deliberately, to embarrass him, a feeling that became a conviction as she explained:

  ‘You won’t mind if I call the servants and their friends into the passage? They are all dying to listen to you.’

  Desmonde suppressed a smile. She could not know that this was his winning Prize Song or that he had sung it in the salon of the Marchesa, to an audience of over a hundred of the best of Roman society.

  ‘It will make me more nervous, Madame, but if you wish, please do call them.’

  He waited until she had called and settled them in chairs outside, leaving the door half open, until she had seated herself, almost purring like a dear little cat about to sip cream.

  ‘You forgive me in advance, if I disappoint you, Madame?’

  ‘Of course, dearest Desmonde, now do begin, we are all waiting.’

  He did wait, another moment, then quickly he played the introduction and, lifting back his head, began to sing, in the original German.

  Firmly determined to sing well, he knew after the opening that he was at his best and would never sing better.

  Indeed, he sang it to listeners enchanted, and when at last he finished, the silence persisted for a full minute before a perfect crescendo of applause broke forth in the passage.

  Desmonde did not leave the piano, but when quiet came, called out: ‘As this is Easter Sunday, when we praise with joy the Risen Christ, I can’t leave you without one hymn in His honour.’ He began, without delay, to sing his favourite hymn, the lovely ‘Panis Angelicus’.

  No applause when he finished, but a reverential silence, immeasurably more impressive. He glanced towards the sofa. Madame Donovan was in tears. Blindly, she made a sign that he should close the door. He did so, then again she signed, that he should join her on the sofa. Here, half reclining, she took his head in both hands, and pressed it towards her, so that he felt the warmth of her tear-stained cheek.

  ‘Desmonde,’ she whispered, ‘you have overwhelmed me. Your beauty, your charm, your, perfect manners, your inviolable purity, and now … that lovely, lovely voice. What must I do? I wish you were my confessor – but that would hurt the good and worthy Canon. I wish you were my son …’

  ‘Madame,’ Desmonde interposed reasonably, ‘that is a physical impossibility … you are no more than nine or ten years older than I.’

  ‘I wish, then, that, you could offer some solution in my extremity. I am Heloise, and you are Abelard.’

  ‘No, dear Madame, I am not Abelard who was a rather dirty, unpleasant fellow. I am a priest truly in love with a charming, distinguished woman who, I believe, has an equal fondness for me. There is no solution other than to love purely, in the sight of God, and to be content with that love.’

  She sighed, disengaged herself, and sat up.

  ‘Desmonde, we must first have our tea. If only in the cause of propriety. Then I will try to explain why I feel so bewildered and so lost. Do ring for Patrick while I try to repair my face.’

  Desmonde pulled the bell cord, then wisely stood looking out of the window, with his back to the room. He foresaw eulogies from Patrick, who was indeed on the point of erupting, stilled only when Desmonde half turned and raised one finger to his lips.

  Presently, Madame returned, looking fresh and apparently composed. She poured the tea and they drank it in silence. Some fine slices of buttered soda bread were on the tray. He took several, remarking that it had been some time since he had tasted this home-baked Irish bread.

  She said: ‘I imagine Mrs O’Brien is too busy to bake it.’

  This was the limit of their conversation, until Patrick had reentered to remove the tray.

  Only then did Madame turn to Desmonde, and in firm voice, she began:

  ‘I had been singing two years with the Carl Rosa when, during the Dublin season, it became evident that an elderly gentleman had become interested in me. Always the same stage box, and only when I was singing. He was Dermot Donovan, owner of the Donovan Distillery Company, a rich and prominent Dublin personality. I was flattered, and when, one evening, a note came round asking if I would take supper with him, I accepted. We went to Jamme’s, where, treated almost with reverence by Jamme himself, he commanded a delicious supper. It was delightful to be entertained by such a man, tall, solidly well-built, and with trimmed grey hair and grey moustache. He drank only a thimbleful of his own Mountain Dew. I had a half bottle of Perrier Jouet.

  ‘When we had eaten, in the seclusion of our private room, he took my hand and said, very seriously: “Gerry! I am in love with you and wish to marry you. I am seventy years of age, comfortably rich, and able, I believe, to give you a full and happy life. I don’t ask you to decide at once. Come down to Mount Vernon, my place in Wexford, and see for yourself.”’

  She paused. ‘ In a few words, I came here. I married Dermot Donovan. There were, of course, the usual screams in the newspapers: “Spring weds December.” “Little Song Bird in a Golden Cage.” But I never, no, never, regretted my marriage.’ She paused. ‘Strange though it may be.

  ‘Dermot was a man of high principle. He was one of those, Irishmen, and they are not uncommon in Ireland, taught in the Jesuit schools and colleges that sex is a dirty and offensive thing, to be avoided at all costs. He had lived his life as a lay priest, and now at seventy he had no desire to possess me sexually. All this was explained to me beforehand. He had his own bedroom, I had mine, an arrangement acceptable and agreeable to me, since my love for him had nothing of sex in it. I was his dear companion, he loved me to sing to him of an evening, and as time went on I learned shorthand and typing and became his personal secretary. We travelled, usually to the spas of Europe, in winter we took a cruise, to the West Indies, to Jamaica, to Tahiti.

  ‘We spent five happy years together, then, quite suddenly, in Vichy, after complaining for only a few days of a pain in his chest, he died. He was buried in France.

  ‘Back in Dublin his will was read. The dear, dear man had left everything to me – his personal estate and the business. Naturally, I was grateful, and happy too. But before the will was probated an objection was raised by two men in the Dublin. office: the manager and the cashier. They demanded a post mortem, on the grounds that the sudden death of my husband was suspicious.’

  Madame paused, moistened and compressed her lips and went on.

  ‘So the body of my poor man was dug up, brought to the Dublin mortuary for examination. The certain cause of death: rupture of an aortic aneurism. Was that enough for those two devils in the office? I
t was not. They brought a plea that the marriage was invalid since it had never been consummated. I was forced by law to be medically examined.’ Again Madame paused, and her eyes were hard as steel. ‘You may understand the misery and humiliation this caused me. The finding: I was virgo intacta.

  ‘The case came before old Judge Murphy, a wise and, thank God, an honest man. He tore these two scoundrels apart. “ Because this good woman was faithful to her old husband, because she did not allow herself to be seduced by some younger man, you would deny her the rights and rewards of her fidelity. Case dismissed without possibility of appeal.”’

  Madame took a long sighing breath, but her eyes were steely.

  ‘You may imagine that I was now a nervous wreck, but I was not quite out of it. For it was my turn now. I put the best London firm of chartered accountants into the office. They went through the books with a fine toothed comb. As I had already suspected, the two would-be beneficiaries had been quietly helping themselves to the till for months. And they had stolen even more: the foreign receipts were short by nearly one hundred thousand pounds. They are still in Mountjoy Prison.’

  ‘Madame, how brave you were!’

  ‘That’s about all, dearest Desmonde.’ She took his hand. ‘ Except to say that I had a breakdown to end all breakdowns. I was dead out for two months, and when I came to, my voice was gone, they told me I would never sing again. But what of it?’ She smiled. ‘I’m a fighter, Desmonde. I’ve taken charge of the business, built it up to treble what it was before, established Swiss residence, cutting taxation in half, and here I am, as good as new.’

  Chapter Eleven