by Morris West
MORRIS LANGLO WEST was born in St Kilda, Melbourne, in 1916. At the age of fourteen, he entered the Christian Brothers seminary ‘as a kind of refuge’ from a difficult childhood. He attended the University of Melbourne and worked as a teacher. In 1941 he left the Christian Brothers without taking final vows. During World War II West worked as a code breaker, and for a time he was private secretary to former prime minister Billy Hughes.
After the war, West became a successful writer and producer of radio serials. In 1955 he left Australia to build an international career as a writer and lived with his family in Austria, Italy, England and the USA. West also worked for a time as the Vatican correspondent for the British newspaper, the Daily Mail. He returned to Australia in 1982.
Morris West wrote 30 books and many plays, and several of his novels were adapted for film. His books were published in 28 languages and sold more than 70 million copies worldwide. Each new book he wrote after he became an established writer sold more than one million copies.
West received many awards and accolades over his long writing career, including the James Tait Black Memorial Prize and the W.H. Heinemann Award of the Royal Society of Literature for The Devil’s Advocate. In 1978 he was elected a fellow of the World Academy of Art and Science. He was appointed a Member of the Order of Australia (AM) in 1985, and was made an Officer of the Order (AO) in 1997.
Morris West died at his desk in 1999.
THE MORRIS WEST COLLECTION
FICTION
Moon in My Pocket (1945, as Julian Morris)
Gallows on the Sand (1956)
Kundu (1957)
The Big Story (US title: The Crooked Road) (1957)
The Concubine (US title: McCreary Moves In) (1958)
The Second Victory (US title: Backlash) (1958)
The Devil’s Advocate (1959)
The Naked Country (1960)
Daughter of Silence (1961)
The Shoes of the Fisherman (1963)
The Ambassador (1965)
The Tower of Babel (1968)
Summer of the Red Wolf (1971)
The Salamander (1973)
Harlequin (1974)
The Navigator (1976)
Proteus (1979)
The Clowns of God (1981)
The World is Made of Glass (1983)
Cassidy (1986)
Masterclass (1988)
Lazarus (1990)
The Ringmaster (1991)
The Lovers (1993)
Vanishing Point (1996)
Eminence (1998)
The Last Confession (2000, published posthumously)
PLAYS
The Illusionists (1955)
The Devil’s Advocate (1961)
Daughter of Silence (1962)
The Heretic (1969)
The World is Made of Glass (1982)
NON-FICTION
Children of the Sun (US title: Children of the Shadows) (1957)
Scandal in the Assembly (1970, with Richard Frances)
A View from the Ridge (1996, autobiography)
Images and Inscriptions (1997, selected by Beryl Barraclough)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Terms used in the text do not always reflect current usage.
This edition published by Allen & Unwin in 2017
First published in Great Britain in 1990 by William Heinemann Ltd
Copyright © The Morris West Collection 1990
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
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For Joy with love,
the best of the summer wine
‘I’ve always wondered about Lazarus.
He had walked through the gates of death.
He had seen what was on the other side.
Did he want to return to life?
Did he thank Jesus for bringing him back?
What kind of man was he afterwards?
How did the world look to him?
How did he look to the world?’
Leo XIV Pont. Max.
Conversations
CONTENTS
Book 1 Lazarus Aegrotus
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Book 2 Lazarus Redivivusa
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Book 3 Lazarus Militansa
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Book 4 Lazarus Revocatusa
Fifteen
Epilogue
Book 1
Lazarus Aegrotus
‘There was a man called Lazarus
of Bethany, who had fallen sick …
When Jesus arrived, he found Lazarus
had been four days in the grave.’
John xi: I, 17
One
He was a high man and a hard one. His great beak and his jutting jaw and his dark obsidian eyes gave him the look of an old eagle, imperious and hostile. Yet, faced with the evidence of his own mortality, he felt, suddenly, small and ridiculous.
The surgeon, his junior by a quarter of a century, stood beside the desk, drew a sketch on a sheet of crested notepaper and explained it briskly.
‘These are the two arteries on the left side of your heart. They are almost blocked with plaque, which is, in effect, the detritus from your blood stream. It builds up on the walls of the arteries, like scale on a water-pipe. The angiogram which we did yesterday shows that you have about five per cent of normal blood flow on the left side. That’s the reason for the chest pains, the shortness of breath, the drowsiness and fatigue you have experienced lately. The next thing that will happen is this …’ He sketched a dark globule with an arrow indicating the direction of its flow. ‘A small blood clot travels along the artery. It lodges here, in the narrowed section. The artery is blocked. You have the classic heart attack. You die.’
‘And the risk of that happening … ?’
‘It’s not a risk. It’s an inevitable event. It can happen any day. Any night. Even now as we talk.’ He gave a small, humourless laugh. ‘To the pilgrims in St Peter’s Square, you’re Leo XIV, Vicar of Christ, Supreme Pontiff. To me, you’re a walking time-bomb. The sooner I can defuse you, the better.’
‘Are you sure you can?’
‘At a purely clinical level, yes. We do a double bypass, replacing the blocked arteries with a vein taken from your leg. It’s a simple plumbing job – the success rate is better than ninety per cent.’
‘And how much life does that give me?’
‘Five years. Ten. More perhaps. It depends on how you behave yo
urself after the operation.’
‘And what precisely does that mean?’ His Holiness was notoriously short-tempered. The surgeon remained calm and good-humoured.
‘It means you’ve been damaging your body for years. You’re at least fifteen kilos overweight. You eat enough for a peasant farmer. You’ve got gout. Your blood uric acid is abnormally high, but you still drink red wine and eat spices and high-purin foods. The only exercise you get is when you pace up and down reading your breviary. The rest of your life is spent at this desk or ambling through long rituals in clouds of incense, or being whisked around in automobiles and aircraft … Unless you make drastic changes in your lifestyle, all my skill will be wasted. Osservatore Romano will record that you died in the odour of sanctity. In fact, you’ll have died of self-abuse.’
‘You’re impertinent, doctor!’
‘I’m telling you a necessary truth. Unless you heed me, you’ll be carried out of here in a box.’
There was a sudden anger in the hooded eyes. He looked like a predator ready to strike. Then, as swiftly as it had come, the anger died. His eyes became dull, his voice weary and querulous.
‘You said a moment ago, “At a purely clinical level it’s a simple plumbing job …’’ Does that imply certain reservations?’
‘Reservations, no. Caveats, counsels for the patient, yes.’
‘Will you explain them to me, please?’
‘Very well. The risk factor first. I put it at ten per cent. I hold to that. The nature of the risk? Sudden collapse, a stroke, a pericardial infection. It’s like driving a car or stepping into an aircraft. You accept it and forget it. In your case, I imagine, you leave it to God to dispose the outcome.’
‘Not quite.’ A ghost of a smile twitched at the corners of the grim mouth. ‘I have to leave certain directives. The first is that, if a collapse occurs, you terminate the procedure and let me die. The second is that if I am brain-damaged, I be not placed on any life-support system. Neither you nor I are obliged to the officious prolongation of a vegetable life. You will receive this directive in writing over my signature and seal. What next?’
‘The sequelae – the consequences, short and long term, of the surgical procedures. It is very important that you understand them, think about them, talk about them freely. You must not – and I cannot emphasise this too strongly – try to cope with them by repression, by converting them into some kind of mystical, expiatory experience: a dark night of the soul, a stigma of the spirit …’ He shrugged and grinned disarmingly. ‘Somehow I don’t think you’re the kind of man who would do that. You might, on the other hand, be tempted to bear them in proud, dignified silence. That would be a grave mistake.’
The old man’s answer was barbed.
‘You have not yet told me what I am expected to bear.’
‘I am not talking about pain. That is a controllable factor. You will be unconscious for at least forty-eight hours, perfused with potent anaesthetics. You will continue to be fed opiates and analgesics until the discomforts are within tolerable limits. However, you will suffer something else: a psychic trauma, a personality change whose dimensions still elude full explanation. You will be emotionally fragile – as prone to tears as to rage. You will be subject to depressions, sudden, black and sometimes suicidal. At one moment you will be as dependent as a child, seeking reassurance after a nightmare. The next you will be angry and frustrated by your own impotence. Your short-term memory may be defective. Your tolerance of emotional stress will be greatly reduced. You will be strongly advised by the counsellors who will be working with you not to make any important decisions, emotional, intellectual or administrative, for at least three months … Most of these sequelae will pass. Some will remain, diminished but always present in your psychic life. The better your physical condition, the less will be your emotional handicap. So, after the first period of convalescence, you will be put on a rigid diet to lose fifteen or twenty kilograms. You will be required to do daily exercise on a graduated scale. And if you fail to do either of those things your psychic handicap will continue and your physical condition will deteriorate rapidly. In short, the whole exercise will be a painful futility. I’m sorry to make such a huge mouthful of this, but it is absolutely necessary that you understand it. Believe me, I do not exaggerate.’
‘I believe you. I’d be a fool if I didn’t.’
The old man seemed suddenly to withdraw into himself. His eyes became dull and expressionless as if a membrane had been drawn over them. The surgeon waited in silence until the words began to flow again.
‘You raise, of course, the ultimate question: whether I shall be competent to resume the duties of my office.’
‘True. And you will not be the only one to ask it. Your brethren in the Sacred College will have access to the same clinical information as I have just given you.’
For the first time, the grim mouth relaxed into a smile of genuine humour. The dull eyes lit up and the Vicar of Christ pronounced a private heresy.
‘God is a practical joker, my friend. I’ve always known it.’
The surgeon waited for an explanation of the proposition. None came. Instead, the Pontiff asked: ‘How long can I wait before the operation?’
‘No time at all. I want you delivered to my clinic before midday tomorrow.’
‘Why your clinic? Why not Gemelli or Salvator Mundi?’
‘Because I work only with my own team in conditions I can guarantee. I control the post-operative and convalescent procedures. Your physician will tell you I’m the best in Italy. But once you put yourself in my care there’s a contract in force. You do as you’re told, or I wash my hands of you.’
‘Before I commit to such a contract I’d like a second opinion.’
‘You already have a second, and a third. Morrison from London, Haefliger from New York. Both have seen computer-enhanced images of the X-rays. They agree with my diagnosis and the surgical procedures. Morrison will fly in from London to assist at the operation.’
‘And who, pray, authorised that little démarche?’
The surgeon shrugged and smiled.
‘The Dean of the College of Cardinals. Your brother bishops thought they needed an insurance policy.’
‘I don’t doubt it!’ The Pontiff gave a short, barking laugh. ‘Some of them would be happy to see me dead; but they daren’t risk losing another pontiff under suspicious circumstances!’
‘Which brings me to my last counsel. I wish I could make it an order, but I cannot … Do not spend your convalescence at the Vatican or even at Castel Gandolfo. Take a month, at least, to be a private person. Lodge with friends or family; communicate only with your closest executives in Rome. Summer is coming. You will not be missed too much – believe me. All the faithful need to know is that you’re alive and in office. One brief appearance and two communiqués should do the trick.’
‘You presume, young man! This is my home. My household is the only family I have. Why should I not recuperate here?’
‘Two reasons: first, the air in Rome is polluted beyond belief. It will exacerbate any respiratory problems you may have after the surgery. The second is the more important: your own house, like it or not, will also be your battleground. Your competence will be on trial every day. Your every weakness will be gossiped abroad. You will know that. You will expect it. You will put yourself in a combat stance to defend yourself. Result? Stress, hypertension, anxiety; all the things we try to avoid after cardiac surgery. If that is presumption, I beg your pardon. Your Holiness has a reputation for obstinacy and brusqueness. My prime duty under the Hippocratic oath is to keep you from harm – primum non nocere. So I would rather be presumptuous than delinquent. But the decision is yours. Do we have a contract?’
‘We do.’
‘Good. I shall expect you at midday tomorrow. You will have a day and a half of preparation and premedication. You will meet and talk with the principal members of the team. We will operate on Wednesday morning at seven o’clock … Tru
st me, Holiness! Today you’re in the shadow of death. A week from now you’ll be like Lazarus walking out of the tomb and blinking in the sunlight.’
‘I’ve always wondered about Lazarus.’ The old man leaned back in his chair and smiled sardonically at the surgeon. ‘He had walked through the gates of death. He had seen what was on the other side. Did he want to return to life? Did he thank Jesus for bringing him back? What kind of a man was he afterwards? How did the world look to him? How did he look to the world?’
‘Maybe,’ – the surgeon smiled and spread his hands in deprecation – ‘maybe that should be Your Holiness’s first discourse after his recovery!’
The brief dialogue had shocked him to the core of his being. Suddenly he was bereft of everything that had sustained him: magisterium, auctoritas, potestas; the office, the authority, the power to use them both. He was a man under sentence of death. Even the instrument of execution was specified: a small plug of clotted blood, sealing off the life-flow to his heart. Reprieve was offered; but he had to take it from the hands of an arrogant fellow, on his own confession a mere plumber, who presumed to lecture the Vicar of Christ because he was too fat, too self-indulgent and ate like a peasant farmer.
Why should he be ashamed? He was a peasant, born Ludovico Gadda, only child of share-croppers from the outskirts of Mirandola, an antique principality near Ferrara. At twelve years old he was spending his mornings at school, his afternoons doing a man’s work, herding the cattle and the goats, digging the vegetable plots, raking and piling the dung that would be used for fertiliser. One day his father dropped dead behind his plough. His mother sold out his share-cropper’s rights, took service as housekeeper to a local landowner and set about educating her son to a better life.
Already his mathematics were sound and he could read any book that came his way, because Mama, who had once hoped to be a teacher, had sat with him by lamplight in the long, dark country winters and drummed into him the education she had never been able to use. Knowledge, she insisted, was the key to freedom and prosperity. Ignorance was a slave’s brand on the forehead. She sent him first to the Salesians, old-fashioned pedagogues, who terrified him out of his pubescent lusts with tales of hell-fire and horrible plagues visited on the promiscuous. They crammed him with Latin and Greek and mathematics, a whole dictionary of dogmatic definitions and moral precepts, not to mention twenty centuries of the expurgated history of The Church Triumphal. They also inserted, like a bead in an oyster, the notion of ‘vocation’ – a special call to a special soul to a special life of service to God. From such a forcing-house of piety it was a short and easy step to the seminary as a candidate for the priesthood in the Archdiocese of Ferrara.