On certain days Desmonde was not permitted to sing; he rested on the sofa while ‘the little father’ sat, with a cushion, at the piano and played, played selections from Brahms, Liszt, Schubert and Mozart, many of them Desmonde’s favourites.
Regularly at a quarter to five, Martes would come up with something from the kitchen, normally reserved for the priests’ table. Often he would come earlier and stand outside the door, listening. From some remote cupboard Fr Petitt produced a kettle and spirit lamp on which he brewed tea.
This undreamed-of relaxation from the rigorous seminary routine, so in accord with Desmonde’s tastes and natural disposition, undoubtedly saved him from abandoning his vocation, or perhaps from a breakdown. He referred to it continually in his letters, relating how gradually, subtly, he came to take possession of the attic room until he could come to it whenever he was free from the routine of the day. He wrote all his letters in this blessed seclusion and, stretched on the old couch, rested for half-an-hour, fighting down the inedible lunch, before starting work for the afternoon. He had uncovered a great pile of German music from the cabinet in the piano stool. He played through, this and sang from it too, until his sight reading became perfect. Some of the lighter pieces he learned by heart. Two of Schubert’s songs, ‘Der Lindenbaum’ and ‘ Frühlingstraum’, he particularly liked, and that sweet love song of Schumann. ‘Wenn ich in deiner Augen seh’. Serious songs there were, also: Brahms’ ‘Der Tod das ist the kühle Nacht’, and surprisingly, in English, some excerpts from Handel’s Messiah, best of all the touching, ‘ I know that my Redeemer liveth’.
One afternoon, when he was singing his heart out on a favourite piece from Handel, ‘ The people that walked in darkness’, he did not hear the door open behind him. And when he turned, there was the great, ominous figure of Hackett. He had been listening in the doorway.
Desmonde almost fell off the stool. He trembled, thinking, this is the end, as Hackett slowly came towards him. But what was this? A huge, approving hand laid on his shoulder, and the words, not hurled at him, but mildly spoken:
‘That was truly beautiful, Fitzgerald. I’m no professor, but I know the best when I hear it. Keep on, keep at it, and win, for the honour, and for the college, the Chalice.’
He paused. ‘ By the way, would you like to change your bedroom to one of the bigger rooms upstairs?’
‘Thank you, father, but no. I like my little cell.’
‘Good for you, Fitzgerald. I’ll make a martyr out o’ ye yet.’
He smiled, actually smiled, turned and was gone.
Desmonde went down the old abbey staircase as noisily as possible, singing a Hosannah at the pitch of his lungs. No need to creep now. He was sanctioned, even sanctified; the little attic study was his own.
Desmonde’s dislike of Fr Hackett had been modified by the unexpected kindness his Superior had shown him. Yet he could not quite accept the persistent and insistent missionary complex that seemed the dominant factor in the teaching of the seminary and the substance, more often than not, of Fr Hackett’s short but powerful sermons.
One Sunday the morning discourse made a particular impression upon Desmonde. Fr Hackett began quietly extolling the virtue and necessity of missionary endeavours, in obedience to the command of Christ: ‘” Go therefore and make disciples of all nations” Matthew 28.19. And St Paul had voiced the same command. “ Woe to me if I do not preach the Gospel” – Corinthians 9.16. Christ had repeatedly stressed the Church’s evangelical mission, the need to preach the Gospel and to educate its members to the greater knowledge and consciousness of God.
‘The core of the Catholic Church is missionary in nature,’ Hackett insisted. ‘An obedience to the command of Christ to exert a moral influence for social justice, to build schools hospitals, dispensaries for the poor, the ignorant, the oppressed.’
He then moved on to the great names in the missionary history of the Church, a subject dear to his heart, beginning with St Paul, who had carried Christianity to the Gentiles, the Apostle James the Greater in Spain, and the Apostle Thomas in his conversion of the Malabar Indians. And, thereafter, St Martin of Tours in France, St Patrick and St Columban in Ireland, St Augustine, the first Archbishop of Canterbury in the year 597.
Fr Hackett then went on to speak of the great Jesuit missionaries, citing the case of the Jesuit Matteo Ricci who early in the sixteenth century made the great break through in China by an intensive study of the Chinese language and culture. His gifts of a clock and a spinet won the favour of the Emperor Wan-li and subsequent freedom to preach and teach. And in India the Jesuit Robert de Nobili, adopting the dress and manner of life of the Brahmins, outdid them in austerity and made thousands of converts among the upper classes.
‘Do not imagine for one moment,’ Hackett resumed, ‘that all this sublime work was accomplished without sacrifice, the supreme sacrifice. In one year in the Congo alone, one hundred and six priests, twenty-four brothers and thirty-seven sisters were cruelly murdered in the performance of their holy work.’
Fr Hackett paused and with a break in his voice declared:
‘Here, from this seminary, one of the many young missionaries we have sent forth over the years to all parts of the world, that noble and distinguished youth, Father Stephen Ridgeway, was brutally murdered and his body hacked to pieces while bearing the word of God into the wild and unexplored jungles of the Upper Congo.
‘You are aware of the sacred relic recovered by Belgian soldiers and sent to us by the Belgian fathers at Kinder, the hand of this brave and noble youth, severed from his arm by a slash of the savage panga and miraculously, I repeat, miraculously preserved, fresh and undefined, as though it still were a living part of Stephen’s living body.
‘You have viewed this relic, exposed to you for veneration at the Mass we celebrate on the anniversary of Stephen’s glorious martyrdom. It is my most precious possession and will be shown in all its miraculous freshness when I apply for the canonisation of this saintly youth, the pride of this seminary and a model, an inspiration and incentive to all of you here.
‘What joy in Heaven, and to me, humble advocate of the missionary life, if, beyond these brave good souls who have already chosen this via dolorosa, others amongst you would come and say to me: “ I too, accept the message, nay, the command of Christ to ‘Go forth and preach the Gospel.’”’
Again a pause, then: ‘Stand up, and let us all sing that splendid hymn, the battle cry of all who lead the fight for Jesus, “Onward, Christian Soldiers”.’
Clearly, Father Hackett was now better disposed to the novice he had formerly so harshly treated. Yet Desmonde could not altogether respond to the advances made by his Superior. An unpleasant thought kept nagging him, and on the afternoon following the Father Superior’s impassioned sermon, this found expression in the music room when he suddenly exclaimed to his tutor:
‘Doesn’t Father Hackett’s missionary complex strike you as being rather cheap? If he feels so strongly on that subject, instead of urging us out to martyrdom, why won’t he take a turn out there himself?’
Little Petitt dropped the sheet of music he was holding and looked at Desmonde sternly.
‘That is a most uncharitable and uncalled for remark.’
‘But isn’t it true?’
Again he studied him with a kind of angry surprise.
‘Don’t you know that Father Superior spent twelve years of his life as a missionary? Immediately after ordination he went to India to work among the Untouchables – the lowest and most despised of all humans. With his own hands he built a little dispensary, then started a little school, began to clothe and teach ragged, starved children whose days and nights were spent in the gutters of Madras. He literally pestered his friends at home for money to clothe and feed these little unwanted children, taught them the catechism, led them into Christianity while all the time living in the humblest, poorest quarter of the city where cholera is almost endemic.
‘Of course, through his unsp
aring tending of the sick, he went down with cholera, recovered, and was invalided home.
‘In his absence a young American priest had carried on his good work and joined up with Father Hackett when Hackett returned. Together they achieved miracles until an epidemic of yellow fever struck the up-country province of Lingunda. Leaving his fellow priest in charge of the Madras mission, Hackett left for the plague centre. Six weeks later, after heroic devotion to the sick and the dying, he was himself stricken, nearly died, and was invalided home so wrecked, so devastated by that frightful disease, he was refused permission to return. Since it was now imperative for him to live in a warm climate, he was given this relatively easy appointment in Spain.’
A long silence followed this brief exposition by Father Petitt, during which Desmonde remained perfectly still, a strange expression on his face. Suddenly he sprang to his feet.
‘Please excuse me, father. I must leave you.’ And he rushed from the room.
Perhaps little Petitt had an inkling of the meaning of Desmonde’s sudden departure, a premonition that he would soon return. He went to the piano and began softly to play his favourite ‘Ave Maria’.
He was still playing, and continued to play, when Desmonde did come back, at the same time turning to inspect his pupil and to murmur slyly:
‘You look happy. Good confession?’
‘And forgiveness from a saintly priest,’ Desmonde said humbly.
Chapter Three
Desmonde was now settled down at the seminary, almost comfortably, rescued from earlier miseries by his God-given voice. His fastidious palate had even come to tolerate the unsavoury messes of the regime, since these were now mercifully ameliorated by fruit, notably peaches, from the surrounding orchards. He was even on surprisingly good terms with the Father Superior, who had begun to suspect possibilities hitherto unforeseen in this strange novice.
Desmonde’s letters were now infrequent, altogether less anguished, indeed, full of hope and tinged with a sense of dedication, an ardour that seemed to grow as time went on. One might say enthusiasm but for the fact that the discipline of the college had tempered his natural ebullience.
During this phase, benign and prolonged, Desmonde passed through the various stages of his novitiate, becoming in turn subdeacon and deacon. And how pleasing this was to his mother, who longed to see her son a priest.
At least once every two or three weeks we went on Sunday to lunch with Mrs Fitzgerald. The conversation always was centred on Desmonde. Now almost an invalid, she was living for the great event, yet I doubted if she would survive to see her son ordained. I was now within sight of my final examinations, and her symptoms of cardiac involvement, pallor, shortness of breath and marked oedema of the ankles, were only too apparent to me, a diagnosis confirmed when she showed me the medicine prescribed for her: little pillules of Nativelle’s digitalin. I was now ‘houseman’ to Sir James MacKenzie, living in, with full board and lodging, at the Western Infirmary, and so ameliorating the burden my mother had heroically borne for so many years. Soon I hoped to be able to recompense her fully by sending her resignation to the Winton Corporation, terminating the work that had kept us both alive for so many hard years.
This satisfactory, almost benign state of being, for Desmonde and myself, continued for some further months until suddenly, out of the blue, a letter arrived, stamped with the familiar Spanish postmark. A letter so bulky and hurriedly written that I suspected disaster even as I unfolded it.
My dear Alec,
I have been in despair, cast down, humiliated, abused, ground into the dust, almost expelled, my priestly vocation in jeopardy, and all, all, I repeat, in my honest and unprejudiced opinion, through no fault of my own. Only now am I able to raise my bowed and bloody head, to give you the full circumstances of the case and to invoke your sympathy.
I believe I already mentioned, in a previous letter, that one of the few ameliorations in our strict regime is the weekly walk we are permitted to take to the town every Thursday afternoon. We go in a group, unchaperoned, with permission to buy fruit, or other legitimate refreshment, from the various vendors who are always about, in anticipation of our visit. Our absence from the seminary is never permitted to exceed one hour.
I need not tell you how eagerly we anticipate, not only this brief escape from our hard routine, not only our momentary contact with the normal outside world, but also the many delicious fruits which we may purchase for a few pesetas. What else is there in this typical little Spanish village to excite us: the single dusty, winding street, lined with little houses, all blinding white in the perennial sun, with groups of old black clad women seated in front, stitching and gossiping. Dark little passages lead into the dark little shops which, solely because of the nearness of the seminary, sell extraneous articles: soap, toothpaste and brushes, simple medicines, postcards and even sweets. In season, too, mainly to seduce the students, they are piled with grapes, Malaga oranges, and peaches.
I am especially fond of peaches, as indeed are many of the other novices, and we are always met at the entrance to the town by a young woman, a girl, to be exact, who takes advantage of the other vendors by coming towards us with a big, flat pannier, slung from her shoulder and heaped with ripe delicious fruit. In the interest of her business she has established a friendly relationship with us, and it has become more or less customary for us to stand and chat with her for a few moments, practising our Spanish, before we continue into the town.
On this particular Thursday of ill omen, I had been held up by Fr Petitt, my admirable music master, who was rather excited by receiving long looked for news from Rome of the proposed Song Festival. I was, in consequence, late in passing through the gates and when, by hurrying, I made up on my companions, I saw to my chagrin that all the peaches had been cleared.
‘Oh dear, Caterina, you have kept nothing for me.’
She shook her head, smiled, showing her nice white teeth.
‘You are too late, nice little priest, and you must never be late for a rendezvous with a lady.’
My colleagues, in particular Duff, the raw-boned Aberdonian, who detests me, had begun to enjoy my predicament as I said:
‘I am sad. I thought I was your favourite customer.’
‘So you are sad, truly sad.’
‘Yes. Truly sad.’
‘Then smile now, your beautiful smile.’ And, to my surprise and delight, she produced from behind her back two of the biggest and most luscious peaches I had ever seen.
The chuckles and guffaws around me had subsided, as slinging the pannier to one side she came up to me holding a peach in each hand.
‘Did you think for one second that I would forget you? Take them.’
I felt in my pocket to pay her and, to my dismay, discovered that I had no money. In my haste I had forgotten my purse. My distress must have been obvious, not only to the onlookers but to her, as I stammered:
‘I am so sorry. I cannot pay you.’
She came quite close to me, still smiling. ‘ So you have no money? I am pleased. For then you must pay me with a kiss.’
She placed a peach in each of my hands and, as I stood there helpless, threw her arms around me and pressed her lips against mine in an embrace that was unquestionably passionate, at the same time murmuring in my ear: ‘Come any evening after six, my darling little priestling, to 17 Calle de los Pinas. For you it is free.’
When finally she disengaged herself, looking up at me with her dark sparkling eyes, that same entrancing smile, the ominous silence was broken by a shout from the Aberdonian.
‘Enough, fellows. On to the town.’
I followed in a state of dazed euphoria. That close luscious embrace, tinged with the fragrance of peaches, had quite unmanned me. More or less isolated at the tail of the procession, I did eventually and to some degree revive myself by consuming both of the delectable fruits.
Even on our return journey to the seminary, no one spoke to me. Temporarily, at least, and through no fault
of mine, I had become a pariah.
Next morning it did seem as though a thaw had set in, but at eleven o’clock I received a summons to appear before the Father Superior in his study. Somewhat re-chilled, I complied, my anxiety deepening when, on entering the room, I observed the tall, cadaverous figure of Duff standing by the window.
‘Fitzgerald, a most serious charge has been laid against you.’ Father Superior, seated at his desk, made the accusation immediately. As I remained silent he continued: ‘That of embracing the girl Catarina and, furthermore, of having immoral relations with her.’
‘I was stupefied and, suddenly, enraged. I looked at the Avenging Angel by the window. He avoided my gaze.
‘Who makes these charges? Plum Duff?’
‘The name is Duff, Fitzgerald. He was present when you embraced the girl, Caterina. Do you deny this?’
‘Absolutely and completely. It was she who embraced me.’
‘You did not resist her?’
‘It was impossible. I had a large ripe peach in each hand.’
‘She had given you these peaches. Without payment. Does not that suggest intimacy?’
‘She is a jolly friendly girl. We were all her customers and, in a sense, intimate with her. We all laughed and joked with her.’
‘No’ me.’ A sepulchral voice came from the window. ‘Ah saw frae the furst she was a hoor.’
‘Silence, PI … Duff. Of all the others you were her especial intimate, her choice, in fact. So that she arranged an assignation for that evening, to which you replied O.K.’
I was now livid with rage.
‘I have never in my life uttered such a corrupt and vulgar term. Who accuses me of using it?’
‘Duff has keen ears.’
‘They are big enough.’
Father Superior ignored this and resumed the attack.
‘I have made inquiries. This Caterina Menotti, if not precisely a prostitute, is regarded officially as a fille de joie.’
‘Didna’ ah tell ye, yer Reverence? She even gi’en him her address.’