The Wide House

by Taylor Caldwell

  As they stood before the sad little cottage, Father Houlihan looked up at Stuart, and sighed. “A fine young feller like you! And why should ye be going into a pit of hell like that? With a wife and all, eh?”

  “I have no wife, and no ‘all,’” Stuart assured him. Father Houlihan was slightly relieved, but he shook his head, sighing again. “A fine upstanding man!”

  That had been the beginning of a friendship which was to last all their lives, a lovely friendship with frequent riotous quarrels and rages only enhancing it. At least once a month Stuart left the priest’s house in a rage, advising him to go to the nether regions, and accompanied to the door by Father Houlihan’s lusty voice using many sacred words but in a distinctly unsacred way. Then they would write each other a series of notes, abjectly apologizing, and meet the next Sunday.

  Stuart was still trying to find words with which to warn Angus, when Father Houlihan entered, beaming, filling the warm little room with vitality, health and enthusiasm. He was always enthusiastic, and was rarely dampened in his simple buoyancy, for he devoutly believed in the innate goodness of mankind despite all his knowledge to the contrary. “Well, well, well!” he exclaimed, in a rich deep voice, and looked at Angus with friendly sympathy and curiosity. Stuart had already told him of this young lad, and he was prepared, as was always his way, to love the young and unprotected.

  Angus rose diffidently, clutching the brim of his hat. His pale thin face flushed. He could not look directly at the priest, and his heart was beating hard. He had expected some dark, lean and subtle Jesuit with an evil glinting face, with whom he must be on rigorous guard. But this very short, very fat, immensely broad and completely bald man of forty years resembled Friar Tuck far more than he did any Latin dialectician of subtle machinations. He hardly came to Stuart’s shoulder, and his cassock gleamed over his large belly and massive shoulders, so tight was it stretched. He had short fat hands, excessively white and well-kept—his one vanity—and very expressive. Everything about him was expressive and volatile, and full of zest. He exuded joy in living, and ardent affection for everything, even when he was sad, which was very often.

  He had a great round head, the scalp polished, damp and shining, and very pink. Only above his ears, and at the nape of his bulging neck, were there a few golden hairs, the last of a once very handsome gilded mane. He had immense rosy ears, which stood out from his head in an attitude of pleased surprise, alert and listening. His face was very round and broad, pink and clean, with a series of chins. His corpulence was a source of great despair, and the object of much sorrowful meditation, but he could not resist good food and beer, in spite of all his prayers for assistance and mortification of the flesh.

  He had thick golden eyebrows over strenuous blue eyes, which shone restlessly and with huge humor. He also had a large bulbous nose. But he had the sweetest mouth, full and pink, with touching dimples always flashing, and a smile always trembling at the corners.

  He was a simple soul. But he was also extremely intellectual, a fact which did not becloud his simple faith. Once he had told Stuart that he did not believe in much knowledge. He had said that too much knowledge stupefies and blinds the soul, and silences the heart’s intuition. Nevertheless, his own wisdom had not stupefied nor blinded him, and his heart’s intuition was as pristine in its clarity and prescience and loving kindness as though he had been newly born. He distrusted all subtle men, all dialecticians, all realists, all sophists, whether of his cloth or of the world, and this, in part, probably accounted for the fact that he was no favorite of his bishop’s, and remained a lowly priest all his life. Perhaps he was too honest, too forthright, too vigorous and single-hearted, too pragmatic, ever to rise to high ecclesiastical heights. He was beyond hypocrisy. He spoke of that vice often, but could never really understand it, and was always appalled and dumfounded when he encountered it in others. He was also a bad businessman, and vague about his accounts, another thing which damned him in the eyes of his bishop. And he never set out to proselytize, for which he had been frequently reprimanded. He only knew, in his earnest bewilderment, that he loved God, and that other men doubtless also loved God, in their own peculiar ways. But he never got anywhere in his arguments with his severe bishop, and though he remained humble in the presence of that august man, he would leave the bishopric more confused than ever, his mouth moving dumbly with new arguments, his head shaking helplessly. Sometimes he would remain on the walk outside the noble house, staring at it vehemently for a long time, and then would leave in a very abased and confused state of mind, resolving to do better, though what the better was he had not the slightest idea.

  His love for his God gave him a great and beautiful dignity, which his corpulence could not diminish, nor his lustiness and enjoyment in living. His faith was like a light on his huge pink face and in his lively blue eyes. He also had a wild and uproarious bad temper when aroused, and an unbridled and lusty tongue, and a violent way with him when convinced of some rascality or cruelty.

  Because he was so unaffected and sincere, the priest always looked steadfastly and directly at everyone, but with such kindness that he rarely offended. He looked now at young Angus, very earnestly, but the boy, blushing and ill-at-ease, only peeped at him shyly, and kept dropping his eyes. There was a little silence in the room. Stuart stood apart, and watched, smiling a little. Father Houlihan continued to study Angus with his simple and open directness, and, then, very slowly but clearly, a shadow of sadness and affection came over the priest’s face, and a dim sorrow clouded his violent blue eyes for a moment or two. Because there was no beam in his spiritual vision, he saw without distortion.

  “Well, well, well,” he said again, but in a gentle murmur this time. He was suddenly abstracted. The warm May twilight was darkening. Father Houlihan took a wax taper from the mantelpiece, applied it to the fire, then went softly about the room lighting the lamps, turning them up carefully so that their mellow bloom soon flooded every corner.

  Stuart was annoyed at Angus. The boy had murmured an inarticulate greeting, and then had remained standing like this, frightened and stiff and uneasy, with God only knew what thoughts in his mind. Stuart had warned him he must address the priest as “Father,” and he well understood how the word must stick in that young Presbyterian throat. Was it a mistake to have brought the young jackanapes here, to embarrass Grundy?

  Angus furtively watched the priest moving lightly about the room, ambling comfortably from one lamp to the other. He seemed confused, himself. His picture was all awry. Father Houlihan, approaching the last lamp, complained that his sister had neglected to fill it. He bent over it, frowning and pursing his lips. He lit it. “And how would ye be today, Stuart?” he asked. He smiled. There was still enough oil. He beamed at it.

  “As usual, well,” said Stuart. “And you?”

  “Oh, wonderful, wonderful! I am always wonderful!”

  He stood up, the taper in his hand, and the clear golden light fell on his face as he turned to Angus. It was a beautiful face, for all its pinkness and big fat features and its peasant heartiness. He smiled at Angus; it was the loveliest smile of kindness and gentleness and warmth.

  He blew out the taper, and waved it gently back and forth in his hand.

  “So this is our Angus, eh? This is the lad who would be a fine doctor?”

  Angus colored deeply. But he managed an uncertain smile, and shifted on the balls of his feet.

  Father Houlihan neatly replaced the taper, pinched its blackened tip. He returned to Angus, and sighed enviously. “It was a doctor I dreamed of being, myself, in the old country.” He shook his head. He moved towards Angus very slowly and looked at him. As Angus was a tall lad, and Father Houlihan was so short, their eyes were almost on a level. The priest looked into those young blinking eyes, so fearful, yet so hungry, and he saw their apprehension and distrust of him.

  “It’s eyes like gray Scotch mist he has,” said the priest gently. “I spent many years in Scotland, near Inverness,
where I had a cousin. He had sheep. I well remember it. And the Scotch mornings, just before dawn, and the morning star over the hills.” His strong rich voice was very tender.

  Angus lifted his head suddenly, and gazed at the priest without fear, and with excitement.

  “My dada sang a song about the morning star!” he exclaimed, then colored again, more deeply than ever. His eyes filled with tears, and he jerked aside his head. The priest was silent. He looked at the lad, and his face was very sorrowful.

  “Perhaps,” he said softly, “he is singing that song to the angels now.”

  Angus was silent. His throat worked. Father Houlihan put his arm about the lad’s shoulders, not quickly, so as to alarm him, but very slowly and comfortingly. “I shall say a prayer for your dada, tomorrow,” he promised.

  Angus moved restlessly, then, at the warmth of the loving arm about him, which he could not resist in his heart’s hunger, he was still. But he looked at Father Houlihan with uncertain sternness. “We can’t pray for the dead—sir,” he said, with piping resolution. “They are in God’s hands. They have no further care for our prayers, which cannot help or hinder them.” The tears were bright in his eyes.

  Father Houlihan was quiet a moment, then he patted Angus’ shoulder. “I should like to know that my friends remember me, and send their greetings to me in the form of prayers, and that God listens to them in my behalf,” he said. “And I cannot but believe that they know, and that God lends us His ear when we pray in love and sorrow.”

  “But we can’t change their fate, which was fixed when they were born,” whispered Angus, obstinately. “And even before they were born. Predestination.”

  Father Houlihan was not one to argue dogma with anyone, and especially not a hurt and suffering child. But he said, his voice ringing warmly and tenderly: “Ah, that would be cruel of God, I would be thinking, to condemn a man from his mother’s womb. I cannot believe that God is less merciful than men. Ah, well,” he added, his tone dropping, and sighing, “it is not for us to know yet, for sure. But we can trust in His eternal kindness and love. That is all we can know.”

  He pressed Angus’ shoulder again, then removed his hand. He smiled brightly. “So, it is a doctor ye’d be, is it? And a fine one, no doubt. Good doctors are born, as priests are born, with their vocation in their souls.”

  Angus was still obstinate, but his resolution was fading. He regarded Father Houlihan with less sternness now, and less shyness. Something warm and sweet was pervading him, something like consolation. Then he remembered that his grandfather had often told him that the servants of Rome were like serpents, insinuating and soft of movement, seeking whom they might devour with seductive words and tender gestures.

  “Thank you, Mr.—” he began, stiffly, then caught Stuart’s hard look upon him. “Reverend,” he amended, through dry lips. The poor lad hoped this would satisfy his mother’s cousin. Priests were reverends, too, weren’t they?

  Father Houlihan beamed at him. “And how would you be liking our America, Angus?”

  “Very well, thank you,” replied Angus, politely. His fingers ached from their tight clutch on his hat. As if he knew, Father Houlihan removed it from the lad’s clutch, and laid it beside Stuart’s on a table. Angus stared at his hat, vaguely affrighted and uncertain, but there was nothing he could do.

  The priest turned to Stuart. “Sam is already here, in the back room, with the shades drawn. You’ll be liking a game, as usual?”

  “What the hell do you think I came for, Grundy?” said Stuart, boisterously. He could feel Angus’ shocked and frightened eyes on him, and he had a momentary impulse to smack the lad heartily and put some sense into him. But he avoided looking at him.

  Father Houlihan hesitated. He glanced at Angus. “And what will the boy be doing while we play?” he murmured.

  Angus tugged at his pocket with trembling fingers. “I always carry my Testament with me on Sunday,” he said, almost incoherently. He produced a small, black-bound book and held it in his small shaking hand, the fingers clutching it as if to protect it.

  “Good, good!” exclaimed Father Houlihan. He hesitated again. Stuart wore an expression of violent patience, and nodded at the priest emphatically. Father Houlihan shrugged. He left the room, Stuart following him, and Angus bringing up the rear with the fearful step of one entering catacombs where all kinds of blasphemous horrors could be found. Father Houlihan fell back a moment. He touched Stuart’s arm. “Ah, the poor, poor child!” he whispered, and there was a plea in his voice.

  They walked down a dark little passage to a door that opened on a very comfortable little sitting-room, crowded, warm and lit with fire. Two dogs rose inquiringly on their entrance, and began to bark a welcome. They were curly black spaniels with impudent faces, and they rushed at the priest and pretended to devour him with love. They then turned their ministrations upon Stuart, who scratched the backs of their necks. Next, they turned, laughing, their tongues lolling, upon Angus, whose pale face had brightened shyly. Recognizing a friend, the dogs fell upon him with squeals of delight. He picked one up in his arms, and began to laugh. That laugh was reluctant and feeble, as if seldom used, but very childish. The dog kissed him heartily, while his mate tried to climb Angus’ leg in an excess of jealousy. Angus struggled with the dog he held, trying to escape the kisses, and trying to retain hold upon the fat and ecstatic little body. He laughed again, eagerly. He looked over the dog’s lively head at Father Houlihan, who was watching with compassionate and smiling intentness. “I’d love a dog!” said Angus, with unaffected longing. “But mama will not have it.”

  There was no strain in his voice now, no wariness.

  He put the dog down, and it joined its mate in attempting to scale Angus’ long thin legs. He looked down at them, loving their liquid and lively eyes. And then he saw that there was someone else in the room now, someone who was rising slowly from behind a small green-baize table near the fire, on which were two decks of cards and a wooden box.

  Angus was startled, and immediately shy and reserved again. This, then, must be Mr. Sam Berkowitz, of whom Stuart had told him. Angus was full of distrust and reticence once more. He had never seen a Jew in his life, and from the stories he had heard of the Hebraic race, he was prepared to see someone closely resembling Fagin, from Mr. Dickens’ famous story.

  But this was no Fagin, the boy observed confusedly. This was a tall, very thin stooped man, with thick and premature white hair and a long gentle face full of wisdom. The eyes looked at Angus with his own shyness and reserve, and faintly smiling. Apparently Mr. Berkowitz had no fashion, for his long dun-colored coat sagged from his thin shoulders, and his pantaloons were wrinkled. He held a pack of cards in his hand, which he absently shuffled.

  “My young cousin, Angus,” said Stuart, carelessly, going to the fire and rubbing his hands. “Angus, this is Mr. Berkowitz.”

  Sam bowed his shoulders slightly, and smiled at the boy. “Good efening,” he said, courteously, in his accented deep voice. He gazed at Angus thoughtfully.

  “Good evening,” muttered Angus. He was again ill at ease, and frightened. But Father Houlihan was bustling at the fire, and had drawn up a chair near the friendly warmth. Angus sat down with a murmured thanks. The dogs fell on him again, and both attempted to jump into his lap. He forgot his fear, and assisted them. They stood on his knees on their hind legs, and kissed him with enthusiasm. He began to smile, hugging them pathetically to him. Father Houlihan went to the table, where Stuart had already seated himself, and took his place. He winked at Stuart. His broad black back shone in the firelight.

  “Well!” he exclaimed, “and who will be winning tonight, do you think?”

  “We, as usual, as we always do on Sundays, you black-guard,” said Stuart, darkly. “There’s a law against card cheats, you know. I could shoot you and be exonerated.” He tapped the wooden box, which had a wide slit in its locked cover. On the side were printed the words: “Poor Box.” “I’d like to know how much you
filch from it after Sam and I are gone.”

  Father Houlihan laughed with a rollicking sound. “Now, then, that’s very bad of you, Stuart. I only open it once a month, for the poor. There were one hundred ninety dollars in it last time,” he hinted, wistfully.

  It was the custom for the friends to come here on Wednesday and Sunday evenings to play cards. But the winner was obliged to put all his winnings into the poor box on Sundays.

  “It’s a funny thing,” observed Stuart, still darkly, as he dexterously shuffled the cards, and began to deal them, “but you have a strange way of winning on Wednesdays, while Sam and I almost invariably win on Sundays. That would be due to your prayers, no doubt?”

  “God always rewards those who help the poor,” said Father Houlihan, with a chuckle. He picked up the five cards that Stuart had dealt him, and sighed. “Now, then, you will accuse me of cheating again, but these cards are remarkably bad.”

  “Oh, of course,” said Stuart, with vicious emphasis. “Not even a little pair, I presume?”

  “Not openers, at any rate,” admitted the priest, laying the cards face down on the table. He looked at Stuart and Sam expectantly.

  “I vill open,” said Sam, tossing two blue chips on the table.

  “Damn it. I will raise you two,” growled Stuart, after Father Houlihan had shaken his head sadly and had thrown aside his cards with an expressive gesture of his hands.

  “It’s up to us two, as usual,” said Stuart. “Grundy’s out of it—as usual.”

  Father Houlihan leaned his black fat arms on the table and watched the betting with sparkling interest. In a moment there were five dollars in chips between the two men. “Three kings,” said Stuart, fatally. Sam raised his eloquent eyebrows, smiled, shrugged, and shook his head. “You haf me beat, Stuart,” he admitted.