The Collar

  The Collar

  Stories of Irish Priests

  Frank O’Connor

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION by Harriet O’Donovan Sheehy

  Uprooted

  News for the Church

  The Sentry

  The Old Faith

  The Miracle

  Achilles’ Heel

  The Shepherds

  Peasants

  Song without Words

  Lost Fatherlands

  A Mother’s Warning

  The Frying-pan

  The Teacher’s Mass

  The Wreath

  An Act of Charity

  The Mass Island

  About the Author

  I STRUCK the board, and cry’d, No more. I will abroad. What? shall I ever sigh and pine?

  My lines and life are free; free as the road, Loose as the winde, as large as store. Shall I be still in suit? Have I no harvest but a thorn To let me blood, and not restore

  What I have lost with cordiall fruit? Sure there was wine Before my sighs did drie it: there was corn Before my tears did drown it. Is the yeare onely lost to me? Have I no bayes to crown it?

  No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted? All wasted? Not so, my heart: but there is fruit, And thou hast hands. Recover all thy sigh-blown age

  On double pleasures: leave thy cold dispute

  Of what is fit, and not; forsake thy cage, Thy rope of sands,

  Which pettie thoughts have made, and made to thee Good cable, to enforce and draw, And be thy law, While thou didst wink and wouldst not see. Away; take heed: I will abroad.

  Call in thy deaths head there: tie up thy fears. He that forbears To suit and serve his need, Deserves his load.

  But as I rav’d and grew more fierce and wilde At every word, Me thought I heard one calling, Childe: And I reply’d, My Lord.

  GEORGE HERBERT

  (1593–1633)

  INTRODUCTION

  FRANK O’CONNOR WAS OFTEN ACCUSED of being iconoclastic – of being in a perpetual state of annoyance with the Catholic Church. It was even written that ‘the sight of the collar was enough to make his hair stand on end’. It is true that he had little time for the institutional Church’s pedantic and legalistic moralising, and even less for its Byzantine secrecy and triumphalist and authoritarian voice. But towards the actual men set apart by the collar – those called ‘father’ by people who are not their children – he had an attitude compounded of amusement, respect, curiosity and, above all, compassion.

  Unikely as it may seem, he felt a certain kinship with them. In a review of J.F. Powers’s book The Presence of Grace he wrote:

  The attraction of the religious life for the story teller is overpowering. It is the attraction of a sort of life lived, or seeking to be lived, by standards other than those of this world, one which, in fact, resembles that of the artist. The good priest, like the good artist, needs human rewards, but no human reward can ever satisfy him.

  Perhaps this explains the large number of stories about priests in his work – the first written when he was in his thirties, the last, unfinished and untitled, the year he died. Taken as a whole, they not only seem a salute from one maverick to others, but also show an interesting development in his understanding of the difficulties of the job. Some of the stories are funny – sly, wry evocations of the antics, foibles and vulnerability of cranky celibates. Others, however, look with respect at the difficulties inherent in the vocation, and the misunderstandings, failures and disappointments incurred in trying to live it. But perhaps the best of them attempt to look behind the collar at the loneliness of those ‘trying to live by standards other than those of this world’ and to show the struggles this can involve – the fight to overcome vanity and arrogance and quick-temperedness, the desire for a different, more ordinary life, the boredom, the longing for a woman’s tenderness, the fierce urge towards self-justification and dogmatism.

  Perhaps, too, the stories reflect the ambiguity in O’Connor’s own attitude, torn between empathy with the men and antipathy towards the institution. Because of this they have been interpreted in very different ways. Take, for example, ‘News for the Church’. When it was first published in the New Yorker magazine, the editors received a lengthy telegram from the pastor and congregation of a Catholic church in Brooklyn stating that they were cancelling their subscriptions because of the ‘blasphemous attack on the sacrament of penance’ in O’Connor’s story. Three weeks later the same editors received a letter asking them to thank Frank O’Connor for his story because it had reminded the writer – a lapsed Catholic – of the healing power of the sacrament of penance, as a result of which he had gone to Confession for the first time in twelve years. And a feminist friend of mine heartily dislikes the story because she feels that O’Connor sympathises with what she sees as the priest’s ‘cruel and bullying behavior’.

  ‘An Act of Charity’, one of O’Connor’s last stories, shows where his sympathy lay when it came to a conflict between an individual priest and the Church. A friend had told him about a priest’s suicide and he wanted to write the story, but found it difficult to imagine what had driven the man to reject the Divine Mercy he’d dedicated his life to serving. Since O’Connor never wrote about something he couldn’t understand, he continued to mull it over, until one day he said: ‘You know, the worst of it is that the poor man’s final protest, whatever it was about, was never heard, because the Church covered it up to avoid giving scandal.’ He could appreciate the Church’s attitude, like Father Fogarty, who at one point says: ‘Believe me, it’s the best way for everybody in the long run.’ But ultimately, O’Connor wasn’t at all sure that it was the best way. Nor, in the story, is Father Fogarty. There is a great deal of Frank O’Connor in Father Fogarty – an emotional, compassionate man with a profound sense of his own frailty and inadequacy, who needed human rewards but was never totally satisfied by them.

  But, of course, there were also actual priests, friends, whose stories O’Connor made his own and whose characteristics are blended to create a Father Jackson or a Father Devine. Perhaps his best friend was Father Tim Traynor, whom Father Fogarty most closely resembles. I’d like, therefore, to dedicate this book to the memory of Father Traynor, about whom O’Connor once wrote: ‘He gave me an understanding of and sympathy with the Irish priesthood which even the antics of its silliest members have not been able to affect.’

  HARRIET O’DONOVAN SHEEHY

  MAY 1993

  UPROOTED

  1

  SPRING HAD ONLY COME and already he was tired. He was tired of the city, tired of his job, tired of himself. He had come up from the country intending to become a great man, but he was as far as ever from that. Lucky if he could carry on with his teaching, be at school each morning at half nine and satisfy his halfwitted principal.

  He lived in a small house in Rathmines. His window looked down on a little oblong of garden. The trams clanged up and down outside it. The house was kept by a middle-aged brother and sister who had been left a bit of money and decided to end their days enjoying themselves in the city. They did not enjoy themselves and regretted having sold their little farm in Kerry. Sometimes about midnight Finegan woke up to the fact that another day was passing, and sat at the piano and played through Moore’s Irish Melodies with one finger. Miss Finegan did not even play. ‘Ah, Mr Keating,’ she said with a sad smile, ‘you will always be happy. You have your dreams.’

  Keating felt that now he had little else. He was a slow, cumbrous young man with dark eyes and a lock of dark hair which kept tumbling into them. When he spoke he stammered and kept running his big hand slowly through his hair. He had always been dreamy and serious. Farming had meant nothing to him. Sometimes on market day he could be seen for hours in Nolan’s
little shop among the bags of meal, stepping from one foot to another as he turned over the pages of a book. After his elder brother Tom had decided to enter the Church there had been a fight between himself and his father about the teaching. His father had not helped him. Nor even his mother, who felt that in some way he intended it as a slight on Tom. And Tom himself, no book-lover, joined in the conspiracy. With an obstinate, almost despairing determination he had fought his way through the training college to the city, and the city had failed him. In the evening he might still be seen before the bookstalls on the quays, drooped, powerfully built, shambling; obviously a country lad, but no longer seeking a certain path to glory.

  It had all seemed so clear! But he had not counted on his own temper. He was popular enough, but popular because of how many concessions to others, from the children up! He was hesitant, gentle, slow to see round a thing and slow to contradict. He felt that he was constantly underestimating his own powers, but he could not straighten out his confused and passionate thoughts.

  And ideals! He had enough to set up a federation of states but they were all at war with his slow, cautious, country wits. Gentle, submissive, suspecting everyone, he was glad if he could create a momentary good impression, no matter what it might cost afterwards in loss of self-esteem. He did not drink, smoked little and saw dangers and losses everywhere. He accused himself of avarice and cowardice. His favourite story was of the country man and the pillar-box. ‘What a fool I am! Put me letther in a pump!’

  He had only one real friend, a nurse in Vincent’s Hospital, a bright, flighty, vivacious girl. He was fond of her, but something – shyness or caution – kept him from going farther. Sometimes he planned excursions beside the usual evening walk, but they never came off.

  He no longer knew what had brought him to the city but it was not the prospect of his solitary bed-sitting room in Rathmines, the shelf of books beside the window or the occasional visit to the pictures with Nora Delea; the long evenings of rain, the solitary musings. To live, that wasn’t enough. He would have liked to leave it all and go off to Glasgow or New York as a labourer, and it was not the romantic quality of the gesture which appealed to him; it was the feeling that only when he had not a roof to his head, only when he had to cadge a bite to eat, would he see what all his ideals and emotions meant and where he could fit them in. When he thought of this he looked at his hands. They were huge, powerful hands, which could pull a heavy boat or hold a plough in the straight.

  But no sooner did he set out for school next morning than the fancy took flight. He wouldn’t do it. Put his letter in a pump, indeed! He would continue to be submissive and count his salary and wonder how much he could save. And his nature would continue to contract about him till in ten years’ time it would tie him hand and foot.

  2

  Tom wrote, suggesting that they should go home together for the long weekend, and he agreed. Tom was a curate in a small country parish.

  He arrived on Friday night and on Saturday morning they set off in his old Ford. It was Easter weather, pearly and cold. Tom stopped at several hotels on the way and called for whiskeys in which Ned, in an expansive mood, joined him. He had never quite grown used to his brother, partly because of old days when he felt Tom was getting the education he should have got, partly because he was a priest. Tom’s ordination seemed in some strange way to have shut him off from the rest of the family; even his parents, who liked him far better than Ned, found themselves ill at ease with him.

  He was very different from Ned, lighter in colour of hair and skin, fat, fresh-complexioned, autocratic, a great hand with girls or a gun, an irascible, humorous, energetic man, well liked by his flock who knew him for a zealous priest and a good friend in time of trouble. Listening to his breezy, worldly talk, watching his way with men in garages and maids in hotels, Ned envied him. He was lavish and frank with some, pugnacious and exacting with others, differentiating as if by instinct between those who were honest and those who tried to cheat.

  It was nightfall when they reached home. Their father was at the gate to greet them, and immediately their mother came rushing out. The lamp was standing in the window. Brigid, the little girl who helped their mother, stood by the door, looking up every few minutes, and when her eye caught theirs, instantly looking down again.

  Nothing was changed in the tall bare kitchen. The harness hung still in the same place, the rosary on the same nail within the fireplace, by the stool where their mother sat; table under the window, churn against the back door, stair mounting straight without banisters to the attic door that yawned in the wall; all seemed as unchanging as the sea outside. Their mother was back on to the creepy, her coloured shawl tied about her head, tall, thin and wasted. Their father, stocky and broken-bottomed, stood with one hand on the dresser, looking out the door, while Brigid bustled round him, preparing the tea.

  ‘I said ye’d be late,’ he exclaimed. ‘Didn’t I, Brigid? Didn’t I keep on saying they’d be late?’

  ‘You did so.’

  ‘I did indeed. I knew ye’d be making halts on the road. But damn me, if I didn’t run out to meet Thady Lahy’s car going east the road!’

  ‘Was that Thady Lahy’s car?’ asked his wife with interest.

  ‘’Twas. He must have gone into town without our knowing it.’

  ‘There now, didn’t I tell you?’ said Brigid.

  ‘I thought ’twas the Master’s by the shape of it,’ said their mother wonderingly, pulling at the tassels of her shawl.

  ‘I’d know the rattle of Thady Lahy’s car a mile off,’ said Brigid.

  It seemed to Ned that he was interrupting a conversation which had been going on ever since his last visit.

  ‘Wisha, I never asked ye if ye’d take a drop!’ said old Tomas with sudden vexation. Ned knew to his sorrow that his father could be prudent, silent and calculating; he knew too well the sudden cock of the head, the narrowing of the eyes. But as well as that he loved an innocent excitement. He revelled in scenes of passion about nothing.

  ‘Is it whiskey?’ asked Tom with the roguish twinkle of his father.

  ‘There’s whiskey there as well.’

  ‘I’ll have it.’

  ‘The whiskey is it?’

  ‘’Tis not.’

  Tomas chuckled and rubbed his hands.

  ‘Ah, you’re not as big a fool as you look! There’s fine heating in it.’

  ‘Who made it?’

  ‘Coleen Jameseen.’

  ‘Coleen is it? Didn’t they catch that string of misery yet?’

  ‘Yerra, what catch! There’s nothing on legs would catch Coleen without you cut off his own. But, listen here to me! The priest preached a terrible sermon against him!’

  ‘Is old Fahy on the warpath still?’

  ‘Oh, my sorrow!’ Their father threw his hands to heaven and strode to and fro, his bucket-bottom wagging. ‘Such a flaking and scouring was never heard! Never heard! Never heard! How Coleen was able to raise his head after it! And where that man got all the words from! Tom, my son, my treasure, you’ll never have the like of them.’

  ‘I’d spare my breath to cool my porridge. I dare say you gave up your own still so?’

  ‘My still, is it? Musha, the drop that I make, ’twouldn’t harm a Christian. Only a drop at Christmas and Easter.’

  The lamp was back in its old place on the rere wall and made a circle of brightness on the fresh whitewash. Their mother was leaning forward over the fire with joined hands. The front door was still open, and their father walked to and from it, each time warming his broken seat at the fire. Someone passed up the road. Ned covered his eyes with his hands and felt that everything was still as it had been years before. When he closed his eyes he could hear the noise on the strand as a sort of background to the voices.

  ‘God be with you, Tomas,’ said the passer-by.

  ‘God and Mary be with you, Taige,’ shouted Tomas. ‘What way are you?’

  ‘Well, honour and praise be to God. �
�Tis a fine night.’

  ‘’Tis, ’tis so, thank God, a grand night.’

  ‘Musha, who is it?’ asked their mother looking up.

  ‘’Tis young Taige.’

  ‘Shamus’s young Taige, is it?’

  ‘’Tis, of course.’

  ‘Where would he be going at this hour?’

  ‘Up to the uncle’s, I suppose.’

  ‘Is it Ned Willie?’

  ‘He’s sleeping at Ned Willie’s,’ said Brigid in her high timid voice. ‘’Tis since the young teacher came.’

  Between his hands Ned smiled. The only unfamiliar voice, Brigid’s, seemed the most familiar of all.

  3

  Tom said first Mass next morning and the whole household, excepting Brigid, went. The chapel was a good distance away. They drove, and Tomas, sitting in front with his son, shouted greetings to all they met. Many of the neighbours were there to greet Tom in the sacristy. The chapel was perched high up from the road. Outside the morning was grey; beyond the windy edge of the hill was the bay. The wind blew straight in, setting petticoats and cloaks flying.

  After dinner Ned and he went for a walk into the village. Tom halted to speak to everyone he met. They were late in coming back for tea. Tomas had come out to meet them. He was very pleased about something.

  ‘Well,’ he said when they were seated, ‘I arranged a grand little outing for ye, thanks be to God.’

  To mark the source of the inspiration he searched at the back of his neck for the peak of his cap and raised it solemnly.

  ‘Musha, what outing are you talking about?’ asked their mother angrily. Clearly, she and Tomas had had words about it.

  ‘I arranged for us to go over the bay to the O’Donnells.’

  ‘Can’t you leave the poor boys alone?’ bawled Maura. ‘Haven’t they only the one day? Isn’t it for the rest they came?’

  ‘Even so, even so, even so,’ said Tomas with mounting passion. ‘Aren’t their own cousins to be left put an eye on them?’