The Cardinal

by Henry Morton Robinson

A wisp of Lalage’s glossy hair brushed Stephen’s cheek as she bent over the block to trace with her finger the wavy grain so prized by fiddle-makers. “This makes the violin sing,” she said. “Dad and Rafe found the maple tree themselves, cut it down, then let it season. And now”—she handed the block back to Hercule—“they’re going to begin carving it.”

  With Rafe’s help and much running back and forth for calipers and tools, Hercule began the delicate task of cutting a violin top. For nearly an hour Stephen watched miniature chisels paring smooth golden ringlets. While father and son were leaning over the block, absorbed in their craft, Lalage put a finger to her lips, smiled at Stephen.

  He smiled back at her, disposed to believe by everything he knew of her that Lalage Menton was without exception the most deviceful, courageous, and charming of all the daughters of Adam. And as he walked home through the gorge it occurred to him that with a single exception she was also the most beautiful. It was then that he recalled his first emotion on seeing her.

  “Why,” he asked himself, “should I feel sorry that Lalage Menton came home?”

  Puzzled by his feelings, Stephen decided to see no more of this charming young creature. He stayed away from the Menton shack for nearly a week, and when he dropped in again, Hercule was hobbling about on homemade crutches, Adèle had a new calico wrapper, and Lalage was gone.

  SUMMER dragged on. A letter from Paul Ireton told of American arms victorious at Belleau Wood. “Our bayonets are locked for the showdown,” wrote Paul. Early in August another letter came from Quarenghi. “Carissimo Stefano: The end is in view … Berlin is sending out peace feelers. Write me in detail of your new parish … affectionately in Cristo, Alfeo. P.S. Do not grieve, dear friend, about the fate of the translation. Our works, as well as our days, are in His hand.”

  Stephen dropped his replies into the Stonebury mailbox as though he were dropping pebbles down a well. Life in the parish of St. Peter’s made the outer world seem far away, a stage seen through reversed opera glasses. The activities of that world failed to touch him. Sometimes of an evening he would pick up The Monitor and read of diocesan events as though they were happening on some distant planet. “Thirty Carmelites Take Final Vows at Holy Tree,” “Cardinal Lays Cornerstone of St. Bonaventura Orphanage,” “Mons. James MacWilley Celebrates Golden Jubilee as Priest.” Expenses up, collections down, coughing all over the sanctuary. As it was in the beginning, is now, and forever would be, Amen. …

  One sultry midsummer night, when the air was full of insect music, he picked up his translation of La Scala d’amore. He had not looked at it since coming to Stonebury, and now he read it as one might read a manuscript found in a bottle. The ideas and diction were those of a sensitive, educated man trained in the exalted discipline of the mystical life. Stephen could not change a single sentence in his translation of Quarenghi’s work. Though lofty, The Ladder of Love was neither rhetorical nor pretentious. And yet, with new-gained vision Stephen saw that the book had at best a limited appeal. Glennon’s angry accusation, “Not interested in muckers, grubbers, and such small deer, eh?” rang in his ears.

  “I’d scarcely put it that way,” murmured Stephen to himself, but he could appreciate now, as never before, the Cardinal’s exasperation.

  He put the manuscript in the bottom drawer of the rickety commode that held his personal belongings. As he started to close the drawer he saw a small oblong case that he had quite forgotten. He opened the case and there, nestling in a crease of white velvet, a ring gleamed in the lamplight. Beveled amethyst framed with seed pearls. Orselli’s ring. A bishop’s ring. “You will go far,” the Florentine had predicted. But as Stephen put the ring away he knew that he had passed beyond hope or even desire that Gaetano Orselli’s prophecy should come true.

  THEN Ned Halley fell ill. The pastor had been failing visibly all summer. Gray marks of exhaustion lay on his lips and eyelids. The fine tremor of head and hands had grown more pronounced; his thumb and forefinger were those of an ancient apothecary rolling pills. The drag in his left leg became heavier; his gait and stance were unsteady to the point of being disordered. One night, rising from his supper of bread and tea, the old pastor staggered, then gripped the back of his chair for support.

  “Just a touch of dizziness,” he said as Stephen settled him on the horsehair sofa in his study. The touch of dizziness came back next day. “I see two of everything,” the pastor murmured, passing his hand over his eyes.

  Steve was alarmed. “We must get a doctor.”

  “No, no, it will pass. Tomorrow I’ll be all right.”

  When tomorrow came he was not all right. He could not rise from his bed. The local doctor, a general practitioner who knew a sick animal when he saw one, was unable to put a name to the pastor’s illness. “Something’s wrong with his nervous system: I think you should get a neurologist up from Litchburg.”

  “How much would it cost?”

  “A good man like Dr. Sylvester would come for twenty-five dollars.”

  “I know a good man who’ll come for nothing,” said Steve. That night he called up Dr. John Byrne and described the pastor’s symptoms over the phone.

  “You say he staggers, sees double?” Dr. John Byrne was weighing the diagnostic evidence. “How old is he?”

  “Around sixty-five. Looks eighty.”

  “Hmm. Could be any one of a number of things. I’d have to see him. Tell you what, Steve. I could drive up Saturday afternoon. If it’s what I think, it’s serious, but not urgent. Keep him in bed till I get there.”

  “I hate to have you make this long trip, John. But we’re broke.”

  “Forget it, Steve. I’ll be there late Saturday afternoon.”

  At five o’clock on Saturday Dr. John was going over his patient with a diagnostic fine-tooth comb. He peered into the old man’s eyes with a ophthalmoscope, tested his reflexes, and searched every inch of withered nerve and muscles for clues. He made him reach for a spoon, carry it to his mouth. Finally he finished his examination, patted the old priest on the hand. “We’ll make you comfortable, Father, if you’ll just take it easy.”

  “I’ll take it any way God sends it,” said Ned Halley.

  Outside the sickroom, Dr. John spoke gravely. “It puzzles me a little, Steve. In a man of advanced years with the signs and symptoms of your pastor, we usually say ‘hardening of the arteries’ and let it go at that. Such a diagnosis readily accounts for motor difficulties and dizziness.” Dr. Byrne was up to his old trick of explaining things. “But your man here has something else again. Did you notice how his hand trembled when I asked him to reach for that spoon?”

  “It trembles that way when he reaches for anything,” said Steve.

  Dr. John nodded. “We call it ‘intentional tremor.’ The hand trembles before it picks up an object—say a spoon or a cup—then firms perceptibly as it carries the object to the mouth. I’d say that your pastor was in a late stage of multiple sclerosis, Steve.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Degeneration of certain centers in the spinal cord. In words of one syllable, your pastor will be less and less able to take care of his bodily functions. Fortunately—or perhaps not so fortunately—his mind will remain clear.” Dr. John Byrne was putting his stethoscope back into his bag. “How long have you known this man?”

  “I never actually saw him till six months ago, but I’ve heard of him for many years.”

  “And what was it that you heard?”

  “Everyone spoke of him as a saint.”

  “Did anyone ever remark his lack of energy?”

  “I always got the impression that he was frail, not actually sick, mind you, yet somehow lacking in physical vigor.”

  “That clinches it,” said Dr. Byrne. “Multiple sclerosis in its milder forms and earlier stages is hard to diagnose. It sets in quite early in life and sometimes goes away again, always taking a fraction of the victim’s physical and nervous strength.”

  “Could you say,” asked Ste
phen, “that he might have been sick for many years?”

  “I could say that.”

  Mixed emotions of pity and relief surged through Stephen. Physical illness explained a great deal about Ned Halley’s deficient energy.

  Dr. John was writing out a prescription. “There’s nothing we can do except administer supportive drugs and give him good nursing.” He eyed Steve questioningly. “You’ll be able to get a nurse, of course?”

  “Not if they cost money.”

  “Then look here, Steve, the Diocese ought to take charge of him. Send your pastor to a nursing home or hospital where he’ll get good care. Take my advice, Steve. Report the case to your Dean.”

  Fermoyle stubbornness stiffened the curate’s neck. “I can’t do that, John. Ned Halley’s been kicked around all his life. He’s been a failure, a clerical outcast. I can’t send him away from St. Peter’s. If he’s going to die, he’s going to die in his own bed as pastor of his own parish.”

  “Admire your loyalty but can’t agree with your judgment.” Dr. John wrote out two prescriptions. “Give him these as directed. One lucky thing, there’ll be very little pain. It’ll be harder on you than on him.”

  On the porch of the parish house Stephen and John stood shoulder to shoulder, two thoughtful men of comparable age, similar in build and temperament, one ministering to the corporal, the other to the spiritual needs of their brothers. Recognition lay between them, a recognition approaching love.

  “Good-by, John. Give my best to Rita and the baby.”

  They shook hands. “Call me if he gets worse. I’m afraid you’ve got a sick man on your hands.”

  To his duties as curate Stephen now added the burden of nursing Ned Halley. As the disease invaded the old man’s nervous system, he had to be washed and fed. The services of a practical nurse were needed, but because the parish treasury was bare, the hour-by-hour mechanics of handling the pastor fell upon Stephen. Sometimes he was spelled by Berthe Crèvecoeur or Agathe d’Eon. But the awful responsibility of nursing an incurable old man settled chiefly on Stephen’s shoulders. At first the physical contact was revolting; the details of bedpan and urinal, of washcloth and towel, gagged Stephen to nausea. He closed his eyes while rubbing Ned Halley’s wasted flesh with alcohol; he stopped breathing when odors of the sickroom assailed his nostrils. But this phase passed. Revulsion became pity, and pity changed to wonder at the patience and dignity of the fleshly tabernacle that housed Ned Halley’s many-splendored soul.

  ONE STEAMING Saturday in August, Stephen had a visitor. Answering a knock at the rusty screen door, he saw a thin, freckled boy standing on the porch. Stephen would have recognized those freckle patterns anywhere.

  “Jeremy,” he exclaimed. “Jemmy Splaine. How’d you get here?”

  “Hitched, Father.”

  “Come in where it’s cooler. You’re melting too fast, there won’t be anything left to talk to. I’ll get you a drink,” Stephen fetched a brimming tumbler of water from the kitchen pump.

  “How’s everything at St. Margaret’s?”

  “Fine, Father.”

  “Remember that first Mass you served for me? The juggling act we did with the Book?” They both laughed. “What’s happened to Milky—I mean Father Lyons?”

  “He’s still around. He drills the parochial school choir now in plain chants. Boy, does he drill us.” Jemmy changed key. “The fellows miss you a lot, Father.”

  “I miss them too, Jemmy. They were my first boys.”

  “How are the kids here? Any teams?”

  “No, we haven’t any teams, Jemmy. The boys here are mostly French Canadians. They’d rather fish and trap than play baseball. Ought to make good hockey players, though. How about some blueberries and milk for lunch, Jemmy?”

  “Sounds great, Father.”

  Jimmy ate two bowlfuls of blueberries, then laid his spoon down on the bare table. If he thought the diet thin, he gave no sign. Something else was on his mind—something more serious than gossip of the good old days at St. Margaret’s. Stephen sensed what was coming, waited for the boy to speak.

  “Father,” said Jeremy, “I want to be a priest.”

  Shy utterance of the call, proud acknowledgment of the sacerdotal gift! Stephen remembered his own shy, proud declaration in another room, long ago, and the question from Father O’Connor: “How old are you, Stephen?”

  “Fourteen, going on fifteen, Father.”

  Transition and full turn. “How old are you now, Jeremy?”

  “Almost fifteen, Father.”

  “And how long have you wanted to be a priest?”

  “Ever since that morning I spoiled your first Mass.”

  Stephen knew the sequence. Hero-hungry boy sees prancing cavalry troops on parade. Longs for epaulets of command. Carries Mass book from Epistle to Gospel side of altar, while richly vested celebrant recites Gradual. Boy aspires to role of celebrant. Oldest story in the world. Youth always tracing figures of high romance. More to it, though. Must scrutinize.

  “Let’s walk around, Jemmy. I want to show you our church.”

  Down an alley of maples almost submarine in cool greenness they walked toward St. Peter’s. A robe of ivy covered its granite ribs and gave it an illusion of pastoral peace.

  “What’s your idea of a priest’s life, Jemmy?”

  With adolescent brush Jeremy Splaine began sketching a picture for his hero. “Well, a priest is sort of—sacred.”

  “Why sacred?”

  “Because he touches the Body of our Lord every day in the Blessed Sacrament, and that makes him want to be like our Lord—that is, as much as he can.”

  “Then a priest is an imitation of Christ, would you say?”

  “I don’t like the word ‘imitation,’ said Jemmy. “Like is better.”

  “A nice distinction. And in what does this likeness consist?”

  “In loving people, forgiving them.”

  “Forgiving them? For what?”

  Jemmy’s theology flashed, true-tempered. “For offending God and making Him suffer.”

  “Hold on a minute, Jemmy. God the Father, being perfect and omnipotent, can’t suffer.”

  “But His Son suffered. When He became man, He suffered plenty.”

  Jemmy had touched the central mystery of the Incarnation, the act by which Pure Being uniquely manifested itself in the flesh. Stephen was moved by this freckle-faced aspirant’s recognition of the divinity and humanity of Christ. The lad was all right.

  They were at the door of the sacristy now; they entered the gloom within. At the altar rail they knelt. Jeremy made a secret wish, then gazed about the church. Accustomed to the substantial fittings of St. Margaret’s, he seemed bewildered by the threadbare poverty of St. Peter’s.

  “It looks so poor,” he said when they left the church.

  “Would you be ashamed to serve God in a poor parish?”

  Jemmy considered the question. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Stephen was curious to know how much the boy could stand. “Would you be willing to leave your family, friends, and go wherever the Church sent you? You must think about these things, you know.”

  “I’ve thought about them already, Father.”

  A final test. Cruel perhaps, but it must be made.

  “I want you to meet Father Halley, our pastor,” said Stephen. “A very great man.”

  Stephen knocked on Father Halley’s door. “A visitor from Maiden, one of your old parishes, Father. May we come in?”

  Into the shabby bedchamber, odorous of senescence and disease, young Jeremy entered. He saw the ugly accouterments of the sickroom, the lumpy brass bed, and a toothless old man propped up on pillows. At his side Stephen was saying, “Father Halley, this is Jeremy Splaine, one of my first altar boys.”

  The old priest mumbled a courtesy. From his mouth, saliva drooled. Stephen, wiping it away with a towel, watched Jeremy assembling his nerve under the triple shock of smell, sight, and sound. The boy was trembling, his freckles
the color of saffron dough. Was it unfair, a mistake in judgment, perhaps, to let the beginning see the end? If by some awful prescience a young lover could foresee his beloved in the final phase of fleshly decay, would he have the heart to go on loving? Or would some ghostly finger of the spirit beckon encouragement and affirmation from the almost spectral clay?

  Ned Halley answered the question by lifting a withered hand. “You have a vocation.” His voice was a clairvoyant declaration, the joy of a sentry recognizing a friend. “It is a shining one. May God bless you.” The old priest made the sign of the cross. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti” It was both benediction and countersign.

  Advance, friend, the blessing said. Advance confidently, praising as you go.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE STAR Sinus glowed in the mouth of the Great Dog, and the population of L’Enclume turned out to harvest high-bushed blueberries ripening in the August heat. Because Berthe Crèvecoeur and Agathe d’Éon were out all day picking berries, the burden of nursing Ned Halley fell on Stephen alone. House cleaning and sickroom duties nearly crushed him; dishes piled high in the sink, domestic clutter slipped beyond his control. Stephen understood better now the domestic grind that kept adelè Menton (and millions of other women) in a state of chronic fatigue.

  To escape from the cruel routine of kitchen and sickroom, he descended into the gorge one mid-August evening and walked through the grove of pines. Cool sanctuary! Yes—but also standing cash! If cut down, the pines would give employment to the jobless men of L’Enclume, bring much-needed revenue to the parish. Should I disregard Ned Halley’s counsels, thought Stephen, and convert this green wood chancel into commercial lumber? The old question of values. How solve it? Probably the answer would never leap, clear and sustaining, from the springs of mortal economy. Always the partial solution, the dusty, running compromise. Yet for this twilight hour at least, the problem of values was solved for Stephen Fermoyle. He ascended the hill, refreshed, quieted, unquestioning.

  A light was burning in the kitchen. Perhaps Berthe Crèvecoeur was treating the littered house to a whisk of her broom. Stephen opened the back door, and there at the sink, elbow-deep in dishwater, stood Lalage Menton.