by George Moore
It must be the devil, he said, as he walked home thinking what he could do to save her soul; and if, said he, his thoughts taking a sudden turn, I were a bit of a carpenter I might make something with a pulley that would let the head nod at her when she’s on her knees asking for a sign; a nod of the head is all that’s wanted to save her soul. But bad luck to it, for I am an unhandy man, said the saint — for he was a saint, or a sort of a saint, your honour, though a sinner into the bargain. I’m no good at carpentering; there isn’t one in the town of Westport that could learn me in a year what the little boy playing among the shavings knows already. So I needn’t be getting a pain in my head thinking about pulleys and the like. I’ll get another thought soon, and a better one. Nor was he long waiting for a second thought; in five minutes, neither more nor less, he had it, and it frightening the life out of him — the queerest thought that ever came into a man’s head, one that left him without a prayer to throw at the devil. Let me at all events be pulling myself into a shape of prayer, he said, and if the thought isn’t driven off while I’m down on the knees, I’ll know for certain it was sent to me by the Lord Jesus — for what he was thinking was that he had just the figure for the deed.
It is as like as not, he thought, his hair was as black as mine, he being from the country of the Jews, but they always paint him with fair hair. But maybe she’ll be too deep in her prayers to take much notice of the colour of my hair, if any colour be showing. As soon as she lifts her eyes to me I’ll give a nod of the head to her from above and she’ll get enough faith out of that nod to last her till she’s called up before the throne of God. But if she comes kissing my feet and begging me to come down to her it will be the great temptation I shall be overcoming, getting thereby a higher place in paradise than them gone before me; for a chance like this one it was well worth my while to have come out of the wilderness.
The priest’s thoughts broke off suddenly, and after one or two more turns up and down his garden he went back to the house with the fear on him that Jesus might not be wishing his cross interfered with. How do I know that it isn’t Satan is tempting me? he asked, and going to the holy-water stoop he splashed nearly all the water in it about him. But aren’t I the fool? said he; for why should the devil be prompting me to save a soul and he wanting as many as he can get hold of? It is God himself is putting this thought into my head, relying on me to outdo the devil, who has a mighty big wish on him at present to get Sister Ligach’s soul, one of the beautifulest that ever looked out of a human face. A great prize she’d be to him, surely. The face of a saint if there be one walking about on two legs in holy Ireland. But if I lose my soul in the saving of hers! cried Moling. But it is the old boy himself that is putting that fear into my head, for whoever lost his soul while at the work of robbing the devil of a soul he set his heart on? I’ll lead her out of the chapel quietly, and bid her tell no one. Risks there are, he said a few minutes after, in every hour of life, but a holier one than mine, which is to rob the devil, I don’t know of. Now can anybody tell me it won’t be Jesus himself that will be thanking me for the robbing on the day of judgment.... But I’m bet after all — how will I fix myself up on the cross? The image is nailed there — nails in the hands and the feet; but my feet aren’t made of wood, and must have a support; and for my hands I must have two rings of rope, and Moling, not being much of a handy man, as I’ve said, spent many hours more than another would have done making them rings.
At last they were twisted and hidden away in the chapel, where he was himself at half-past ten, removing our Lord from his cross and fixing himself up in his place, which he had just time to do before Ligach came in to her devotions; and he might have dropped down from the cross so great was his fear that she might see the loincloth was missing from his body, for he’d forgotten it in his hurry, and, says he to himself, if Ligach wasn’t innocent of the difference in the make of a man and a woman, I’d be fairly caught. But he was safe enough, Ligach having no thought but for him that is in heaven. Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ on my right, Christ on my left, Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ when I arise. Thou’lt not deny me a sign, said she, lifting her eyes to the cross; it will increase my faith in thee till thou shalt be in him that sees me, in him that I see, in him that speaks to me, in him that I am speaking to, in him that I hear and in him that hears me. And seeing and hearing naught but thee, so would I live and die aloof from all else, from the world. Dear God, I would be unto thee on earth as I shall be in heaven. A sign, a sign of thy love of me. A sign that will save me from the temptation of thinking that the devil would answer me if I were to pray to him.
On hearing them terrible words the priest took such a fright that he slipped his hands out of the ropes and came down to her, sure and certain that he’d be able to quiet her. But while he was telling her of the great meeting it would be for them both up in heaven, she kept saying: am not I up in heaven now? the sparks flying out of her eyes all the time as you might see them in Jimmy Kilcoin’s forge when he pulls at the bellows. Am not! Christ’s bride? she kept calling to the poor man, trying his best to get to the holy water; and if he’d got there ’tis a different story I’d be telling, but the senses failed on him, and he no more than a yard off the stoop, and when they came back the nun was beside him in a faint so deadly that he mistook it for her death. It’s a poor thing to be tempted like this, surely, says he; but no more than a venial sin can it be, for ’tis the intention that counts. But I must be attending to her, and it took a lot of sprinkling and calling into her ears that she must obey him before her lips opened and she muttered: thy will be done, Lord. Open your eyes, Ligach, said he; and she opened them, but only to see what she was minded to see, and, led to the door of the chapel, she heard him say: what has fallen out this night must be kept to yourself. One word of it to anybody and the sign that you got to-night will lose its power, and the blessing will be changed into a curse altogether. Return to your cell, Ligach, and close the door behind you.
And no sooner was she out of the chapel than the priest put the image back and made off with himself in the great fright of his life, as well it might be, for by dint of what had passed he didn’t seem to know himself rightly at all; his thoughts were all astray, and he couldn’t get them together in his poor head. At one moment he was thinking that he had planned the lot from the beginning, and the next that if he hadn’t got down off the cross and made her his bride she would have come to her right reason and found out what a trick he was working on her. Her faith would have gone for good and all, he cried out, and instead of saving a soul I’d have well damned one for ever. As soon as she came to kiss my feet, I was bound to come down. But the rest? All right from her side, but maybe my soul is lost.
But it is the intention that counts; and all night he was asking Jesus if a sin committed with a good intention could be a sin. The sins of the flesh, he began again, are small ones compared with the sins of the spirit; her sin was of the spirit, mine was of the flesh. The flesh has redeemed the spirit, a thing which doesn’t often happen, for it is usually the spirit that redeems the flesh. But in this world things often fall out contrary-like.
She won’t tell anybody, not even myself, he murmured; she will keep her sin dark; but there was no sin on her side, only on mine, and on mine but a venial sin, if my intention was to save a soul, which it was, and a man should be judged by his intentions, so it is said.
CHAPTER 28.
BEFORE LONG IT seemed to the nuns that Moling hurried them up in their confessions; they missed the bits of kindly reproof, and left him wondering, saying: his mind is off; our sins don’t seem to matter to him. It’s your turn now, Ligach; and seeing a light on her face that made them think of the sun shining on the sea, they said: what’s wrong with Ligach this time?
Father, she said, dropping on her knees, a sign has been given to me, and a greater one than I hoped for, and, the nun went on: h
e came down from his cross and took me in his arms. But no sooner were the words across her lips than a great fear and a great fright came over her. Oh, but I’ve been told not to speak of all this; he put a bond on me, and I’ve broken the bond. It would have been broken, the priest answered, if you’d spoken to anybody but myself. Every secret is safe with me. Don’t you know the seal of the confession has never yet been broken and never will be? But, Father, a bond was put upon me never to reveal what passed between us by himself at the door of the chapel. Am I not the representative of Christ on earth? Moling asked, and when you tell me what happened between you, you’re telling it to himself. Haven’t I the power to bid him come down from heaven into the bread and wine? Must he not obey me? I know that, said Ligach, I know it well. And don’t I absolve sins that are committed. ’Tis true for you, said the nun. But it is hard to tell.
He came down from his cross, and he took me in his arms, and made me his bride in life as he will afterwards in heaven. ’Tis a great honour he did to you, surely. It is that, she replied, and one that I wouldn’t have dared to think of if it hadn’t happened to me, but it is just as I told it to your Reverence, just as I told it, and no way else. But not a word out of you about this, cried the priest. I won’t say a word, Father, Ligach replied, for I was told not to. And now, said Moling, I’ll be giving you absolution. But would you be giving me absolution for being visited by himself? I forgot that, said the priest, but mind what I’m telling you: let not a word out of your mouth to anyone of this, or he’ll never visit you again. Visit me again? said Ligach; what would he come to me again for? though indeed I’d be glad if he did. The priest did not answer, and she repeated: for what, I’m asking you, Father, would he visit me again? And the priest still not saying a word she kept on at him. For what, I’m asking you? for why should he be treating me different from Mary, who was visited only once so far as the scriptures go. True, true, said Moling, he will never come to you again. But something will come to me, for it wasn’t for nothing he came down from his cross. Time will prove me right. I was forgetting, said the priest. A strange thing to be forgetting, a thing that doesn’t happen once in every thousand years, she replied.
CHAPTER 29.
WHAT DID SHE say, Moling asked himself, when Ligach rose up from her knees and left the chapel; what did she say about expecting? Will there be a child? he asked. And on his way home he asked himself if he came down from the cross because he was afraid that if Ligach did not get the sign she had been praying for so long her belief might fade. Did she not tell him that the temptation was pressing her from behind that if she addressed herself to the devil she’d get an answer? O Lord, have mercy upon me, he muttered, and he knew that all the colour was out of his face, and that his hand was trembling. I’m bet and bothered with it all, said he. If I’ve sinned, forgive me, Lord. But who is to tell me if I be in mortal sin or venial sin? Not a bishop in Ireland could tell me that, nor the Pope of Rome himself, for what happened last night never happened to anybody in this world before. He walked on a bit and then stopped again. I’m the most miserable man in all the world, and will not be able to pull through this business. He went on walking ahead, mile after mile, without a prayer in his heart and his thoughts tormenting him, buzzing in his poor mind like flies stinging him, stopping him in his walk, making him drop his knife and fork out of his hand when he was at his dinner, leaving him staring across the room, thinking of the good days he spent with the hermits living on water-grass, and the better ones when he was on his own picking sea gulls’ eggs out of the rocks.
Them were fine days, he said, and I had the good health then, but it is all going now, though I’ll not be what you would call an old, ancient man for a good while yet. It is the fear that I am in mortal sin is destroying me and wasting my bones. And then he would stop to ask himself what she meant when she said that something would happen to her. Was it a child? Of course it was that same, and he hadn’t much longer to wait for the news from herself in the convent. Father, I think I’m with child. Women that live in chastity are often troubled with fancies, and to speak of such a thing and it not the truth might — How could it be else, said Ligach, he after coming down from his cross to me? All the same keep it to yourself till the child leaps in your womb, if ’tis there he is, he said to her, and to himself: the news will soon be out; the nuns will soon know all about it. Highly favoured, they will say, is our convent. And, Ligach, now will you be telling the others that I can hear no more confessions to-day. Oh, my Lord Jesus Christ, cried Moling, as soon as the nun closed the door behind her, the torture is in the waiting! And from that day out he’d be saying: another day has gone by and I’m one day nearer to the day when the Mother Abbess will come with her nuns, Ligach in the middle of them, to tell me about the great miracle: Ligach in the family way though she has never known a man.
The weeks went by and he counting them till the week came when he said to himself: she must be seven months gone, yet the nuns haven’t come to me, though her appearance is great. As these very words were passing through his mind the parlour door opened and in came the Mother Abbess, surrounded by her nuns, with Ligach in the middle of them. Father, said the Mother Abbess, we have come to tell you something you will find it hard to believe, yet it is true. It’s a miracle, surely, said Moling, after he had heard the Mother Abbess, and at these words the nuns were so overjoyed that they linked their hands and danced round Ligach for all the world like a lot of children. It is not for me, said Moling, as soon as a little quiet had been gotten, to discourage your faith in the miracles that God grants to us sometimes so that we should not altogether forget him, but I call upon you to be mindful that you all keep this a secret among yourselves, for if the miracle you speak of should not prove to be as great a miracle as you think it is, we shall be — But, Father, they began, it is either a great miracle or it’s no miracle at all, and you’re the last man that should say a word against Ligach. I am indeed, said Moling, the very last in the world; her sweet face tells that she knew no kind of man any more than the virgin herself did till the birth of our Lord. But in this world it’s not so easy to find believers; there are always gabby tongues, and this neighbourhood is not freer from them than another. But who, Mother Abbess asked the priest, would say a word against our little Ligach, whose conception is as miraculous as Mary’s? and the priest, without a word in his chops, stood looking at the nun.
Her conception is certainly a great mystery, he said at last, and until we learn more about it my advice to you all is to keep this secret from everybody. But, said Mother Abbess, what do you mean, Father Moling, when you say till we know more about it? Well, this is what I mean, said he, that the boy himself will be proof enough of his miraculous birth when he grows up. Let us hope so. But we don’t know, said Mother Abbess, whether it will be a girl or a boy. A boy, a boy, cried the nuns, clapping their hands, and they began to argue that it could not be else than a boy, for that no woman had ever borne a girl miraculously. Oh, said the priest, I’m afraid we’re travelling on a road that will carry us into a fine heresy; but after thinking a while he saw he was mistaken, for St Anne herself wasn’t conceived miraculously, only without sin. There will be a child for sure, but, as I’ve told you already, until we learn more about it, I’d be advising you to speak to none about the miracle that God has been pleased to work for us. The Mother Abbess was of the priest’s way of thinking, and having gotten a promise from them all in the name of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the priest said to himself: well, God knows how all this will turn out, and we must leave it to him.
At times he was tempted to hope that she might die, for only her death and the death of his child could stop the scandal; but he was a saint as well as a sinner, and every time the thought came he shook his head, for he knew it was the devil that sent it, and he kept the holy water going about him all the time. His real torment was that, thinking over the reason for his sin, he didn’t know if he was guilty of a mortal sin or venial sin, or of no sin at all. Be this
as it may, he often said: I’m doing a good share of my purgatory on the earth, and these were the words he was speaking to himself the day the Mother Abbess came in to him with the joyful tidings that Ligach had been delivered of a fine boy, and with no more than two hours’ trouble before he came: no more than a little uneasiness.
Didn’t we tell you, cried the nuns, that Ligach would bear a boy and not a girl? and the priest, not knowing what to say to all this, asked if the child was a weakling; and, a bit surprised that he should ask that, the Mother Abbess answered: there’s nothing weak about him barring that he has a strong weakness for the breast, even if it was a virgin bore him into the world. Is a virgin’s child different? he asked, not knowing very much what he was saying, and the two of them fell to talking of the christening, which was to be at the end of the week, the priest thinking his mind would be easier when it was over. But from this hour out he never got any easy minute, and he put in a week before the christening thinking of his sermon, which would all be about miracles and mysteries. Said he: I mustn’t say a word against one or t’other, for the sisters are right in this that to say her case was not miraculous is much the same as taking away her character and she a nun enclosed in the Convent of Cuthmore. And he began to think of the men they’d suspect if the miracle were denied, but he could think only of the gardener and the gardener’s boy. No one, he muttered, would believe that Ligach — The nuns won’t be cheated out of their miracle, and the best I can do is to persuade them to let the child be put out to nurse. We can say it was found by the convent door; left there by someone that didn’t want it. A moment after, he remembered a woman down the road who had lost her child: she would be glad to rear it for us, if Ligach — But will she consent to be separated from her child? And the nuns give in to part with it? Not a chance of it, poor childless women, and they are looking forward to this child, and not one of them but is already a mother in her heart; the most I’ll be able to do will be to get them to promise to keep the secret of Ligach’s miraculous conception to themselves till the boy begins to show what sort of a man he’ll be stretching into; and mind you, he kept on telling them, for though the way she got him is a miracle we don’t know for sure and certain who he was got by. But, Father, would you have us think that Satan had a finger in it? cried the Mother Abbess, and the nuns dropped their hands and eyes. I’m the last man in the world who’d be putting a sore thought into your minds, said Moling. I’m all for taking things easy, saying nothing about the miracle and letting him grow up naturally without any cramming up of Latin and Greek. But, Father, he must get the education.