FATHER MALACHY'S MIRACLE by Bruce Marsall: Table of Contents

                             

TABLE OF CONTENTS                              

FOREWORD

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

FATHER MALACHY'S MIRACLE by Bruce Marshall: Foreword

I SHOULD like to be clearly understood that none of the characters appearing in this novel are portraits of persons living or dead.  It is, of course, true that some of their follies, philosophies, and foibles have been compiled from my observation of actual people and that my personal knowledge of the subject and the district about which I have written has made the dead bones of my imagining rise up and live; but it is the peculiar privilege of the novelist to piece together the patterns of life which he finds thrown at his feet, and unless he were to take advantage of the material thus afforded him no good books would ever, I am afraid, get written.  (For life is good literature escaping just as surely as good literature is life held fast.)  I admit, then, that I have grafted onto my puppets the human ambitions, decencies, and weaknesses without which they would not have walked or talked; but I would stress, for the information of the scandal-mongering and the uncharitable, the fact that I have brought them to print by combining different characteristics which I have observed in different human beings and not by using a camera.

                                                BRUCE MARSHALL

FATHER MALACHY'S MIRACLE by Bruce Marshall: Chapter Thirteen

Table of Contents

CHAPTER XIII

THE papers made as great a howl over the second miracle as they had over the first.  The same theories were advanced and the words “trickery,” “mumbo-jumbo,” “black magic” were on everybody’s lips.  Indeed, it was not until the metropolitan dean mounted a special pulpit erected in the middle of the rugby field at Twickenham and loud-speakered to a crowd of eighty thousand that the British public knew exactly what to think.  But from that moment all was plain.  For, as the dean so clearly pointed out, the fact of the Garden of Eden appearing to have come back to the very place from which it appeared to have disappeared indicated that the Garden of Eden had never been moved at all and that the general public illusion to the contrary had been produced by some hypnotic rote which only served further to establish the Mithraic origins of traditional Christianity.  In other words, the so-called miracle might be ascribed to Mithraism masquerading as mediævalism itself masquerading as modernism.  To the majority of the readers of the great dailies the explanation sounded intellectual enough to be true.

So once more the earth went bowling, bowling, bowling.  People were as little in Amsterdam as they were in Southsea.  Canon Geoghegan, annoyed that the Garden of Eden had come back to Edinburgh instead of going on to Timbuctoo, returned once more to his hebdomadal denunciations of crêpe-de-chine and Aldous Huxley.  Poor Father Malachy went back to his monastery and the life of a choir monk which is, perhaps, so useful because it is so useless.  Mr. J. Shyman Bell had to refund a good few thirty shillingses to disgruntled miracle dancers who swore that he had obtained money from them on false pretenses, and Miss Gertie de la Muette and her song were forgotten as quickly as they had been famed.  And when, on the Feast of the Epiphany, the naked body (alive) of a famous musical comedy actress was found in the bedroom of a Cambridge professor of applied mathematics, the world heaved a sigh of relief and continued to be, as it has always been, a very muddled sort of place. 

Table of Contents    

FATHER MALACHY'S MIRACLE by Bruce Marshall: Chapter Twelve

Table of Contents

CHAPTER XII

“Et puis,” Mr. J. Shyman Bell was explaining in his astoundingly flawless French to three of the ootchy-looking actressy sort of girls for whom he had telegraphed to Paris, “et puis vous vous mettrez dans les petits coins, n’est-ce pas?  tout-à-fait comme si vous étiez au Rat Mort.  Et sí le bonheur veut qu’un bel agent de bourse se mette avec vous, tant mieux pour vous et tant mieux pour la maison.  Mais pas de galanteries sur place, hein?  Après, si vous voulez; dans une chambre d’hôtel, sur la plage même, sur le golf course si ça vous fait envie.  Alors, c’est entendu comme ça? ” 

The three girls smiled among themselves.  They were pretty, frivolous and had chosen their profession as much as it had chosen them.

“Oui, monsieur le patron,” assured a small girl with auburn hair, roving pale blue eyes and a slim body which looked as though it had been poured into her frock.  “Oui, monsieur le patron, nous comprenons parfaitement.  D’ailleurs dans toutes les meilleures boîtes de nuit montmartroises il faut toujours se tenir comme à la messe.”

“C’est cela, Yvette.  Comme à la messe.  Et après.” Mr. J. Shyman Bell scratched his scar and made an exterior boulevard gesture.  “Après, mes petites chattes, débrouillezvous; c’est votre affaire et Papa Jimmy s’en fiche pas mal.” 

Yes, he thought, as he walked away on a final tour of inspection, a Garden of Eden on the Bass Rock was worth two in the street.  One thousand tickets at thirty shillings each had been issued and snapped up within twelve hours.  Since then some of them had changed hands for as many pounds as they had cost shillings.  And to-morrow night the place was booked up and the next and the next again.  Americans were already cabling to reserve tables for the Great Good Friday Novelty Night.  Yes, he had done well to listen to Alastair and not to allow himself to be bamboozled by the crafty priest.

And what a première it was going to be.  Deauville, Long Island, or the Lido had never seen anything like it.  Talk about up-to-dateness.  As the Americans would say, it was right up to God’s last minute and then some.  To begin with, the whole chorus of the Whose Baby Are You? company were going to present and Miss Gertie de la Muette, the principal girl, was going to pop out of a large mince pie at midnight and sing “Malachy, your miracle.”  Damned decent of that sporting peer fellow, Lord Stitcham, to have offered to bring them over from Newcastle in his private fleet of monoplanes.  Damned decent, but then Stitcham was one of the old brigade and no mistake.  Anybody who’d ever seen him at Le Touquet with a bunch of pretty actresses sitting on the bonnet of his Rolls could be pretty certain that miracles would have nothing on Stitcham.  And that dean fellow.  Of course it was kind of him to have offered to broadcast at eleven fort-five on on “There Lives More Faith in Honest Doubt…”; but it was just possible that some of the more skittish Writers to the Signet might find the theme a little highbrow.  Still, there had been no refusing the fellow; one couldn’t do anything when one came up against a parson who was three times as worldly as oneself.  And in any case Miss Gertie de la Muette, who was going to sign and raffle the silk stockings which she had worn during the flight of the Garden of Eden, would cheer up the lowbrows.  Yes, yes, it promised to be a first-class do all right.  

He went down to the basement, which was welded into the Bass Rock as though socketed by man and not by God and, after telephoning unnecessarily to Edinburgh, Dunbar, Glasgow, Aberdeen, and Liverpool, had a few wee hoots to himself for the sake of Auld Lang Syne and Mr. J. Shyman Bell.

2

As early as half-past nine the motor launches began to put out from the shore and to speed, like inspirations flashing through a tired brain, across the rippling dark sea towards the Bass Rock.

Every hotel in North Berwick was filled with guests desirous of assisting at what an assertive popular periodical had described as “the most startling epoch-making thrill of the century.”  From Edinburgh had come everybody who was anybody: the chartered accountants who were able to live in the West End because they ran their offices on the labour of apprentices to whom they repaid as salary the sums which the apprentices’ fathers had advanced to them as indenture fees; the solicitors, more widely read than the chartered accountants and, when earning more than two thousand a year, Anglican to the last ditch, by God; the barristers, called advocates, the most cultured of the lot and disbelieving, as the cultured must do, in all religions from Buddhism to Holy Rollerism; the butchers, the bakers, the candlestick-makers whose shops were large enough not to be noticed; and the wives, as young as they felt, of the chartered accountants, stockbrokers, barristers, butchers, bakers, candlestick-makers, and their daughters, with eyes like Icelandic saints and knees like light ladies from Cadiz, and their sons, clean, healthy British lads every man jack of them.  Glasgow, too, had Daimlrered through her ship-builders and colliery-owners and Dundee had yielded up her jute merchants and Aberdeen and Inverness had sent the more wealthy and internationally minded of their young married sets.  From London, too, had come a magnate or two and from New York a divorced Russian princess who had said, as she walked out of her million-dollar home, to her husband and every newspaper in the world: “S’long, Billie boy; come around soon,” and who had, as they said, the cutest lil private bar you ever saw in her luxurious marble bathroom.  And from Paris, to show his faith in the cause of unfaith, had flown a prominent Freemason who earned his living by swallowing live goldfish and spewing them up, still alive, into a pre-Reformation chamber pot.  So that the bon ton was very much there although everybody regretted that the Aga Khan had been unavoidably prevented from attending. 

At half-past nine, then, the launches began to put out and the daughters of Murrayfield and Morningside and Kelvinside and Tennessee, hugging themselves inside their cloaks, told one another that it was cold but, my dear, the experience was just too thrilling for words.

In one of the launches Jean Moorbotham, pret-ty, twenty-two, and about to be married at the Church of Saint John the Evangelist, turned to her hefty mother whose husband had made a few hundred thousands out of pre-war whisky.

“Mums,” she troodled, “why can’t our clergy-man perform a miracle?”

“Eh?” said Mrs. Moorbotham, who had been wondering if the installation of a private cinema on their Perthshire estate would attract guests who had hitherto refused her invitations.  

“Why can’t our clergyman perform a miracle, Mums?” her daughter repeated.  “I’m sure he could bring off a pretty nifty one if he tried.”

Theology was not Mrs. Moorbotham’s strong suit.  Still, she did her best.

“Only Roman Catholics believe in Miracles, Jean,” she reprimanded.  “Only uneducated people who are deceived by their deceitful priests into believing that—that they can get their sins forgiven for five shillings and that the Virgin Mary will judge the quick and the dead.  A well-read man like dear Canon Ingot would simply never dream of doing any such thing.”

“I see,” said Jean as she turned once more to look across the water to where the Garden of Eden splashed ruby and gold upon the merging indigo sky and sea.

In another launch three prominent fornicators conversed together in manly tones.

“Bloody good idea of Bimmy Bell’s, rigging this show up like this.  And they say that there’s no end of booze on the premises.”  The speaker, a red-headed stockbroker, picked meditatively at the lobe of his ear.  “And Archie MacGuff was telling me that Bimmy’s laid in a plentiful supply of jaunty Janes.  Real hot stuff, you know.  None of your Stockbridge blancmanges.”

“French tarts,” said a solicitor to the Supreme Court.  “Well, you can bet your bottom dollar that old Charlie’s going to do some parley-voo to-night.”

“And,” said a cooper from Leith, “they say that the chorus of Whose Baby Are You? are going to be there.  Me for that little bunch of cuties.  I never was any good at getting into bed in French.”

“Anyway,” said the red-haired stockbroker, “Bimmy’s certainly shown the jolly old Pope that Scotland’s not standing for any foreign interference.”

“He has that,” echoed the solicitor to the Su-preme Court and the cooper from Leith.

3

Mr. J. Shyman Bell, all white and pink and shining, stood at the top of the four steps in the vestibule and shook hands personally with every guest.   

“Good evening, Mrs. Barton-Smythe.  This is indeed a great pleasure.  And Miss Barton-Smythe.  How very charming.  Ah, Sir James!  This is a great honour, Sir James.  Yes, as I said only half an hour ago to the representatives of the press, we are opening to-night, not from any desire to offend the prejudices of the unenlightened, but in order to make a gesture for British freedom which shall be understood throughout the length and breadth of this glorious empire upon which the sun never sets.  Hullo, Tommy.  Yes, you’ll find a dash of the doings in my office.  I hope, Mrs. Greig, that the little ones are quite well.  Yes, I am glad to say that the dean has definitely promised to explain how no modern-minded man who respects himself can possibly believe in miracles.  Yes, I think, quite a success.  Is the colonel keeping well?  Fine.  Mind, Charlie, no rough stuff on the premises.  And if it isn’t dear Mrs. McLintock.  I quite agree.  An insult to the memory of those dear ones in whose fast-fading footmarks we unworthily tread.  Naughty little twinkle you’ve got to-night, Ethel.  If you can’t be good, be careful.  As you say, Major, in a one-horse country like Spain…The same to you and many of them.”

The brilliant torrent poured itself into the ball-room and split up into little waves of gold and green and scarlet which splashed their way to the small tables set, like snow-capped islands, round the polished floor.  There was a great deal of chattering and a great deal of craning to see who was who and in what and with whom was who and a great deal of formal bowings across the gulf which separated ego from ego and immortality from immortality.  Of course, there were noisier and less mincing rencontres, but these took place for the most part in the newly installed bar on the first floor where three of Mr. J. Shyman Bell’s ootchy-looking actressy sort of girls, disregarding Papa Jimmy’s instructions about corners, sat on high stools and allowed a very prominent Edinburgh advocate to pay for their drinks.  For it was firstly and foremost a social affair; and in Scotland society affairs are always a little grim until drink and music have had sufficient time to make the ladies ignore the ladies.

Amid a burst of applause Mr. J. Shyman Bell, his face falling in rich, crimson folds over his collar and shirt front, appeared on the platform from which the Ohio Octette were to dispense the Katie-I’m-a-kiddin’ music favoured by those who find the Psalms of David nonsensical.

“My lords, ladies and gentlemen,” his belly rum-bled through the other belly that was his face, “I have to thank you from the bottom of my heart for turning out in such numbers to-night.  As I look around the hall and see the many distinguished persons who are honouring it with their presence, well, all that I can say is that I am deeply moved.  My lords, ladies and gentlemen, I am only a plain business man.  Jimmy Bell, that’s my name, Jimmy Shyman Bell without a handle to it; but I think that all my pals would tell you that if there’s one man who likes a square deal that man’s Jimmy Shyman Bell.”  He paused to allow for the clapping which he had foreseen.  “As I say, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, I’m a plain business man and, like other plain business men, I have to earn my living.  And that living, as you all know, I have earned for the past few years by running this Garden of Eden which was, until recently, one of the most popular and the best patronized dance halls in Edinburgh.  I’m not what is known as a religious man, but what religion I have is very dear to me and is summed up in the phrase: ‘Never do the dirty on a pal.’ “

This time the applause was a positive thunder of approval.  Stockbroker, chartered accountant, matron, and pretty daughter each in his or her own way felt that they had at least heard the eternal verities intelligibly and pleasantly propounded.

“Now, that’s a motto that Jimmy Bell’s done his best to live up to all his life.  Like the next fellow, I’ve often made mistakes; but I think that I can honestly say that I’ve never played any underhand trick on one of my fellow men.  And it has always been in this spirit of—this spirit of brotherliness and, I may say, affection that I have tried to play my part in the life of Scotland’s capital as manager and owner of the Garden of Eden.  Judge then of my surprise and consternation when, on the night of the tenth December, this dance hall, which is my sole means of livelihood, was wantonly removed by a Romish priest to this Bass Rock on which it still stands to-night.

“My lords, ladies and gentlemen, I should be the last person to utter any remarks which might cause offense to our Roman Catholic brethren.  Many of us have dear friends who profess that Roman Catholic religion—profess that Roman Catholic religion which Roman Catholics profess.  But I cannot forget that I am a stout Protestant and that our dear country Scotland has always made a bold stand for—for stout Protestantism and has ever refused to bend her proud knee before the panoply of Italy’s alien yoke.”  The reverberation of the words pleased Mr. J. Shyman Bell even more than they pleased the audience and he repeated the phrase which he had misquoted from the Pitlochry Protestant.  “Yes, I say, our dear country Scotland has always refused to bend her proud knee before the panoply of Italy’s alien yoke, and if the Pope were to stand before me now in all his jewelled purple and scarlet, I would tell him straight, as man to man, that it is not by stealing away honest men’s dance halls that the freeborn sons of Caledonia will be induced to be false to the glorious traditions of their history.

“My lords, ladies and gentlemen, at times dur-ing the past week I have been tempted to the vain thought that many a man might have chucked up the sponge when he found himself confronted by the fearful odds by which I have been confronted.  Imagine the plight of an honest brewer whose brewery was suddenly transferred by gross ignorance and superstition from its accustomed site to the top of the Bass Rock.  Or ask yourselves, if you will, what our good-living friends the Edinburgh stockbrokers would have done if their Exchange had been suddenly removed from St. Andrew Square to this same Bass Rock.  Ask yourselves these questions, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, and perhaps you will realize the deep despair of your humble servant Mr. J. Shyman Bell when he found himself and his dance hall perched here amidst the foaming billows of the Firth of Forth.  But fortunately I have always had a deep devotion to the works of the great poet Rudyard Kipling who has done more to further empire pluck than any other writer alive to-day.  I recalled in my sorrow the glorious lines of his poem ‘If’ and I resolved to be a man and to go out single-handed and fight the unseen foe.  And the result of that resolve is the reopening of the Garden of Eden on its new site as a protest against trickery and treachery the world over.

“My lords, ladies and gentlemen, I appear be-fore you to-night as a suppliant.  I want you to tell all your friends about the Garden of Eden on the Bass Rock and of how Jimmy Shyman is making a game fight of it.  At the present moment it is impossible to see whether my venture will be a success or a failure.  To-night you are here in your crowds; but unless you continue to come in your crowds I shall be compelled to shut down.  I ask you, therefore, to continue to give your old friend Jimmy Bell the support which you have always given him in the past and to believe that here off the coast of North Berwick you will continue to receive the same hearty welcome as you received in Edinburgh.”

He had to raise his hand for several minutes before he could continue.

“To-night, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, is our Grand Opening Night and we are going to be honoured with the presence of the entire chorus of the Whose Baby Are You? company who, as you are all aware, were present in this dance hall when it was so craftily removed.  At eleven forty-five the Very Reverend the Dean of St. Stephen’s, London, is going to broadcast a helpful little talk on miracles and at midnight Miss Gertie de la Muette, the principal girl of the Whose Baby Are You? company, will sing her miracle song which is now famous throughout the world and will raffle, in aid of the Rio de Janeiro Bible Society, the silk stockings which she wore during the flight of the Garden of Eden.  It is to the generosity of my personal friend Lord Stitcham that we owe the presence of both Miss Gertie de la Muette and her chorus girls.  Their performance in Newcastle does not terminate until ten o’clock, but Lord Stitcham, out of the kindness of his heart, has offered to transport them here in his famous fleet of monoplanes.

“My lords, ladies and gentlemen, once again I thank you for your gracious presence and for encouraging me to keep a stiff upper lip and to show those who do not know our ways that Britons never, never shall be slaves.  My lords, ladies and gentlemen, once again I thank you and I wish you, one and all, a very pleasant evening’s entertainment.”

The harvest moon bowed four times, to the im-mediate front, to the half-right, to the half-left, to the immediate front again and disappeared swiftly on the short, stout body which bore it.  Then the music started, gently, like a sensual girl whispering in her sleep, and everybody was in everybody else’s arms, dancing, dancing, dancing.

4

“…and in these days of general scientific en-lightenment no educated man can be expected to believe that matter can transport itself through the ether of its own volition or at the volition of an anthropomorphized hypothesis.”  The dean’s voice came, all wrapped in crackles, out of the invisibility that was London and the more unashamed lowbrows edged on tiptoes towards the bar.  “The most elementary acquaintance with the principles of physics will be…ack…iss…ack…oke…vrmp…mediæval theory of intermittent polytheistic magic is finally untenable…ack…rrtel prr…nk.”  Some of the sweeter and younger things looked frankly bored and leaned back felinely and puffed at their cigarettes with a neo-Babylonian expression in their eyes.  “To put it bluntly only an illiterate Spanish or Irish peasant, nurtured in the Roman system of transcendent celestial magic, could accept without reservation the suspension of normal natural laws that is alleged to have taken place fifteen days ago in a country ordinarily famed for the soundness of porridge and its philosophy…ook…tunk…trek…kwz…suiz…”  By this time the bar was filled with stockbrokers and chartered accountants and the sweeter and younger things, more neo-Babylonian than ever about the eyes, were wishing that they could go there too.

By the white sea wall at North Berwick two figures in clothes more black than the night were pacing solemnly.

“The only thing to do, Father, is to ask Almighty God to transfer the whole caboodle to the top of Mount Everest.”  Canon Geoghegan’s voice sounded like rancid pickles being poured into sour milk.  “The blasphemy of the whole proceedings astounds me who am accustomed enough to the facile follies of a generation of syncopated adulterers and sons of Belial.  To dance wantonly in a place so evidently hallowed by Almighty God!  The dog is indeed fond of his vomit.  But what beats me is that Plus Bobbie should have yielded without a struggle to that lynx-eyed Italian cardinal, who is incapable through nationality and upbringing of understanding the adjustments of God’s economy to local Scottish conditions.  If I had been bishop of the diocese I should have bundled the rascal out of my house and have gone to Rome to present in person my case to the Holy Father.  But then, as I think I have told you before, you cannot expect much from these consecrated converts.  In my opinion, no English-speaking priest is fit to be a bishop unless he is descended from at least three generations of pious Celtic washerwomen.”

Father Malachy, who was his companion, tried to stop the sizzling of pickles and milk.  

“No, Canon, I do not blame the bishop.  As he himself pointed out, it has always been the policy of Rome to matter-of-fact before she miracled, if I may express myself.  Nor do I blame the cardinal who, after all, was deputed by the Holy Father to examine into the miracle and must therefore presumably have been guided by the Holy Ghost.  Indeed I blame nobody but myself who was presumptuous enough to imagine that I could cure by one burst of celestial fireworks what twenty centuries of saintly Catholic lives have failed to remedy.  We must obey, Canon; there is no other way out of it.  Obedience, as you know, is the supreme rule which the Catholic Church imposes upon all her children.  And if we are to place any supernatural interpretation upon the miracle we must interpret it in the light of a rebuke on the part of Almighty God to myself.  ‘A wicked and adulterous generation seeketh a sign,’ Canon, and it is perhaps a wicked and adulterous priest who tries, however pure may be his motives, to upset God’s natural laws in order to perform what is ordinarily effected through the Sacraments.”

But Canon Geoghegan would have none of it.  He protested angrily across the rippling baby waves.

“But, Father, Almighty God Himself permitted you to perform the miracle.  You can’t get away from that, Father.  Why did He allow you to translate the Garden of Eden if it wasn’t to further His own supernatural ends?”

“Perhaps he allowed me to do it in order to show me that His ordinary means were best after all.”  Father Malachy’s voiced seemed to lull the sea into a shining dark blue pond.  “It is certainly a miracle that the Garden of Eden should be on the Bass Rock; but it is equally another miracle that the majority of people should refuse to believe that it is a miracle.  No, Canon, Almighty God intended to teach me a lesson and I must say that He’s done it pretty thoroughly.”

“In that case,” said the canon, “faith seems to me to be an unnecessarily hazardous game of supernatural golf in which bunker and hole are liable to become mixed.  Upon my word, I can’t altogether blame the laity for preferring the cinema to the Summa Theologica.”

They walked for a few moments without speak-ing, up and down, up and down on the vague beat which they had still more vaguely chosen.

“I must admit that all this is very hard.”  Father Malachy waved an indefinite hand in the direction of the cluster of lights on the Bass Rock.  “It is not pleasant to see the work of God perverted by the folly of man even when one knows that it is God’s will that it should be so perverted.  But I must not again give way to spiritual pride or to the feeling that, if I were Almighty God, I would have ordered things differently.  No, Canon, I shall go back to my monastery and be conspicuous only when I sing High Mass in scarlet vestments on the Feast of Saint Blasius of Cappadocia.  After all, it is not a Benedictine monk’s job to convert modernist clergymen; a monk’s job is to sing the Divine Office in choir and so preserve some of the immemorial decencies which the modern world lost when she preferred Hollywood to Rome.  And it’s a good job, a monk’s; for only those are happy who ignore the world and are ignored by it.”

Canon Geoghegan waited until Father Mala-chy’s words had gone swinging out to sea like invisible birds which would find no home this side of Australia.

“Father,” he said, “I did not bring you down here to discuss generalities which we could have considered more competently and more comfortably in front of the presbytery fire.  I brought you down here so that you might see with your own eyes the terrible desecration which was being wrought to your miracle and to persuade you to ask Almighty God to transfer this unhappy dance hall and its revellers to the back of beyond.”

Father Malachy laughed softly.

“My dear Canon, I have already told you that I consider that it is God’s will that things should have happened so; and I am afraid that I should be still less popular than I am in Rome if I were to bring off another miracle for everybody to disbelieve in.  No, Canon, in the interests of the general welfare of the Catholic Church, I am afraid that I must refrain from meddling.”

But the canon, who loathed the Garden of Eden and actresses with a mighty hatred, was not to be dissuaded from persuading.

“Father,” he said, “nobody will make me believe that it is in the general interests of the Catholic Church that these unbelieving barbarians should be allowed to make a musical brothel out of a successful miracle.  And, as you can’t perform the miracle without Almighty God’s help, I do not see any harm in asking Him, if it be His holy will, to transfer all these ruffians and harlots to the back of beyond.  All you’ve got to do, my dear Father, is to pray and to leave the rest to Almighty God.”

Father Malachy shook his head.

“No go, Canon,” he said ruefully.  “I simply daren’t suggest anything to Almighty God.  The way that He has let this miracle be regarded as a fraud is sufficient indication of the value which He puts upon my suggestions.”

“You needn’t make any suggestions,” persisted Canon Geoghegan.  “All you’ve got to do is to recite the Confiteor, make an act of contrition for what you call your sin of pride, and humbly ask Almighty God, if it be His will, to transfer the Garden of Eden away from the Bass Rock.  You needn’t say where; you could leave the choice to Almighty God.”  The canon edged closer to his companion.  “Go on, Father; be a sport.  It’s our only chance of showing these blasphemers that God is not mocked.”

Father Malachy hesitated.  After all, it was ter-rible that the Garden of Eden, so honoured by God, should be used as a centre for all the imbecilities of the hour.  And there would be that fat Mr. Shyman Bell, with a sleek grin on his red, worldly face, strutting about like a pouter pigeon.  And that dreadful song was going to be sung and that famous dean was going to broadcast another wound into the Sacred Heart.  Perhaps the canon was right.  Perhaps if he were to ask forgiveness God, satisfied that His priest had learned humility, would hear his request.

“The bishop,” he began.  “He’d be very an-noyed if—”

“Damn the bishop,” said Canon Geoghegan roundly.  “Make your act of contrition like a man and leave the rest to Almighty God.”

“And the cardinal.  He’d be annoyed, too.  And the Pope might deprive me.  And my abbot would say that I was getting too much of the limelight and might make me serve in the refectory for the rest of my days.  No, Canon, I simply dare not do what you ask me to do.”

“Then,” said the canon impatiently, “if you’re as afraid as all that, just make an act of contrition, ask nothing, and leave everything to Almighty God.”

“But—“ began Father Malachy.

“There are no buts,” said Canon Geoghegan.  “There is only God and that pernicious dancing hall perched like a jade upon the Bass Rock.”

Father Malachy yielded.

“All right,” he said.  “But you must help me to stand the racket if Rome turns nasty.”

And with these words Father Malachy took off his hat and handed it to Canon Geoghegan and bowed his grey head in great and silent prayer.  He did not know that at that moment Miss Gertie de la Muette was adjusting her short frilly frock in front of her dressing-room mirror and was trying to decide which were the silk stockings she had not worn during the flight of the Garden of Eden.  He did not know that at that moment the disembodied voice of the dean was croaking: “Roman Catholic clergymen are rarely English gentlemen and never competent scientists.”  He did not know that at that moment Mr. J. Shyman Bell, ruddy and round and rollicking, was standing drinks in the bar to the more select retired Indian Army colonels present and was telling them a story which he had heard that morning from a well-known Caledonian hotel lounge lizard.  He did not know that the Bee Bee Bee, safely hidden in a corner of the balcony with his Bubbles, was telling her that she was his own wee apple dumpling.  He did not know these things because he could not know them and because his mind was shut to God and because he was praying that He would, of His infinite mercy, forgive the pride of a priest who had sought to effect in a day what his Saviour had failed to do in two thousand years.  To Jesus, to Mary, to Michael, to John the Baptist, to Peter and Paul he confessed, through them and by them and round them and over them to God; and, as sorrow sped from his heart and crossed the seas and the hierarchies of angels, the Garden of Eden stirred on its foundations, rose slowly and surely into the air, and was absorbed by the night into a cluster of coloured lights which disappeared rapidly in the direction of Edinburgh.

“In conclusion,” groaned the voice of the dean as the Garden of Eden came soundlessly and bumplessly to earth opposite the presbytery of the Church of Saint Margaret of Scotland, “if an œcumenical council were to decide to-morrow that the dance hall in question had flown through the air, I should not have the slightest difficulty in believing that it had done nothing of the sort…zk…oke…rrp…tsnk…” 

Father Malachy's Miracle: Chapter Thirteen
Father Malachy's Miracle: Chapter Eleven 

Notes

Et puis vous vous mettrez dans les petits coins, n’est-ce pas?  tout-à-fait comme si vous étiez au Rat Mort.  Et sí le bonheur veut qu’un bel agent de bourse se mette avec vous, tant mieux pour vous et tant mieux pour la maison.  Mais pas de galanteries sur place, hein?  Après, si vous voulez; dans une chambre d’hôtel, sur la plage même, sur le golf course si ça vous fait envie.  Alors, c’est entendu comme ça?: And then you’ll put yourself in the little corners, right? completely as if you were at the Rat Mort. And if happiness means that a good stockbroker will come with you, all the better for you and all the better for the house. But no gallantries on the spot, eh? Next, if you want; in a hotel room, on the beach itself, on the golf course if you want. So, is it understood like that?

Oui, monsieur le patron, nous comprenons parfaitement.  D’ailleurs dans toutes les meilleures boîtes de nuit montmartroises il faut toujours se tenir comme à la messe.: Yes, sir, we understand perfectly. Besides, in all the best Montmartre nightclubs, you always have to be at Mass.

C’est cela, Yvette.  Comme à la messe.  Et après.: That’s it, Yvette. Like at Mass. And after.

Après, mes petites chattes, débrouillezvous; c’est votre affaire et Papa Jimmy s’en fiche pas mal.: Afterwards, my kittens, get by; It's your business and Papa Jimmy doesn't care.

Writers to the Signet: Chic Edinburgh lawyers.

Aga Khan: Sir Sultan Mohammed Shah (1877–1957), 48th Imam of Nizari Ismailis. 

rencontres: encounters

 

           

FATHER MALACHY'S MIRACLE by Bruce Marshall: Chapter Eleven

Table of Contents

CHAPTER XI

THE Right Reverend Monsignor Robert Gillespie, lord bishop of Midlothian, was sitting in his dull study with his spectacles half down his nose and his breviary half off his lap.  On the green walls around him Santa Teresa wallowed in God and Saint Francis of Assisi preached to the birds and the cardinal archbishop of Venta de Baños handed a bag of liquorice balls to Jackie Coogan and groups of Bearsden seminarians looked stoutly and ruggedly out upon the Caledonia which they hoped to conquer.

His lordship was feeling content.  He had had a kipper for his tea and a wee bit blether with Monsignor McOgle from Gorebridge.  It was a pity, though, that he had still so much office to say. “Dixit Dominus Domino meo…” he murmured unenthusiastically and stopped.  Aye-he.  If only you Malachy would invent some way in which bishops could say their office without saying it, if he’d only do that now it’d be as good as flitting a hundred paly de donces.  “…donec ponam inimicos tuos scabellum pedum tuorum.”  Aye, if there were only a bit more scabellum pedum about this miracle it wouldn’t be a bad thing.  But thae heretics didn’t seem to be keen on becoming anybody’s footstool, not they.  They were taking the miracle as just as though it were a military tattoo at Dreghorn.  Only this afternoon when he had been pontificating the Te Deum he had seen a lassie sucking jujubes.  And all thae ministers and novelists and loose actresses saying that the miracle was all fiddlesticks.  Och, well, God would give them fiddlesticks in the long run.  He would that.  “Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto; …sæculasæculorumamen.”  Well, there was another psalm finished.  Aye, aye, what with yon Malachy and yon female schismatics in short skirts a bishop’s life was worse than a pleeceman’s, so it was.  “…sæculasæculorumamen.”  Bang went another yin.  He’d soon be at the Magnificat at this rate.

But at the Magnificat he boggled.  “Quia res-pexit,” he bumbled and re-bumbled.  “Quia respexit humilitatem ancillae suæ,” he got out and yawned.  Och, well, it was no use going on if he felt like this.  He’d have a wee read to himself.  Just a page or two.

          “ ‘The plans,’ ” he read in the book which he 

     had substituted for his breviary, “ ‘the plans are 

     hidden in the factory to which, surrounded as it 

     is by spies on all sides, it is most difficult to 

     gain access.’  ‘Bah!’ she cried, stamping her 

     Rue-de-la-Paix-shod foot, ‘yellow blood cours-

     es through your veins, Sir Richard, or you 

     would not abandon to ruin and dishonour the  

     granddaughter of the woman who bore both 

     our fathers.’  ‘Cynthia,’ he pleaded, clutching 

     his fist until the nails bit deep into the flesh…”

In five minutes the book slid to the floor and the lord bishop of Midlothian, successor of Kentigern, Ninian, and Columba, was asleep.

2

But he did not sleep for long for Jeannie, the episcopal bonne à tout faire, popped her trollop head round the door and said: 

“Ma lurrd, there’s a preest wi’ a bit reed uner his collar wants tae see ye.”

“What?” asked the bishop, who had been dreaming about plans being hidden under the Bass Rock.  “What did you say, Jeannie?”

Jeannie repeated:

“Ma lurrd, there’s a preest wi’ a bit reed uner his collar wants tae see ye.”

“A bit reed, is there?”  The bishop, like all forty-winkers, was not in the best of tempers at being awakened.  “A bit red, Ah suppose ye mean.  How often have Ah told ye to learn to speak English?”

Jeannie curtsied.

“Ah beg yer pardon, ma lurrd,” she said.

“That’s funny, though.”  The bishop was think-ing aloud.  “It must be a cardinal; but there are no cardinals gallivanting round Ediunburgh as far as Ah’m aware.  What does he look like, Jeannie?”

Jeannie spoke in a low voice.

“Awfy slinky and mysterious and forrun,” she said.

“Och, well, tell him to come ben.”

“Buona sera, Monsignore,” said the preest wi’ the bit reed under his collar when he came ben, “lo sono il Cardinale Vassena di Santa Maria della Pace e sono stato delegato dalla Sua Santità per verificare il suo piccolo miracolo scozzese.”

“Eh?” said the bishop.  “What’s that ye said?”

The newcomer smiled.

“Non parla italiano?  E il francese?  Senza dub-bio, sans doute vous parlez le francais?  Eh bien, commençons encore une fois.  Je suis le Cardinal Vassena de Sainte Marie de la Paix et j’ai été délégué par Sa Saintété pour vérifer votre petit miracle écossais.”

But the bishop continued to shake his head.

“In that case,” said the newcomer in clipped but idiomatic English, “we shall have to speak English.  Let us commence again.  I am Cardinal Vassena of Saint Mary of the Peace and I have been delegated by His Hol-i-ness to verify your little Scotsz mirackil.”

The bishop was about to sink on one knee, but the cardinal prevented him with a gesture.

“No,” he said.  “We are both bee-shops to-gether, if you know what I mean, and I think that we can dispense with these little po-lite-nesses.”

The bishop pointed to the chair in which he had just been dozing.

“Sit ye down, yer eminence,” he said.  “Ah’m sorry that Ah’ve just finished ma tea, but Jeannie could heat ye up something in no time.”

His eminence shook his head.

“Tea and theology never blend,” he said.  “Still less do viskee and theology blend if one may judge by the state of religion in your country.”

“Aye,” said the bishop, “Scotland’s got the re-leegious measles all right.  What wi’ ceenimas and congregationalists, we’re all in pretty much the same state as Rome under Nero.  Well, well, yer eminence, they canna say Ah havna warned them.  Ah’ve preached on Calvinism and immoral nightdresses till Ah was blue in the face.  But it doesna seem to do much good; Jenners and the General Assembly are always with us.”

“Well,” said the cardinal, who had not com-pletely understood the bishop’s topical allusion, “it certainly seems as though you had been letting off the fireworks lately.  Cabarets that fly through the air like aëroplanes.  Per Bacco, but it is much more spectacular than anything that has happened in Italy for centuries.”

“Ah didna see it maself,” said the bishop.  “But they do say that it was as good as the fleeing House of Loretto any day of the week.”

The cardinal’s face darkened.

“Questo Padre…this Father Malachy?  What sort of a priest is he?”

“Malachy?  Och, he’s a braw, bricht laddie all right.  A bit over-impatient for the Kingdom o’ God among us, but a braw, bricht laddie for all that.”

The cardinal was as perplexed by the braw, bricht laddie as the bishop had been by il suo piccolo miracolo scozzese.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “but I am afraid that I have not fully understood.”

“Malachy’s all right,” the bishop anglicized.  “Ah have nothing but good words for him.  Canon Geoghegan got a len’ o’ him from the abbot of Fort William to put his curates through their liturgical paces and Ah must say that what he doesn’t know about Ite Missa est and all yon could be written on the back o’ a Children o’ Mary meedal.  And the canon’s mighty pleased at the flitting o’ the dancing hall from his parish as it appears there was all sorts o’ hanky-panky going on.”

The cardinal translated aloud for his own ben-efit.

“Credo che capisco.  Father Malachy did not entirely confine himself to his liturgical duties, but went so far as morally to cleanse the parish by removing a cabaret that was a little worldly.”

“Verra worldly,” said the Bishop.  “Carryings on at both the afternoon and evening sessions.  Ah ken all about it; the canon tellt me.”

“But,” persisted the cardinal, “I gather that that was not his official reason for removing the cabaret un poco mondano.  And, indeed, if ecclesiastics were to make a habit of removing cabarets every time that they exceeded the theological definition of charity, well, Monsignore, I am afraid that the air would be filled with flying cabarets.  Even in Rome itself there are establishments which I should imagine are much more subversive of morality than anything which you possess in Scotland.  But that, I suppose, is a question of climate rather than of ecclesiastical discipline.  La giovinezza italiana…” The cardinal smiled wisely.  “No, most certainly a more cogent reason was required; and from the newspapers as well as from my good friend the cardinal archbishop of Westminster I understand that this Benedictine monk took it upon himself to translate the Garden of Eden to the Bass Rock in order to bring people back to faith in our most Illustrious Saviour Jesus Christ.”

“Ye’ve got it,” said the bishop.  “Malachy had his fill o’ unbelief and he wanted to see if he couldna make folks believe for a change.”

“I see.”  The cardinal nodded as though to shake the knowledge well down into his head.  “I see.  But do you think that a Benedictine monk has any right to take upon himself a task which might have been left safely enough to the Roman authorities?”

“Ah’m no so sure that Ah don’t think he has,” said the bishop.  “It’s the business of every priest, be he monk or high heid yin, to save souls from the lusts of the flesh and the pernicious serpent o’ heresy.”

“Yes,” said the cardinal, “but by the ordinary channels: by saying Mass, by hearing confessions, by distributing Holy Communion, by preaching.  Monsignore, I will be frank with you.  This Scotsz mirackil of yours is not liked in Rome.  Propaganda is against it; the Sacred Congregation of Rites is against it; the Holy Father himself is against it.  You see, the prevalent opinion is that the time is not yet ripe for such very spectacular evidences of the truth of our religion.  In Italy last year fifty-seven statues of the Most Holy Madonna were reputed to have wept and there were at least fourteen cases of alleged stigmata.  In Spain there were three appearances of the Blessed Virgin and in the Valdepinones a cock was stated to have laid a golden egg on the high altar of the parish church.”

“That’s as may be,” said the bishop, “but a cock laying a golden egg on the high altar of the parish church of Valdy-Thingummy is no the same as flitting a paly de donce from Auld Reeky to the Bass Rock.”

“We do not deny,” the cardinal sailed on, “we do not deny that these things may be the work of Divine Providence; but it is equally possible that they may be the work of an as yet unknown material law or Devil or of a minor Celtic saint with not enough to occupy his time in the heavenly courts.  And as they are not manifestly of Divine Providence we feel that it would be imprudent officially or unofficially to recognize them as mirackils.  The world is ever ready to mock at the Catholic Church, Monsignore; and these mirackils to prove mirackils generally finish by bringing further disrespect upon that which they seek to establish.  You must admit that the reception of your Scotsz mirackil by the public press of all countries has been preponderantly hostile and that sacred things have therein been held up to the ridicule of the ignorant and uninstructed masses.  Monsignore, you are a bee-shop of the Catholic Church; and I do not think that I ought to require to tell you that it has always been the policy of Rome to verify every matter before making a definite pronouncement upon it.  We are the guardians of truth, Monsignore, and we cannot afford to act hastily.  The Immaculate Conception had to wait eighteen hundred and fifty-four years before it was defined as an article of faith; and, in view of that fact and of the policy which it represents, I am afraid, Monsignore, that the authorities will take a very serious view of your authorizing and yourself pontificating six consecutive Te Deums on the site of the alleged mirackil.”

“Ah didna do it without conseederable reflec-tion,” said the bishop.  “And if ye don’t believe me ye can ask Malachy himself.  Ah was dead against the miracle until ma own scallywag of a brother came and told me that he had been in the Garden of Eden when it feed awa’ and that he didna believe a wurrd of it.  When Aundry told me yon Ah was persuaded that the miracle was a wurrk o’ God: and, with all due respect to yer eminence, Ah think that if yer eminence had had Aundry for a brother yer eminence would have been persuaded just as Ah was.”

“Monsignore,” said the cardinal kindly, “I quite understand your point of view.  You are bee-shop of a diocese in which what is apparently a mirackil has occurred.  You wish, naturally, to honour God for honouring you.  You sing Te Deums and you prostrate yourself.  Si, si, Monsignore, comprendo perfettamente.  Perfettamente, Monsignore.  Ma… but I must ask you to look at the happening as it is related to the Catholic Church throughout the world, to the Catholic Church in France, in Spain, in Germany, in Italy, in Poland, in Australia.  At the present moment, Monsignore, we must not estrange people from essentials by insisting on unessentials; we have enough to do to get people to swallow the necessary mirackils without trying to pour down a few extra ones.  The Incarnation, the Resurrection, the Presence of Our Lord in the Blessed Sacrament, these are the things to insist on.  And then once we have been granted these”—the cardinal smiled—“once we have been granted these, Monsignore, we may begin to think about cocks which lay golden eggs on high altars and cabarets which fly through the air.  But for the moment we must take care not to sacrifice the sacred certainties to the potentially sacred possibilities.”

“Aye,” said the bishop, “but it was precisely to bring folks back to thae sacred certainties that Malachy flitted yon paly de donce.”

The cardinal inclined his head.

“So you have already explained; and I have al-ready pointed out that these wonders to prove wonders work more harm than good.  Look at the press of your country.  Listen to the echoes of the blasphemies that have been uttered because of your reported mirackil.  Believe me, Monsignore, it was not for nothing that the Holy Father sent me to Edinburgh; he did not send me to Valdepinones.”

The bishop nodded lugubriously.

“Aye,” he said, “aye.”

“And,” continued the cardinal, “I think that I may claim to have been fair.  I have been among you for three days now and I have both seen for myself and see as others see; and, before leaving for Rome to-night, I thought it only courteous to call upon you and inform you of the recommendations which I intend to make to the Holy Father.”

The bishop nodded still more lugubriously.

“Aye,” he said.  “Ye’ll be telling His Holiness that we’re a lot of auld sweetie wives and His Holiness will close down our miracle.”  He snuffled away to himself.  “Och, well, Ah suppose ye canna have it both ways; sporans and the supernatural never did agree.  But ye can tell His Holiness from me—with all due respect, mind ye—ye can tell His Holiness that we’re a hard-heided lot in Scotland and that when we have miracles we have miracles and not just a lot o’ daft cocks laying eggs on altars.” 

“Perhaps,” said the cardinal, “you would prefer to convey the message personally on the occasion of your next visit ad limina apostolorum.”

“Och,” said the bishop, scratching his ear, “din-na fash yerself, yer eminence.  No harm meant.  Ah was just having ma wee bit gurn to maself.  But it’s no use greetin’ ower spilt milk and Ah suppose it’s still less use greetin’ ower spilled miracles.  The Lorrd giveth and the Lorrd taketh away.  Blessed be the Name o’ the Lorrd.”

“Yes,” said the cardinal.  “And it’s not as if the mirackil were condemned.  Far from it.  In the fullness of time, Monsignore, it may well be that Almighty God will give us a definite confirmation that your mirackil is a true mirackil.  In the fullness of time, Monsignore.  But until then no more solemn Te Deums, no more public services.  Private devotions, if you will, but nothing to arouse criticism or retard the cause of Christ.”

“Aye,” said the bishop in much the same tone as, when a small boy, he had used to the village schoolmaster.

They dined together, the cardinal and the bish-op, and talked the holy shop of prelates, while in the dark church of Saint Margaret of Scotland Father Malachy prayed for strength to endure and to conquer and in Newcastle a fair-haired girl of twenty-one, in clothes that were the fashion in italics, waggled her free-thinking little posterior and sang that they had had to fly right through the sky until they reached North Berwickle. 

Father Malachy's Miracle: Chapter Twelve
Father Malachy's Miracle: Chapter Ten

Notes

"Dixit Dominus Domino meo…": "The Lord said to my Lord…."

“…donec ponam inimicos tuos scabellum pedum tuorum”: "…until I make your enemies the footstool of thy feet."

“Quia respexit humilitatem ancillae suæ”: Because he has looked graciously upon the lowliness of his handmaid

bonne à tout faire: an all-purpose housemaid

Buona sera, Monsignore. lo sono il Cardinale Vassena di Santa Maria della Pace e sono stato delegato dalla Sua Santità per verificare il suo piccolo miracolo scozzese: Good evening, Monsignor.  I am Cardinal Vassena of Santa Maria della Pace and I have been delegated by His Holiness to verify your little Scottish miracle.”

Non parla italiano?  E il francese?  Senza dubbio, sans doute vous parlez le francais?  Eh bien, commençons encore une fois.  Je suis le Cardinal Vassena de Sainte Marie de la Paix et j’ai été délégué par Sa Saintété pour vérifer votre petit miracle écossais: You don’t speak Italian?  What about French?  No doubt you speak French?  Well, let's start again. I am Cardinal Vassena of Saint Mary of Peace and I have been delegated by Her Holiness to verify your little Scottish miracle.

Jenners: The Maison Worth of Edinburgh

Per Bacco: an interjection, like taking the name of Bacchus in vain.

Ite Missa est: The Latin words addressed to the people at the conclusion of the Roman Catholic Mass

Credo che capisco: I guess I understand.

un poco mondano: a little worldly (literally, "a little mundane")

La giovinezza italiana…: The Italian youth...

Si, si, Monsignore, comprendo perfettamente.  Perfettamente, Monsignore.  Ma…: Yes, yes, Monsignor, I understand perfectly. Perfectly, Monsignor. But…

sporan: a leather or fur pouch worn at the front of the kilt in the traditional dress of men of the Scottish Highlands.

ad limina apostolorum: the obligation incumbent on certain members of the hierarchy of visiting, at stated times, the "thresholds of the Apostles", Sts. Peter and Paul, and of presenting themselves before the pope to give an account of the state of their dioceses.