by A. J. Cronin
‘Don’t we look in fairly good form?’
‘You do, you do. And your poor wife?’
‘She is well too, physically. But … all else is gone. She does not know me now, nor her children. Yet she is happy and, I assure you, since she is prohibited from being at home, well cared for with two special nurses and her doctor in a beautiful country estate … the best clinic available for one in her condition.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear! What a pity!’ He sighed, adding: ‘And what a fearful expense for you?’
This was an inquiry that required no answer. But it was my main reason for living in Switzerland.
There was a silence while our visitor studied us with wise kind eyes.
‘And you two dear people, now you are quite alone here… You’ve been to church, of course, this morning?’
‘Naturally, Father. In Vevey. Our churches are within one hundred metres of each othe… mine St. Teresa’s, and for Nan the nice little Church of England, All Saints.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘So you are still keeping faith. The castle has not fallen.’
‘Well, Father, the battlements have suffered some crushing attacks, but the portcullis remains unbreached. Often when we have spent a long heavenly day together and at night must go to our separate rooms, I drool a little, and favour Nan with that atrocious line from Tosti’s “ Good-bye”:
“Adieu the last sad moment, the parting hour is nigh.”’
He smiled. ‘Yes, it is hard. But you will both be better for it. And love the more. Besides, you have so much to be grateful for, this lovely garden and house. Such peace too: domus parva, magna quies.’ He glanced appreciatively round the room, then exclaimed: ‘But where are your pictures? Desmonde speaks so often of your lovely Impressionists. I don’t see them.’
‘They have been removed by the Swiss police.’
‘Good heavens!’ He sat up, startled. ‘For your debts?’
‘No! There, have been so many robberies lately of valuable paintings that, as we go away often to visit my wife, I have been constrained, almost compelled, to remove them to a place of safety. They are now in the vaults of the Credit Suisse Bank where we may visit and view them as often as we wish.’
‘Yes.’ After a moment’s thought: ‘Undoubtedly a wise precaution. But what a sad indictment of the world of today. I must not tell Desmonde. He is proud of the pictures he gave you.’
‘No, please don’t tell him. Father. And certainly do not tell him that the Mary Cassatt he sent me is not genuine.’
‘What! A fake!’
‘A clever copy. Unrecorded. And of no provenance whatsoever.’
‘No, I must not tell. Or he would in atonement immediately send you something extremely precious.’
We both looked at him in surprise.
‘You are joking, Father?’
He shook his head, then smiled, and said:
‘I see that you are burning to have news of Desmonde. Well, I will tell you. So listen to what may be the grande finale of his varied and adventurous career.’ He paused, then began:
‘When Desmonde came to me he was eager, ardent, overflowing with the resolution to prove himself, in every way, in short to redeem himself. He was tactfully persuaded to disarm himself – we assured him that his knife would not be needed, except in the kitchen where in fact it made an excellent ham slicer. Then we introduced him to his class. He immediately liked the little boys and it was evident that they were prepared to like him. Yet it was discouraging for him to discover that they were far from ready to be instructed, as he had hoped, in Greek and Latin. Instead, they must first be taught to spell, read and write. Another shock for Desmonde lay in our adequate yet admittedly plain dietary, which depends largely on the two varieties of millet: ragi and varagu, both food staples, but far from titivating to the sophisticated palate.’ Here Fr Seeber broke off to indulge in a little private chuckle. ‘It was amusing to observe Desmonde’s face when presented with these platters. But determinedly he got them down, a resolution ameliorated by the fact that on the Saturday holiday he would, at lunch time, be observed sidling off in the direction of the Commercial Hotel.
‘Now, as you can imagine, Desmonde was not content to stop at “ c-a-t” spells “ cat” and “two and two make four”. What did he do? He began, of course, to teach his little boys to sing. And how they loved it! Soon he had them carolling away sweetly at hymns and nursery rhymes. Was this enough? Not at all. Selecting eight boys with the best voices, he collared them after school and, teaching in the church or in the empty class room, he began to make a choir. And did he succeed? At our quarterly assembly in the big hall he produced his choir. It was, I assure you, a great, an immense success. God bless my soul! They even sang two of his favourite songs, “ Oft in the Stilly Night” and “Passing By”, and were cheered to the echo. Even I was moved, deeply moved by those pure, lovely young voices ascending in perfect harmony.’
Fr Seeber paused. We were both listening intently, aware that there was more to come.
‘Go on, do go on,’ Nan exclaimed. ‘More coffee? It’s still piping hot.’
Another cup of coffee was poured and gratefully accepted.
‘Yes,’ Fr Seeber resumed. ‘As you’ve guessed, nothing could stop Desmonde now. Madras is a great city, but news travels fast. Word of Desmonde’s choir got around and before long an invitation came for the choir to sing at an afternoon charity concert to be held at the Government’s Art College. With my permission Desmonde accepted. Now, obviously, the little boys couldn’t go in their poor, makeshift clothes. So Desmonde got busy, ordered and had made … you’ll never guess what … eight little scarlet soutanes and eight red hats. His choir was now named the Little Cardinals.’
One saw at once in this the expression of Desmonde’s subconscious longing. We could scarcely wait till Fr Seeber finished his coffee.
‘Now, I’m not going to bore you with the success of the Little Cardinals. Early on we decided we must accept only the few invitations that were absolutely impeccable and select. In Madras, third city of India, where indescribable poverty exists, there is also indescribable wealth, manifest mainly in the great houses and estates congregated in the aristocratic district of Adayar. Many of these rich people are Christians, and not infrequently, when a society luncheon or garden party was given, the Little Cardinals were invoked to entertain the guests. They went, and Desmonde, their teacher. Cardinal manqué, went with them, not only to have them sing, but to look out that they were not spoiled with sweetmeats and caresses. Naturally, he stayed to lunch and was found to be charming, indeed even more beguiling than the little boys.’
He paused, with a reminiscent air, half smiling.
‘Oh, do stop teasing us. Father,’ I implored. ‘You’re doing it deliberately.’
Still smiling, he resumed.
‘One of the Adayar hostesses who manifested the greatest and most persistent interest in the Little Cardinals was a Eurasian lady, Madame Louise Pernambur, Christian yet a veritable Ranee, widow of, a Puisne Judge of the High Court of Madras, who mills inherited an enormous fortune from her father whose cotton mills and many hundreds of looms had for years flourished in Calicut. Louise Pernambur, possessor of many things beyond her magnificent estate in Adayar and a house in Poona, whither she retired during the hot Madras summer, was at this time thirty-five years of age, admirably indolent, in figure tending slightly perhaps to a pleasing embonpoint and, as is often the way with Eurasian women, with her creamy complexion and dark languorous eyes inordinately attractive. But, as many potential suitors had quickly discovered, those dreamy eyes could also be hard. Madame Pernambur knew her value and it would never be bought cheap.
‘How surprising then, how commendable that this tough, superbly rich and beautiful woman should be so tenderly interested in eight little choir boys. So much so, indeed, that when the Little Cardinals were not permitted to come, their teacher was bidden to luncheon, even to supper, delicious food served on the garden terrace
under a huge lustrous moon.’
Suddenly Fr Seeber paused and looked at his watch.
‘Good heavens! Almost half-past three. The car will be coming for me, in fact I think I hear it on your drive. Now I can’t tease you any more. There could be no doubt whatsoever. Although no words had yet been spoken, Louise had fallen deeply, extravagantly, in love.
‘One Saturday afternoon when I was in Adayar visiting one of our patrons, I thought I would look in on Madame Pernambur. I knew that Desmonde had been invited there for tea and, as I was hot and thirsty, I hoped I might pick up a refreshing cup and a bun for myself.
‘It was perhaps half-past three o’clock, the day a real Madras blazer, very different from the persistent rains and heavy floods devastating Bihar up north. As I am now familiar with the house, almost persona grata, I slipped in by the terrace door, along the passage, and on to the great lounge. Here I drew up, unobserved, in the shadow of the doorway.
‘Seated side by side, on the great low settee, under the punka, rhythmically swung by one of the house boys, were Desmonde and his hostess: Madame in a lovely blue négligée of fine blue voile.
‘Desmonde, to his credit, occupied the extreme end of the settee while Madame, as though by some process of gravitation, had drawn quite close to him and was looking fondly into his eyes. Suddenly, softly, she murmured a few words in his ear. He responded with a polite smile which, however, barely concealfed an air of fatigue, one might even say boredom, where-upon she stretched an arm, and pressed a switch.
‘I knew what was coming since recently an enormous electric organ had been imported from New York: and, loaded with Desmonde’s tapes, planted in a recess outside the lounge. And now, with a premonitory boom it launched into:
‘You are my heart’s delight,
And where you are I long to be …’
‘As this incomparable young voice swelled through the room she drew still nearer to him. And if ever I saw matrimony in a woman’s eyes, it was there, at that moment – I knew Louise well, and with her it could never be anything else.
‘So I turned and tiptoed out by the way I had come, then made the circuit to the main entrance where I left a polite message with the butler.’
As Fr Seeber concluded, we gazed at him in silence, partially stunned by his recital.
‘Well,’ I said at last, ‘trust Desmonde to make a soft landing. I hope he’ll be happy.’
‘Wait, wait!’ Fr Seeber exclaimed. ‘Don’t let us rush our fences. That evening, when Desmonde returned, rather earlier than usual, he went straight to his class room. Here his little pupils had gathered to await him. Immediately he entered he was greeted by a song which they had made up amongst them-selves; childish rhymes of affection and praise, but which, sung by these sweet little voices, were really touching.
‘Desmonde had moist eyes when he left the class room, and I noted that he went into the chapel. I knew then that he would come to me and indeed, half-an-hour later, he knocked at my study door.
‘Come in, Desmonde.’
‘He entered and immediately knelt at my feet.
‘“Father, I have something to tell you.”
‘“Get up, you ass, and sit in that chair.”
‘When, with reluctance, he obeyed, I went on: “And you have no need to tell me. I already know, and you have only yourself to blame. With your hand kissing and knee bending, your long lingering glances from those big blue adoring eyes, you have made the poor woman think that you are hopelessly in love with her and too shy, too humble to declare yourself. So,” I paused, “she has done it for you. Am I correct?”
‘“Yes, Father,” he said miserably. “ She wishes to take me to Poona for a quiet wedding.”
‘“Do you wish to go?”
‘He shook his head dolefully.
‘“I don’t want to end my miserable life in her boudoir. Besides,” the poor fool mumbled, “ I can’t stand her smell.”’
Nan and I had an irresistible impulse to laugh, but a glance from Fr Seeber restrained us.
‘Desmonde was not quite himself. So very firmly I told him that if he wished to avoid further trouble he must clear out at once. They were yelling for helpers up in Bihar where the floods had created frightful havoc and the river had overflowed its banks, sweeping away an entire village. I told him to go and pack and take a mattress, since it would be a long slow journey up the coast to Calcutta.
‘”I don’t want to leave my little boys, and you, Father.”
“Then Madame will never let you be.”
‘After a long moment he rose, silently went to his room, packed his bag and obediently brought down his mattress. At half-past ten that night I saw him board the north bound mail at Madras station.’
A silence followed this long, and, for us, most interesting recital.
‘Did he ever get to Bihar?’ Nan asked.
‘He did, and from reports coming back by wire, has conducted himself there with exceptional courage and resource.’
‘And Madame Pernambur?’ Nan asked again.
‘I have judged it expedient to pay a long-deferred visit to my brother,’ Father Seeber said mildly. ‘When I return she will be in Poona, to which lovely resort I shall direct a long, pleasingly adulatory, explanatory letter.’
The car, outside had now been hooting for some time. Fr Seeber stood up.
‘I wish I might stay longer. But now I must go. I’m glad to have found you both well and happy. And I shall tell Desmonde so.’
As we escorted him to the door he took Nan’s arm and smilingly, whispered in her ear. Then he shook hands, popped into the taxi and was gone.
‘What a nice, wonderful little man,’ Nan said. ‘A perfect darling.’
‘He is indeed,’ I agreed warmly. ‘I must send him a decent cheque. But, my goodness, that Desmonde! Can you beat it! By the way, what did Father Seeber whisper to you?’
She lowered her eyes and murmured:
‘Be good, sweet maid, and you will both continue to be happy.’
Copyright
First published in 1975 by Gollancz
This edition published 2013 by Bello
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
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Copyright © A. J. Cronin, 1975
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