by A. J. Cronin
‘You see all that is left of it.’
‘But this mess … You reported a splendid establishment.’
‘We have had some reverses.’ Francis spoke quietly.
‘Why, really, it’s incomprehensible … most disturbing.’
Francis intervened with a hospitable smile. ‘When you have had a hot bath and a change I will tell you.’
An hour later, pink from his tub, in a new tussore suit, Anselm sat stirring his hot soup, with an aggrieved expression.
‘I must confess this the greatest disappointment of my life … to come here, to the very outposts …’ He took a mouthful of soup meeting the spoon with plump, pursed lips. He had filled out in these last years. He was big now, full-shouldered and stately, still smooth-skinned and clear-eyed, with big palps of hands, hearty or pontifical at will. ‘I had set my heart on celebrating high mass in your church, Francis. These foundations must have been badly laid.’
‘It is a wonder they were laid at all.’
‘Nonsense! You’ve had lots of time to establish yourself. What in heaven’s name am I to tell them at home.’ He laughed shortly, dolefully. ‘I even promised a lecture at London Headquarters of the FMS – “ St Andrew’s: or God in Darkest China.” I’d brought my quarterplate Zeiss to get lantern slides. It places me … all of us … in a most awkward position.’
There was silence.
‘Of course I know you’ve had your difficulties,’ Mealey continued between annoyance and compunction. ‘ But who hasn’t? I assure you we’ve had ours. Especially lately since we merged the two divisions … after Bishop MacNabb’s death!’
Father Chisholm stiffened, as in pain.
‘He’s dead?’
‘Yes, yes, the old man went at last. Pneumonia – this March. He was past his best, very muddled and queer, quite a relief to all of us when he went, very peacefully. The coadjutor, Biship Tarrant, succeeded him. A great success.’
Again a silence fell. Father Chisholm raised his hand to shield his eyes. Rusty Mac gone … A rush of unbearable recollection swept him: that day by the Stinchar, the glorious salmon, those kind wise peering eyes and the warmth of them when he was worried at Holywell; the quiet voice in the study at Tynecastle before he sailed, ‘Keep fighting, Francis, for God and good old Scotland.’
Anselm was reflecting, with friendly generosity: ‘Well, well! We must face things. I suppose. Now that I’m here I’ll do my best to get things straight for you. I’ve a great deal of organizing experience. It may interest you; some day, to hear how I have put the Society on its feet. In my personal appeals, delivered in London, Liverpool and Tynecastle, I raised thirty thousand pounds – and that is only the beginning.’ He showed his sound teeth in a competent smile. ‘Don’t be depressed, my dear fellow. I’m not unduly censorious … the first thing we’ll do is have Reverend Mother over to lunch – she seems an able woman – and have a real round-table parochial conference!’
With an effort Francis pulled himself back from the dear forgotten days. ‘Reverend Mother doesn’t care to take her meals outside the Sisters’ house.’
‘You haven’t asked her properly.’ Mealey gazed at the other’s spare figure with a hearty, pitying kindliness. ‘ Poor Francis! I’d hardly expect you to understand women. She’ll come all right … just leave it to me!’
On the following day, Maria-Veronica did, in fact, present herself for lunch. Anselm was in high spirits after an excellent night’s rest and an energetic morning of inspection. Still benevolent from his visit to the schoolroom, he greeted the Reverend Mother, though he had parted from her only five minutes before, with effusive dignity.
‘This, Reverend Mother, is indeed an honour. A glass of sherry? No? I assure you it is fine – pale Amontillado. A little travelled perhaps,’ he beamed, ‘since it came with me from home. Coddlesome, maybe … but a palate, acquired in Spain, is hard to deny.’
They sat down at table.
‘Now Francis, what are you giving us? No Chinese mysteries, I trust, no birds’-nest soup or purée of chopsticks. Ha! Ha!’ Mealey laughed heartily as he helped himself to boiled chicken. ‘ Though I must confess I am somewhat enamoured of the Oriental cuisine. Coming over on the boat – a stormy passage, incidentally; for four days no one appeared at the skipper’s table but your humble servant – we were served with a quite delicious Chinese dish, chow mein.’
Mother Maria-Veronica raised her eyes from the tablecloth. ‘Is chow mein a Chinese dish? Or an American edition of the Chinese custom of collecting scraps?’
He stared at her, mouth slightly agape. ‘My dear Reverend Mother! Chow mein! Why …’ He glanced at Francis for support, found none, and laughed again. ‘At any rate, I assure you, I chewed mine! Ha! Ha!’
Swinging round, for better access to the dish of salad which Joseph was presenting, he ran on: ‘ Food apart, the lure of the Orient is immensely fascinating! We Occidentals are apt to condemn the Chinese as a greatly inferior race. Now I for one will shake hands with any Chinaman, providing he believes in God and …’ he bubbled … ‘carbolic soap!’
Father Chisholm shot a quick glance at Joseph’s face, which, though expressionless, showed a faint tightening of the nostrils.
‘And now,’ Mealey paused suddenly, his manner dropping to pontifical solemnity. ‘We have important business on our agenda. As a boy, Reverend Mother, our good mission father was always leading me into scrapes. Now it’s my task to get him out of this one!’
Nothing definite emerged from the conference. Except, perhaps, a modest summary of Anselm’s achievements at home.
Free of the limitations of a parish, he had set himself wholeheartedly to work for the missions, mindful that the Holy Father was especially devoted to the Propagation of the Faith and eager to encourage the workers who so selflessly espoused his favourite cause.
It had not been long before he won recognition. He began to move about the country, to preach sermons of impassioned eloquence in the great English cities. Through his genius for collecting friends, no contact of any consequence was ever thrown away. On his return from Manchester, or Birmingham, he would sit down and write a score of charming letters, thanking this person for a delightful lunch, the next for a generous donation to the Foreign Mission Fund. Soon his correspondence was voluminous, and employed a whole-time secretary.
Presently, London acknowledged him as a distinguished visitor. His debut, in the pulpit of Westminster, was spectacular. Women had always idolized him. Now he was adopted by the wealthy coterie of Cathedral spinsters who collected cats and clergymen in their rich mansions south of the Park. His manners had always been engaging. That same year he became a country member of the Athenaeum. And the sudden engorgement of the FM moneybags evoked a most gracious token of appreciation, direct from Rome.
When he became the youngest canon in the Northern Diocese, few grudged him his success. Even the cynics who traced his exuberant rise to an overactive thyroid gland admitted his business acumen. For all his gush he was no fool. He had a level head for figures and could manage money. In five years he had founded two fresh missions in Japan and a native seminary in Nankin. The new FMS offices in Tynecastle were imposing, efficient and completely free of debt.
In brief, Anselm had made a fine thing of his life. With Bishop Tarrant at his elbow there was every chance that his most admirable work would continue to expand.
Two days after his official meeting with Francis and Reverend Mother, the rain ceased and a watery sun sent pale feelers towards the forgotten earth. Mealey’s spirits bounded. He joked to Francis.
‘I’ve brought fine weather with me. Some people follow the sun around. But the sun follows me.’
He unlimbered his camera and began to take countless photographs. His energy was tremendous. He bounded out of bed in the morning shouting ‘ Boy! Boy!’ for Joseph to get his bath. He said mass in the schoolroom. After a hearty breakfast he departed in his solar topee, a stout stick in hand, the camera swinging on his hip.
He made many excursions, even poking discreetly for souvenirs amongst the ashes of Pai-tan’s plague-spots. At each scene of blackened desolation he murmured reverently. ‘The hand of God!’ He would stop suddenly at a city gate, arresting his companion with a dramatic gesture. ‘Wait! I must get this one. The light is perfect.’
On Sunday, he came into lunch greatly elated. ‘It’s just struck me, I can still give that lecture. Treat it from the angle of Dangers and Difficulties in the Mission Field. Work in the plague and the flood. This morning I got a glorious view of the ruins of the church. What a slide it will make, titled “ God chastiseth His Own”! Isn’t that magnificent?’
But on the eve of his departure Anselm’s manner altered and his tone, as he sat with the mission priest on the balcony after supper, was grave.
‘I have to thank you for extending hospitality to a wanderer, Francis. But I am not happy about you. I can’t see how you are going to rebuild the church. The Society cannot let you have the money.’
‘I haven’t asked for it.’ The strain of the past two weeks was beginning to tell on Francis, his stern self-discipline was wearing thin.
Mealey threw his companion a sharp glance. ‘If only you had been more successful with some of the better-class Chinese, the rich merchants. If only your friend Mr Chia had seen the light.’
‘He hasn’t.’ Father Chisholm spoke with unusual shortness. ‘And he has given munificently. I shall not ask him for another tael.’
Anselm shrugged his shoulder, annoyed. ‘Of course that’s your affair. But I must tell you, frankly, I’m sadly disappointed in your conduct of this mission. Take your convert rate. It doesn’t compare with our other statistics. We run them as a graph at headquarters, and you’re the lowest in the whole chart.’
Father Chisholm gazed straight ahead, his lips firmly compressed. He answered with unusual irony; ‘I suppose missionaries differ in their individual capabilities.’
‘And in their enthusiasm.’ Anselm, sensitive to satire, was now justly incensed. ‘Why do you persist in refusing to employ catechists? It’s the universal custom. If you had even three active men, at forty taels a month, why, one thousand baptisms would only cost you fifteen hundred Chinese dollars!’
Francis did not answer. He was praying desperately that he might control his temper, suffer this humiliation as something he deserved.
‘You’re not getting behind your work here,’ Mealey went on. ‘You live, personally, in such poor style. You ought to impress the natives, keep a chair, servants, make more of a show.’
‘You are mistaken.’ Francis spoke steadily. ‘ The Chinese hate ostentation. They call it ti-mien. And priests who practise it are regarded as dishonourable.’
Anselm flushed angrily. ‘You’re referring to their own low heathen priests, I presume.’
‘Does it matter?’ Father Chisholm smiled palely. ‘Many of these priests are good and noble men.’
There was a strained silence. Anselm drew his coat about him with a shocked finality.
‘After that, of course, there is nothing to be said, I must confess your attitude pains me deeply. Even Reverend Mother is embarrassed by it. Ever since I arrived it has been plain how much she is at variance with you.’ He got up and went into his own room.
Francis remained a long time in the gathering mist. That last remark had cut him worst of all: the stab of a premonition confirmed. Now he had no doubt that Maria-Veronica had submitted her request to be transferred.
Next morning Canon Mealey took his departure. He was returning to Nankin to spend a week at the Vicariate and would go from there to Nagasaki to inspect six missions in Japan. His bags were packed, a chair waited to bear him to the junk, he had taken his farewells of the Sisters and the children. Now, dressed for the journey, wearing sunglasses, his topee draped with green gauze, he stood in final conversation with Father Chisholm in the hall.
‘Well, Francis!’ Mealey extended his hand in grudging forgiveness. ‘We must part friends. The gift of tongues is not given to all of us. I suppose you are a well-meaning fellow at heart.’ He threw out his chest. ‘ Strange! I’m itching to be off. I have travel in my blood. Good-bye. Au revoir. Auf Wiedersehen. And last but not least – God bless you!’
Dropping the mosquito veil he stepped into his chair. The runners groaningly bent their shoulders, supported him and shuffled off. At the sagging mission gates he leaned through the window of the chair, fluttered his white handkerchief in farewell.
At sundown, when he took his evening walk, his beloved hour of stealing twilight and far-off echoing stillness, Father Chisholm found himself meditating, amongst the débris of the church. He seated himself upon a lump of rubble, thinking of his old Headmaster – somehow he always saw Rusty Mac with schoolboy’s eyes – and of his exhortation to courage. There was little courage in him now. These last two weeks, the perpetual effort to sustain his visitor’s patronizing tone, had left him void. Yet perhaps Anselm was justified. Was he not a failure, in God’s sight and in man’s? He had done so little. And that little, so laboured and inadequate, was almost undone. How was he to proceed? A weary hopelessness of spirit took hold of him.
Resting there, with bent head, he did not hear a footstep behind him. Mother Maria-Veronica was compelled to make her presence known to him.
‘Am I disturbing you?’
He glanced up, quite startled. ‘ No . . no. As you observe,’ – he could not suppress a wincing smile, – ‘I am doing nothing.’
There was a pause. In the indistinctness her face had a swimming pallor. He could not see the nerve twitching in her cheek yet he sensed in her figure a strange rigidity.
Her voice was colourless. ‘I have something to say to you. I –’
‘Yes?’
‘This is no doubt humiliating for you. But I am obliged to tell you. I – I am sorry.’ The words, torn from her, gained momentum, then came in a tumbled flood. ‘ I am most bitterly and grievously sorry for my conduct towards you. From our first meeting I have behaved shamefully, sinfully. The devil of pride was in me. It’s always been in me, ever since I was a little child and flung things at my nurse’s head. I have known now for weeks that I wanted to come to you … to tell you … but my pride, my stubborn malice restrained me. These past ten days, in my heart, I have wept for you … the slights and humiliations you have endured from that gross and worldly priest, who is unworthy to untie your shoe. Father, I hate myself – forgive me, forgive me …’ Her voice was lost, she crouched, sobbing into her hands, before him.
The sky was strained of all colour, except the greenish afterglow behind the peaks. This faded swiftly and the kind dusk enfolded her. An interval of time, in which a single tear fell upon her cheek …
‘So now you will not leave the mission?’
‘No, no …’ Her heart was breaking. ‘If you will let me stay. I have never known anyone whom I wished so much to serve … Yours is the best … the finest spirit I have ever known.’
‘Hush, my child. I am a poor and insignificant creature … you were right … a common man …’
‘Father, pity me.’ Her sobs went choking into the earth.
‘And you are a great lady. But in God’s sight we are both of us children. If we may work together … help each other …’
‘I will help with all my power. One thing at least I can do. It is so easy to write to my brother. He will rebuild the church … restore the mission. He has great possessions, he will do it gladly. If only you will help me … help me to defeat my pride.’
There was a long silence. She sobbed more softly. A great warmth filled his heart. He took her arm to raise her but she would not rise. So he knelt beside her and gazed, without praying, into the pure and peaceful night where, across the ages, amongst the shadows of a garden, another poor and common man also knelt and watched them both.
VII
One sunny forenoon in the year 1912 Father Chisholm was separating beeswax from his season’s yield of honey.
His workshop, built in Bavarian style, at the end of the kitchen garden – trim, practical, with a pedal lathe and tools neatly racked, as much a source of delight to him as on the day Mother Maria-Veronica had handed him the key – was sweet with the fume of melted sugar. A great bowl of cool yellow honey stood among fresh shavings upon the floor. On the bench, setting, was the flat copper pan of tawny wax from which, tomorrow, he would make his candles. And such candles – smooth-burning and sweet-scented; even in St Peter’s one would not find the like!
With a sigh of contentment, he wiped his brow, his short fingernails blobbed with the rich wax. Then, shouldering the big honey jar, he pulled the door behind him and set off through the mission grounds. He was happy. Waking in the morning with the starlings chattering in the eaves, and the coolness of the dawn still dewed upon the grass, his second thought was that there could be no greater happiness than to work – much with his hands, a little with his head, but mostly with his heart – and to live, simply, like this, close to the earth which, to him, never seemed far from heaven.
The province was prospering and the people, forgetting flood, pestilence and famine, were at peace. In the five years which had elapsed since its reconstruction, through the generosity of Count Ernst von Hohenlohe, the mission had flourished in a quiet fashion. The church was bigger, stouter than the first. He had built it solidly, with grim compunction, using neither plaster nor stucco, after the monastic model which Queen Margaret had introduced to Scotland centuries before. Classic and severe, with a simple bell-tower, and aisles supported by groined arches, its plainness grew on him until he preferred it to the other. And it was safe.
The school had been enlarged, a new children’s home added to the building. And the purchase of the two adjoining irrigated fields provided a model home farm with pigpen, byre, and a chicken run down which Martha stalked, thin-shanked, in wooden shoes and kilted habit, casting corn and clucking joyously in Flemish.
Now his congregation comprised two hundred faithful souls, not one of whom knelt under duress before the altar. The orphanage had trebled in size and was beginning to bear the first fruits of his patient foresight. The older girls helped the Sisters with the little ones, some were already novices, others would soon be going into the world. Why, last Christmas he had married the eldest, at nineteen, to a young farmer from the Liu village. He smiled ruefully at the implications of his cunning. At his recent pastoral visit to Liu – a happy and successful expedition from which he had returned only last week – the young wife had hung her head and told him he must return presently to perform another baptism.