Grandmother and the Priests

  “You are wondering,” said Sir Joshua, “how it is that I am now rich and can afford what I have, and my carriage. I did not earn it; not a single penny. You see, my father, in his travels, came to know that the poor women on the farms and in the hamlets and villages longed, as do all women, for some fragrance in their lives, some luxury they could afford which would make them feel cherished. So my father, with my mother’s help when he was at home, concocted a smooth oval soap, made of sound if inexpensive materials, and scented quite strongly. It was a sweet and overpowering scent, and seemed to be compounded of roses and lilies and lilac — ”

  “Fielding’s Fragrance!” exclaimed Benedict. “Soaps and sachets!”

  “Exactly,” said Sir Joshua, smiling. “You know them then.”

  “Who doesn’t?” said Benedict. “The whole world does, and not only the Empire. The soap, sixpence a packet. The sachets, in little satin bags, two for a shilling. The odor,” said Benedict, “lasts forever, they say.”

  Sir Joshua’s face subtly changed. “Forever is a long time, thank God,” he said, and he looked at the ring on his finger. For a moment or two, or perhaps longer, Benedict lost him completely. The old gentleman seemed to have retreated behind the elegant facade of his body and face, and was now enjoying some deep delight beyond imagination.

  “I was about twelve, and ready for work, when my father compounded his first packets of soap and his first sachets,” said Sir Joshua, at last. “I helped my parents pour the liquid into a mold my father had made. He had also made his own crude stamping for the soap, and it remains the same today: the name wreathed in buds and flowers and leaves and tendrils. For the first years, until I was eighteen, the products sold modestly but soundly, and my mother gave up her washing and sewing and she and I worked together and my father peddled his other wares, and the soap and sachets, on his rounds. And then fortune came all at once, as it usually does. Large soap companies discovered the soap and sachets, after the women all over the counties refused to buy any others but my father’s. Their fame had even come to London, and to Edinburgh.

  “My father may have been a saint, but he knew the value of his work. He accepted the most magnificent offer, and continuing royalties: a penny a packet, and two pennies for the sachets, for himself and his heirs, everlastingly.

  “Unfortunately, a lifetime of privation ended his life when he was on the very threshold of his new life. My mother, who had suffered with him, died of consumption. I was then twenty-two. I was a millionaire, or rather close to being one. I was not uneducated; my long childhood illnesses had kept me in bed, and I had read incessantly. There is nothing like the boldness of youth! Armed with my fortune, I did what my parents would have me do. I went abroad to the great schools of France and Italy, for, of course, I could not be accepted in England. And when I returned, after several years, I engaged an English gentleman to tutor me, to polish my accent, to make me a gentleman, myself! Snobbish of me, wasn’t it?” Sir Joshua laughed gently. “Yes, indeed. And I built the house where I still live, exactly as my parents would have had it, and I live as they dreamed of living. And the Queen enjoys my company. She may be regal, but she is not annoyed by a man’s background, if he has other virtues, and her Majesty appears to think I have those virtues.”

  “I am sure you have,” said Benedict, with the warmth of a young man. Then he colored. He was being infernally rude. He had practically forced this fine old man to tell him of his life, and now he was being patronizing into the bargain. He was ashamed of himself. The Italian Monsignori, for all the ancient fame of their families, would not have done this, and they would have looked at Sir Joshua with respect and admiration and would have known him for the great gentleman he was.

  “Forgive me for prying,” said Benedict. “It is just that my moth — my aunt — seems to be so fond of you, and she particularly mentioned that she wanted us to meet.”

  “And she has spoken so often of you,” said Sir Joshua. “I am glad we have met. I have known Amanda only about two years, for I travel widely. I want to see if there is any spot in this world so beautiful as — ”

  “As?” said Benedict, when Sir Joshua’s eloquent voice stopped abruptly.

  “As a place I know,” said the old man. “I must tell you of it sometime. And you will be the very first to hear of it.” He looked at his ring again.

  The gentlemen then rose to join the ladies.

  Later, Benedict said cautiously to his aunt, “A wonderful old gentleman, that Sir Joshua Fielding.”

  “Isn’t he?” said Amanda, gratified. “I knew you would like each other at once. And all that money, too. Millions of it. Soap and sachets. The servant girls adore them.” She paused and laughed. “I do, also. A little overwhelming, the scent, but such really good soap. Better than Pears and the imported French, I believe.” Her stays creaked, and she said, “I really must go up to bed, my dear. I am not as young as I was. Did Sir Joshua tell you of his immense charities and the yearly fortune he gives to your mutual Church? A fine fellow, dear Joshua.”

  Just before he fell asleep Benedict remembered the odd words of Sir Joshua: “I want to see if there is any spot in this world as beautiful as — As a place I know.”

  There were some souls, Benedict reflected, who are so pure and innocent and noble, so utterly filled with grace, that they are vouchsafed, in ecstasy, some glimpses of heaven. Was Sir Joshua one of them? His face had been the face of a lover, of a man loving, a man beloved, a man who was young.

  Benedict paid visits to some priests he knew in London, and to the Bishop. He sounded them out on the subject of Sir Joshua Fielding. Invariably, their faces became full of light and affection. The Bishop could not speak too highly of the old gentleman. “A true son of the Church,” he said to Benedict. “A saint. He has told me of his will; he has left everything to the Church, including all royalties after his death. There were several winters when I am afraid we’d have almost starved to death here in London if it had not been for Joshua. He does not wait to be asked; he knows at once when others are in need.”

  “Would your lordship say he was a mystic?” asked Benedict.

  The Bishop stared. “A mystic? No, I hardly think so. We are very dear friends. I should have known. What on earth are you talking about, Benedict?”

  “He seems to have a rather mystical expression, sometimes,” said the young priest, lamely.

  The Bishop smiled. “Yes, I have noticed that, myself. But he is very scholarly, you know, and scholars often assume that expression, distant and thoughtful. Is that it? No, I’d have known if Joshua were a mystic. He is, in fact, a very sensible man, though his house is utterly tasteless, isn’t it? He explained it was the sort of house his parents had dreamed of, and so he made it that way. I am sure his taste, which is very fine, does not lead in those ways, but he loved his parents dearly. He has a private gallery of marvelous Old Masters, and a collection of bibelots not to be found anywhere else in London. Objets d’art. That is in another part of the house. A mystic, you said? No, indeed. Sir Joshua is very shrewd about business matters, you can be sure, and he has the best of lawyers who examine the soap company’s books annually.”

  The Bishop laughed. “He has the soundest of investments, which he manages himself. Some rascal or other attempted to cheat him a few years ago, and when Joshua discovered that he made the man smart for it, through the law. He has no mercy for cheats, and detests them more than he does any other criminal. In some ways Joshua can be ruthless, as ruthless as the aristocrat he intrinsically is.”

  “Did your lordship ever notice that particularly large and beautiful ring he wears, a stone that seems compounded of all the opals in the world?”

  “Yes,” said the Bishop. “He has asked that he be buried with it.”

  Benedict thought of that for a moment, then began to tell the Bishop of Sir Joshua’s peculiar words on the occasion of Amanda’s dinner. But he stopped after the first word or two. Sir Joshua had not asked him to keep the matte
r confidential. Yet, in some way, he had intimated that he knew Benedict would not be an idle blabber and that he would not betray any trust. If there was anything to be trustful about, thought the young priest.

  A few nights later Sir Joshua asked the pleasure of the company of Mrs. Amanda Seldridge and Father Benedict Hughes at dinner in his house. They accepted. But on the day of the dinner Amanda had a slight chill, and her physician ordered her to bed. She insisted that Benedict leave her, however. “He has some remarkable treasures, dear Joshua,” she said. “You really must see them, Benedict. And his greenhouse, right in the midst of London! The rarest of flowers. He tends them like a father. He has one flower no one ever saw before. He calls it C’est Egal. Beautiful. Most remarkable.”

  “ ‘C’est Egal,’ ” repeated Benedict. “ ‘It is all one.’ Extraordinary. A rose?”

  “No. I simply cannot describe it, child. He never tells where he found it. Perhaps in one of those dark jungle places he has visited in his travels. It is bright gold. When I had a bad chill while you were away he sent me almost a dozen of them. They quite filled the house with the most marvelous scent. Not to be described, truly. And though they were cut flowers they lived for weeks! Just weeks. And then — Now that is extraordinary.” Amanda paused.

  “What is?”

  “I just remembered. On the last night I saw them, and they were beside my couch, in my bedroom, they were as fresh and scented as on the first day. And when I awoke in the morning they were gone! I asked my nurse about it, and then the servants, and they swore they had not touched them. Yes, extraordinary. But it has a simple explanation; the nurse was very officious. She threw them away while I was asleep, no doubt. Nurses do seem to have an aversion to flowers, don’t they? Always taking them away.”

  “ ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ ” murmured Benedict.

  “Alice in Wonderland,” said Amanda, proud of her memory.

  Feeling somewhat like Alice in Wonderland himself, Benedict went to dinner at the house of Sir Joshua Fielding. He did not know what he expected, but he discovered he was the only guest, and that the great mansion was as disappointingly, if as richly, ugly as his aunt’s. All the bad taste and vulgar opulence and crowded bric-a-brac and hideous furniture of the Victorian Age were here. It was the dream of some poor workingman in his most satisfying of fantasies. There was not even the smallest touch of real elegance anywhere, no grace, no charm, no delicacy. Sir Joshua greeted the young priest as warmly as though they had always been friends, expressed his regret over Amanda’s illness, and offered whiskey. “I am a true plebeian,” said Sir Joshua. “I don’t even splash a little soda into my glass. I drink my whiskey neat. And I never touch sherry. I suppose you have wondered how I got my title?”

  “No, it didn’t occur to me,” said Benedict.

  “I simply gave a very large amount of money to one of the Queen’s favorite charities. Ostentatious of me, wasn’t it? But I was sincerely interested in the charity. She was so pleased that she knighted me. And then we became good friends.”

  He was suddenly grave, then said after a moment’s sipping. “She never can forget Prince Albert; she never will. There are some who say that long grief is self-pity. No, I do not think so, Benedict. Do you remember the story of the old man and his wife who were visited by one of the gods, and they treated him so kindly for all he was dressed like a beggar that on the next morning he asked them their dearest wish? They told him that they prayed never to be separated, and so he transformed them into trees, side by side, whose branches mingled together.”

  He paused, and Benedict thought of his young parents, who had hardly lived except in their dream.

  Sir Joshua continued: “There are many who love only once. They are the sort who, once loving God, for instance, never again betray or wound Him, but serve Him with delight and joy and faith all the days of their lives. And there are the people who only love once in the world. Who can say that mortal love is passing, and will be gone? Love, which is the very fiery core of the Godhead, is eternal. A man and woman who truly love each other can never forget, even when reconciled after one of them dies, and sometimes they are never reconciled, though they tell themselves they bow to the will of God. After all, we are human beings. A little more whiskey, Benedict?”

  Benedict, accepting, pondered. Had Sir Joshua loved a woman who had died, and did he live with that memory? His words would lead one to think so. If that was correct, then he lived with the thought of her and all his days and nights were permeated with the joy not only of her memory but of the living pulse of her.

  “The human heart and soul and flesh are well known to Our Lord,” said Sir Joshua, “for does He not possess them, Himself? Who can doubt that He loved His Blessed Mother, and thought about her when He was absent, and then, when He ascended to heaven, did He not remember her? Who can deny this, after a moment’s thought? I know it is not a Church dogma as yet, nor even a doctrine or article of Faith, but one of these days it will be infallibly known that God did not forget His Mother, nor cease loving her, for He had been, and is, flesh of her flesh, and heart of her heart. The tradition that she was assumed bodily into heaven will become fully accepted, and then will be a dogma. If He who was begotten from eternity could not forget His Mother, then surely we cannot forget those we love, and look forward eagerly to seeing them again in a far better place than this tumultuous world, this world of sin and wrong and sorrow and evil. To forget them is to insult them, to diminish their memory, to reject their love for us. I am afraid I am speaking in a stately manner, Benedict, but I am of an old generation, you know.”

  I have seen him only twice, thought Benedict, and he is old enough, almost, to be my grandfather. Does he confide in me because I am a priest?

  “I often talked with Amanda about you,” said Sir Joshua. “She told me of your parents, and your childhood, and how you grieved for your father and mother. I thought, then, that if I ever met you I should tell you — a very strange story, and a very true one. If,” and Sir Joshua smiled, “you were as your infatuated aunt told me you were.”

  “Am I?” asked Benedict.

  Sir Joshua studied him. “I think so,” he said, after a moment or two. “But I will be able to know better shortly. What do you think of my thesis?”

  Benedict hesitated. “You know we are taught to pray for the dead, and we ask their prayers for us. But we are not supposed to grieve and rebel constantly; we are supposed to be happy that they are safe with God.”

  “Don’t you think that the Blessed Mother was lonely for her Son, and that, perhaps, He was lonely for her, in heaven?”

  Benedict said, “As you have pointed out, Our Lord possessed, and still possesses, a human heart and a human soul. So, I should answer ‘yes’. Though, of course, there is no time with God; there is only eternity.”

  “I think our dinner is served,” said Sir Joshua. They went into a huge dining-room every bit as ugly and immensely furnished as Amanda’s. Benedict thought that the dinner, at the least, would be finely French, with a dash of Italian savor, for one, after all, can carry filial love to extremes. The house was bad enough. But the dinner was exactly like one of Amanda’s, and as uninspired. Even the wine was dull.

  Sir Joshua, the man of noble profile and patrician graces, relished every morsel of the bloody roast beef, the brussels sprouts, the mashed turnips, the boiled onions and potatoes. He looked with pleasure at the suet pudding, which Benedict, who had a touch of ‘liver’, could not eat. Sir Joshua said, “I’ve heard about your fevers, Benedict. Perhaps you’d like an apricot or a peach, instead of this delicious pudding?”

  “At this time of the year?” said Benedict. “Do you import them from Spain, in silver paper?”

  “Oh, no. I grow them in my greenhouse.” Sir Joshua touched the bell, and his manservant brought in a dish of opulent apricots and peaches, dewy and cool and fragrant.

  “In your greenhouse? In London?” asked Benedict, with incredulity.

  “Certain
ly. They are a dwarf variety, not generally known. I cultured them myself. Do taste them.”

  Benedict carefully peeled the fruit with the fruit knife, and ate them. He had never tasted such flavor, either in Spain or in Italy or in the Orient. Not only were the fruits refreshing but they were delightful in scent and texture. They were too delicious to spoil even with the best of cheese. A pale rose wine was served with them. “I never tasted wine like this,” said Benedict.

  “It comes from Chile,” said Sir Joshua, pleased at the young man’s pleasure.

  “I have heard of your greenhouse, Sir Joshua, from my aunt.”

  “Would you like to visit it after dinner?”

  “Indeed, yes.”

  “And my little gallery of Old Masters?” Joshua laughed a little. “No, I suppose not. You’ve seen the best in the Vatican and the Louvre and so why should you bother with second-best, which are all I have? I prefer modern artists, however, but they are a little strong for the stomach. You shall see my greenhouse instead.”