by A. J. Cronin
‘Madame, these trousers, now only three years old, are the finest work of the finest sartorial artist in the village of Torrijos.’
‘They are certainly unique. And the jacket?’
‘This jacket, Madame, although venerable, is virtually a religious object, cut down, and suitably adjusted by the aforementioned tailor, from a discarded jacket previously in the possession of the very reverend Father Hackett.’
‘It is undoubtedly a relic. Come, Desmonde, and view yourself.’
She pulled open the door of a cupboard on which a large pier mirror had been inset.
I had never seen so much of myself for a long, long time, and while the face remained passable, the rest of me might have been found on the trunk and legs of an aged and decrepit tramp.
‘Yes,’ I reflected thoughtfully, ‘a little sponging and pressing would make me as good as new, Madame.’
She laughed outright. ‘Desmonde, you are incorrigible. Listen, you must be quiet and rest until Saturday, but this morning you are coming with me, to visit my friend Caraccini.’
‘A priest?’
‘No, merely the best tailor in all Italy. Don’t worry about your friend, he is very happy in the library.’
We set out in the beautiful big landaulette, not the Hispano as I had imagined, but a brand new Isotta Franchisi, drove down the Via Veneto to the Excelsior, turned left, and drew up at a window displaying no goods, adorned simply with the word, Caraccini.
We entered, Madame greeted with immense deference by a dapper little man in an immaculate dark grey suit. My needs, my situation, were fully discussed, bales of cloth were inspected, felt and selected. I was shown into a commodious cubicle where an underling in shirt sleeves taped and measured all over me.
‘You understand, Caraccini, everything must be finished and delivered by the evening of Friday.’
‘Madame la Marchesa, it is impossible. But for you,’ Caraccini bowed, ‘ it will be accomplished.’
All was not over, since Madame still wanted more fun, for thus she regarded and named her charity to me, and I was led into a nearby haberdasher’s of obvious and unimpeachable distinction. Here my dear friend went a little wild and, in the end, a variety of elegant and expensive garments had been chosen and set aside for immediate delivery. Finally, we dropped into the custom shoemaker’s in the same street. Here my extremities were sedulously measured and two leathers selected, one light and the other somewhat heavier, both pairs commandeered for the following Friday. How, one might ask, could such skilled work be accomplished in so short a time? The answer is in the fact that Rome is a city of craftsmen, and of women too, tucked away in little rooms and alleys throughout the city, receiving the work for speedy delivery and labouring, often through the night, to complete it. One would hope that such expertise would be amply rewarded. Alas, this is not so.
‘Just a light little lunch,’ Madame said, when we emerged from the shoemaker’s. ‘Then home, to rest, rest, rest until Saturday.’
She led the way into the Excelsior, where, seated at the bar, she proposed a sherry and a Parma sandwich. The car was still parked outside the hotel. Soon we were on our way back to the Villa Penserosa. When I tried to thank her she would not hear a word of it.
‘Quiet, dear Desmonde. You know I loved your mother and was so sorry when you wrote me of her death.’ She added: ‘You know also that I love you too, my dear boy.’
As we approached the house she murmured:
‘I wonder what your little friend has been doing in your absence.’
Immediately we were inside she took my arm and led the way to the library.
There, indeed, was the Reverend Fr Petitt, seated in the same chair, with the same book, open at the same page, upon his knees, a beatific smile upon his face and a gentle rhythmic sibilation coming from between his lips.
‘He has not moved one millimetre,’ Madame gasped.
‘Oh yes, Madame,’ said the maid who had admitted us. ‘He ate a very good large lunch with a bottle of the good Frascati.’
‘He looks sweet when he is sleeping,’ Madame said. ‘Like a child.’
‘He has taught me a great deal,’ I said. ‘And if we should have any luck at all on Saturday I shall owe it all to him.’
‘What a nice thing to say, dear Reverend Desmonde. And now you must go to your room and rest. From now until Saturday it is rest, rest, rest, with little talking. Do you know that Enrico did not speak a word between his performances?’
‘I am not Caruso, Madame.’
‘We shall see on Saturday.’ She smiled. ‘And now I must rest also, for I am tired. You see, I am an old woman now.’
‘Please don’t say such evil words, Madame. You are as gracious, as charming, as darling as ever. And you have been an angel to me today.’
She shook her head, still smiling, as she preceded me upstairs, then turned and went into her room while I entered mine.
Chapter Six
Saturday dawned fine, and Desmonde, who had slept restlessly, rose early and drew up the Venetian blinds to let the sun into his room. He then lay on his bed for ten minutes considering the prospects of the day. Admittedly he was nervous, he wanted to win the Chalice, not entirely for personal success, but to please, and indeed repay, Fr Hackett, the Marchesa and, especially, little Petitt. And, as he told me afterwards, his thoughts kept going back to the final of the Schools’ Shield which I had longed to win and which, alas, had been lost.
A knock on his door cut short his foreboding. The little fellow, dressed, and having already said his Mass, came into the room.
‘Good night?’
‘Quite good. And you?’
‘Perfect!’ This with an emphasis that gave perfection the lie.
‘Beautiful day for us.’
‘Perfect.’
‘I left everything for you down below, when you’re ready.’
Down below was the little sanctuary in the basement, where every day since their arrival, they had both said Mass.
‘I’ll be down straight away.’
‘Good!’
Desmonde did not shave but quickly got into his old suit and went downstairs to rejoin Fr Petitt in the sanctuary, a little rough stone grotto equipped with a simple altar, a crucifix, a statue of the Virgin, and two prie-Dieux, a retreat for prayer and emergency services often found in large Italian houses. Fr Petitt, with customary foresight, had brought everything necessary from the seminary.
Desmonde said his Mass, with Fr Petitt acting as server, and it may be assumed that their prayers, those of the young priest and the old, were leavened by the same intention. Afterwards, when Desmonde had made his thanksgiving, they went upstairs to a substantial breakfast, English style, of bacon and egg, marmalade and toast.
As they were served the elderly tablemaid whispered to Desmonde:
‘Madame la Marchesa begs you to make a large breakfast for it must be a very small lunch.’
‘We will obey,’ Desmonde said, smiling. ‘Madame la Marchesa will not herself be down?’
‘Rarely she comes before ten o’clock.’
The reply gave Desmonde a sudden understanding that his patroness, so lively and so charming, so active on his behalf, was, in years at least, an ageing woman. Now he knew that he must do his utmost to succeed, if only to reward her for her kindness.
After they had breakfasted, Desmonde with a good appetite, Fr Petitt less so, they went together to the library.
‘This is the beastly bit,’ Desmonde said. ‘ Hanging on. By a thin rope over a cliff. I suppose I can’t go out.’
‘Absolutely not. And you should talk little.’
‘God bless Caruso. If only I could sing like him.’
‘You will, if you remember all I told you. Be quiet, don’t move around. Half of these young Italians will be flinging themselves about the stage with hands on their hearts. Now listen, while you were shopping with the Marchesa I made inquiries. For your own choice song, which follows the set pieces, you wil
l sing what?’
‘As we decided. The Prize Song from Meistersinger, in the Italian translation.’
‘No, no. Listen to me. The Cardinal from the Curia on the committee of judges, a very, a most important man, is the German Cardinal. So you must, must sing your Wagner piece in the original German.’
‘I prefer it that way. Is the hall large?’
‘Very large, with a wide high balcony. And it will be filled, every seat. The acoustics are excellent. On the stage will sit the judges, all important and informed people, teachers and professors of music, members of the Curia, including the Cardinal, and of the Society. I asked if our Marchesa might sit with them but the answer was “no”. It would be deemed favouritism and would prejudice the judges against you.’
‘I can believe that Where will the Marchesa sit?’
‘All competitors – the number has been screened down to twenty – will sit in the front row. And in the row behind, railed off from the auditorium, will sit special guests, including our good hostess.’
‘Good! Steps up to the stage, I suppose?’
‘Exactly. Each candidate goes up in turn, sings two set pieces, is judged, and given his marks. After all have been marked, and the marks are counted, ten are eliminated.’
‘And can go home, poor fellows.’
‘Certainly, they are dismissed. Again, for those who remain, one very difficult set piece, marked and the marks counted. The low six are eliminated. And again, for the remaining four, the other very difficult set piece, after which two are eliminated and two remain. These two must choose each one song, sacred or not, on which they are judged, one sent down and the survivor awarded the prize.’
‘A fairly cold-blooded procedure.’
‘It is eminently fair, dear Desmonde. And for one to succeed all others must fail. Besides, it gives a whole afternoon of excitement and good singing to the aficionados. And there are many, many of these, I assure you, ready to cheer.’
‘Or to howl you down.’ Desmonde looked at his watch. ‘Only ten o’clock. Another two hours of waiting misery.’
He got up and began to wander around the room, looking over the shelves so nobly stocked. Suddenly, on a bottom shelf, given over to smaller and more personal books, his eye was, caught by a little green book entitled Heraldry of Ireland. Oddly it seemed familiar. He took it up from the shelf and opened it, turning the pages until he came to the fly leaf, and there, beneath his father’s familiar bookmark, he read the words, written in ink, now faded:
‘For my very dearest Marguerita with my deep affection and profound regard.
Dermot Fitzgerald.’
Desmonde remained motionless, holding the book, while a wave of emotion, of revelation and understanding swept over him. He knew now the reason for the kindness so warmly bestowed upon him in this house. He saw, too, that the book had been held and fondled many times. Quietly he replaced it, leaving it perhaps a fraction of an inch out of line with the other books, then he moved away.
‘Going up to change now?’ Petitt asked.
‘Yes, it’s about time.’
He went slowly upstairs. As he was about to go into his room, he saw the Marchesa coming towards him, looking fresh and rested, beautifully turned out in a suit of dark Italian silk.
‘Good-day, Desmonde dear.’
He did not answer, but took her hand and, looking deep into her eyes, he kissed her fingers one by one. Always Desmonde was full of these silly little tricks and always the recipients seemed to like them. She smiled.
‘I would blush, Desmonde, if I did not have my rouge on. What have you been doing with yourself all morning?’
‘I have been reading, Madame. A most interesting book on heraldry. I was pleased to find that we Fitzgeralds were mentioned therein.’
Did she understand? Later that morning he saw the book had been lifted and replaced. But now, too quickly perhaps, though still smiling, she said:
‘Now go and get ready for the fray.’
Desmonde retreated to his room, washed and shaved more carefully than usual, brushed his hair, then put on his new clothes. How white and fine was the shirt, how light and well-fitting the suit. The shoes too, of pliable soft leather, had nothing of the rigid feeling of new shoes, but clung to his feet like gloves. The best is always the best, thought Desmonde, and what a pity it is always so expensive.
He could not view himself completely in the little bedroom mirror, but went downstairs smartly, hoping that all was well. The Marchesa was in the hall with Fr Petitt, walking up and down, obviously awaiting him. Both stopped dead when he appeared, as, indeed, did he.
‘I can’t believe it’s you, Desmonde,’ Fr Petitt gasped.
Madame had not spoken but was circling him critically.
‘Do clothes make such a difference?’
She smiled. ‘Dear Father Desmonde, how should I look in a washerwoman’s old skirt, and shawl? Never mind, I am pleased, very, very pleased with you. I knew Caraccini would not fail us. Perfection, there is no other word. Now come to lunch such as it it.’
‘You both had a good breakfast?’ Madame asked, as they sat down at the sparsely plenished dining room table.
‘Wonderful.’ Little Petitt chuckled.
‘The finest since I was a boy back on the farm!’
‘You were never on a farm, Desmonde!’
‘Of course not, Madame, but I must, at all costs, dramatise the breakfast.’
‘Well now, for every reason, you will get little. And all is for the voice.’
A cup of strong bouillon was served with a raw egg, floating rather repulsively upon the top, and afterwards, thin slices of fresh pineapple floating in the juice of the fruit.
‘This clears the throat,’ Madame asserted, looking at the clock. ‘And now we have time only for coffee. It is a bore, but they are so fussy and official at the Philharmonic, we must be early.’
Coffee, strong black coffee, was swallowed, then they were in the closed car, driving through sunny streets to the big auditorium off the Via di Pietra, where already crowds were moving towards the long row of clicking turnstiles.
‘We go to the offices. Everything is very stuffy and old-fashioned here,’ Madame said, briskly, leading the way to a narrow door beyond.
Here also a crowd was milling around, but the Marchesa, armed with Desmonde’s letter, immediately commanded attention. They were shown into an inner office, thence to the auditorium proper, where Desmonde and Petitt found places in the front row, specially reserved for competitors. Madame la Marchesa was seated in a special reserved enclosure not far behind.
Already the auditorium was more than half filled, and crowds were flowing in. On the stage, too, where the trophy, the Golden Chalice, was enthroned on a velvet podium, activities were increasing, while from time to time young priests of various sizes and condition materialised and nervously seated themselves on the candidates’ bench.
Little Petitt moved restlessly. ‘ Such waiting. These preparations are very trying for you, are they not?’
‘Yes,’ said Desmonde. ‘I’m going to close my eyes. Nudge me when they’re ready.’
For perhaps twenty minutes Desmonde kept his eyes resolutely closed, ignoring the noise and the sense of movement around him, until his vision was restored by a tap on the shoulder. He then saw that the other candidates were lined up beside him and that the committee of judges had assembled on tiered seats to the left, while at the rear of the stage a vocal quartette with string orchestra were about to open the proceedings with Veni Creator Spiritus. Everyone joined in this beautiful hymn, candidates, pianist, audience and committee alike, so that a great volume of sweet sound swelled and filled the hall.
The secretary of the Society now stepped forward and in a brief speech outlined the object of the contest: to sustain and increase public interest throughout all Europe in the sung Mass, to maintain and keep alive that most historic, most beautiful offering to God, which now, alas, was threatened by the rush and hurry of this
modern age, sacrificed to the demand for shorter and still shorter services. He then thanked the members of the Curia, and in particular His Eminence Cardinal Gratz, for attending on the committee so that the judging and allocation of marks would be absolutely just and impartial. He looked meaningly towards the crowded balcony and begged the many partisans who had come to support their candidates to realise that justice would be done and to refrain from demonstrations of all kinds. He then decided that the contest should begin.
Immediately ten candidates on the far side of Desmonde got up and mounted the steps to the stage where they were seated on a long bench in one of the wings. The first test piece was announced, and the candidates, named one by one, came forward to sing it.
Desmonde, as may be imagined, listening intently. All were good choir voices, somewhat lost in the big hall, but two of the younger candidates were so manifestly nervous they obviously did not give their best, while a third almost provoked laughter by a variety of enticing gestures, hand on the heart, first one then both arms outflung, all implying dramatic and emotional fervour.
Now came the turn of the second ten. Of these Desmonde was the last to come forward, somewhat disturbed, not only by the fact that the candidate immediately before him, a novice from the Abruzzi, had sung superbly, ending to a great ovation from a crowd of supporters in the gallery, but also by the fact that his appearance, so quietly distinguished, had evoked catcalls and laughter from the same gallery.
Desmonde, however, remained quite still before the great sea of faces stretching beneath him, waiting in apparent calm until he achieved complete silence. Only then did he signal the pianist to launch into the lovely Brahms. Now there was no jeering from the gallery, but a great burst of applause swelling up from the main body of the auditorium.
Presently the marks were announced and the ten losing candidates removed from the stage, and the process of elimination was resumed.
The next set piece for the remaining ten was the Ave Maria of Gounod, a particular favourite of Desmonde’s. His appearance, no longer greeted by derision from the gallery, was warmly applauded from all other parts of the hall. He was at ease now, and sang even better than before. As he went back to his place to prolonged applause he caught the eye of the Cardinal fixed benignly upon him.