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.
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