for soufflés and omelettes and even for after-dinner coffee.
Father Thomas said, ‘I do not think Querry minds much about his food.’ He was the only priest in the leproserie with whom the Superior felt ill at ease; he still seemed to carry with him the strains and anxieties of the seminary. He had left it longer ago than any of the others, but he seemed doomed to a perpetual and unhappy youth; he was ill at ease with men who had grown up and were more concerned over the problems of the electric-light plant or the quality of the brickmaking than over the pursuit of souls. Souls could wait. Souls had eternity.
‘Yes, he’s a good enough guest,’ the Superior said, steering a little away from the course that he suspected Father Thomas wished to pursue.
‘He’s a remarkable man,’ Father Thomas said, struggling to regain direction.
‘We have enough funds now,’ the Superior said at large, ‘for an electric fan in the delivery-ward.’
‘We’ll have air-conditioning in our rooms yet,’ Father Jean said, ‘and a drug-store and all the latest movie magazines including pictures of Brigitte Bardot.’ Father Jean was tall, pale, and concave with a beard which struggled like an unpruned hedge. He had once been a brilliant moral theologian before he joined the Order and now he carefully nurtured the character of a film-fan, as though it would help him to wipe out an ugly past.
‘I’d rather have a boiled egg for Sunday lunch,’ Father Paul said.
‘You wouldn’t like stale eggs boiled,’ Father Jean said, helping himself to more soufflé; in spite of his cadaverous appearance he had a Flemish appetite.
‘They wouldn’t be stale,’ Father Joseph said, ‘if they only learnt to manage the chickens properly. I’d be quite ready to put some of my men on to building them proper houses for intensive production. It would be easy enough to carry the electric power down from their houses . . .’
Brother Philippe spoke for the first time. He was always reluctant to intrude on the conversation of men who he considered belonged to another less mundane world. ‘Electric fans, chicken houses: be careful, father, or you will be overloading the dynamos before you’ve done.’
The Superior was aware that Father Thomas was smouldering at his elbow. He said tactfully, ‘And the new classroom, father? Have you everything that’s needed?’
‘Everything but a catechist who knows the first thing about his faith.’
‘Oh well, so long as he can teach the alphabet. First things first.’
‘I should have thought the Catechism was rather more important than the alphabet.’
‘Rycker was on the telephone this morning,’ Father Jean said, coming to the Superior’s rescue.
‘What did he want?’
‘Querry of course. He said he had a message – something about an Englishman, but he refused to give it. He threatened to be over one day soon, when the ferries are working again. I asked him if he could bring me some film magazines, but he said he didn’t read them. He also wants to borrow Father Garrigou-Lagrange on Predestination.’
‘There are moments,’ the Superior said with moderation, ‘when I almost regret M. Querry’s arrival.’
‘Surely we should be very glad,’ Father Thomas said, ‘of any small inconvenience he may bring us. We don’t live a very troubled life.’ The helping of soufflé he had taken remained untasted on his plate. He kneaded a piece of bread into a hard pellet and washed it down like a pill. ‘You can’t expect people to leave us alone while he is here. It’s not only that he’s a famous man. He’s a man of profound faith.’
‘I hadn’t noticed it,’ Father Paul said. ‘He wasn’t at Mass this morning.’ The Superior lit another cheroot.
‘Oh yes he was. I can tell you his eyes never left the altar. He was sitting across the way with the sick. That’s as good a way of attending Mass as sitting up in front with his back to the lepers, isn’t it?’
Father
Father Thomas said, ‘I do not think Querry minds much about his food.’ He was the only priest in the leproserie with whom the Superior felt ill at ease; he still seemed to carry with him the strains and anxieties of the seminary. He had left it longer ago than any of the others, but he seemed doomed to a perpetual and unhappy youth; he was ill at ease with men who had grown up and were more concerned over the problems of the electric-light plant or the quality of the brickmaking than over the pursuit of souls. Souls could wait. Souls had eternity.
‘Yes, he’s a good enough guest,’ the Superior said, steering a little away from the course that he suspected Father Thomas wished to pursue.
‘He’s a remarkable man,’ Father Thomas said, struggling to regain direction.
‘We have enough funds now,’ the Superior said at large, ‘for an electric fan in the delivery-ward.’
‘We’ll have air-conditioning in our rooms yet,’ Father Jean said, ‘and a drug-store and all the latest movie magazines including pictures of Brigitte Bardot.’ Father Jean was tall, pale, and concave with a beard which struggled like an unpruned hedge. He had once been a brilliant moral theologian before he joined the Order and now he carefully nurtured the character of a film-fan, as though it would help him to wipe out an ugly past.
‘I’d rather have a boiled egg for Sunday lunch,’ Father Paul said.
‘You wouldn’t like stale eggs boiled,’ Father Jean said, helping himself to more soufflé; in spite of his cadaverous appearance he had a Flemish appetite.
‘They wouldn’t be stale,’ Father Joseph said, ‘if they only learnt to manage the chickens properly. I’d be quite ready to put some of my men on to building them proper houses for intensive production. It would be easy enough to carry the electric power down from their houses . . .’
Brother Philippe spoke for the first time. He was always reluctant to intrude on the conversation of men who he considered belonged to another less mundane world. ‘Electric fans, chicken houses: be careful, father, or you will be overloading the dynamos before you’ve done.’
The Superior was aware that Father Thomas was smouldering at his elbow. He said tactfully, ‘And the new classroom, father? Have you everything that’s needed?’
‘Everything but a catechist who knows the first thing about his faith.’
‘Oh well, so long as he can teach the alphabet. First things first.’
‘I should have thought the Catechism was rather more important than the alphabet.’
‘Rycker was on the telephone this morning,’ Father Jean said, coming to the Superior’s rescue.
‘What did he want?’
‘Querry of course. He said he had a message – something about an Englishman, but he refused to give it. He threatened to be over one day soon, when the ferries are working again. I asked him if he could bring me some film magazines, but he said he didn’t read them. He also wants to borrow Father Garrigou-Lagrange on Predestination.’
‘There are moments,’ the Superior said with moderation, ‘when I almost regret M. Querry’s arrival.’
‘Surely we should be very glad,’ Father Thomas said, ‘of any small inconvenience he may bring us. We don’t live a very troubled life.’ The helping of soufflé he had taken remained untasted on his plate. He kneaded a piece of bread into a hard pellet and washed it down like a pill. ‘You can’t expect people to leave us alone while he is here. It’s not only that he’s a famous man. He’s a man of profound faith.’
‘I hadn’t noticed it,’ Father Paul said. ‘He wasn’t at Mass this morning.’ The Superior lit another cheroot.
‘Oh yes he was. I can tell you his eyes never left the altar. He was sitting across the way with the sick. That’s as good a way of attending Mass as sitting up in front with his back to the lepers, isn’t it?’
Father
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