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The Altar Steps by Compton MacKenzie

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Mark looked up at the figure of St. Benedict standing in that holy group
at the foot of the Cross.

_Ideoque nos proevidemus expedire, propter pacis caritatisque
custodiam, in Abbatis pendere arbitrio ordinationem monasterii
sui. . . ._

St. Benedict had more than apprehended; he had actually foreseen that
the Abbot ought to manage his own monastery. It was as if centuries ago,
in the cave at Subiaco, he had heard that strident voice of Brother
Athanasius in this matchboarded Chapter-room, as if he had beheld
Brother Dominic, while apparently he was striving to persuade his
brethren to accept the Father Superior's advice, nevertheless taking
sides, and thereby travelling along the road that leads toward
destruction. This was the thought that paralyzed Mark's tongue when it
was his turn to speak, and this was why he would not commit himself to
an opinion. Afterward, his neutrality appeared to him a weak compromise,
and he regretted that he had not definitely allied himself with one
party or the other.

The announcement in _The Dragon_ that the Order had been compelled to
give up the Aldershot house produced a large sum of sympathetic
contributions; and when the Father Superior came back just before Lent,
he convened another Chapter, at which he told the Community that it was
imperative to establish a priory in London before they tried to reopen
any houses elsewhere. His argument was cogent, and once again there was
the appearance of unanimity among the Brethren, who all approved of the
proposal. It had always been the custom of Father Burrowes to preach his
hardest during Lent, because during that season of self-denial he was
able to raise more money than at any other time, but until now he had
never failed to be at the Abbey at the beginning of Passion Week, nor to
remain there until Easter was over.

The Feast of St. Benedict fell upon the Saturday before the fifth Sunday
in Lent, and the Father Superior, who had travelled down from the North
in order to be present, announced that he considered it would be
prudent, so freely was the money flowing in, not to give up preaching
this year during Passion Week and Holy Week. Naturally, he did not
intend to leave the Community without a priest at such a season, and he
had made arrangements with the Reverend Andrew Hett to act as chaplain
until he could come back into residence himself.

Brother Raymond and Brother Augustine were particularly thrilled by the
prospect of enjoying the ministrations of Andrew Hett, less perhaps
because they would otherwise be debarred from their Easter duties than
because they looked forward to services and ceremonies of which they
felt they had been robbed by the austere Anglicanism of Brother George.

"Andrew Hett is famous," declared Brother Raymond at the pitch of
exultation. "It was he who told the Bishop of Ipswich that if the Bishop
made him give up Benediction he would give up singing Morning and
Evening Prayer."

"That must have upset the Bishop," said Mark. "I suppose he resigned
his bishopric."

"I should have thought that you, Brother Mark, would have been the last
one to take the part of a bishop when he persecutes a Catholic priest!"

"I'm not taking the part of the Bishop," Mark replied. "But I think it
was a silly remark for a curate to make. It merely put him in the wrong,
and gave the Bishop an opportunity to score."

The Prior had questioned the policy of engaging Andrew Hett as Chaplain,
even for so brief a period as a month. He argued that, inasmuch as the
Bishop of Silchester had twice refused to licence him to parishes in the
diocese, it would prejudice the Bishop against the Order of St. George,
and might lead to his inhibiting the Father Superior later on, should an
excuse present itself.

"Nonsense, my dear Brother George," said the Reverend Father. "He won't
know anything about it officially, and in any case ours is a private
oratory, where refusals to licence and episcopal inhibitions have no
effect."

"That's not my point," argued Brother George. "My point is that any
communication with a notorious ecclesiastical outlaw like this fellow
Hett is liable to react unfavourably upon us. Why can't we get down
somebody else? There must be a number of unemployed elderly priests who
would be glad of the holiday."

"I'm afraid that I've offered Hett the job now, so let us make up our
minds to be content."

Mark, who was doing secretarial work for the Reverend Father, happened
to be present during this conversation, which distressed him, because it
showed him that the Prior was still at variance with the Abbot, a state
of affairs that was ultimately bound to be disastrous for the Community.
He withdrew almost immediately on some excuse to the Superior's inner
room, whence he intended to go downstairs to the Porter's Lodge until
the Prior was gone. Unfortunately, the door of the inner room was
locked, and before he could explain what had happened, a conversation
had begun which he could not help overhearing, but which he dreaded to
interrupt.

"I'm afraid, dear Brother George," the Reverend Father was saying, "I'm
very much afraid that you are beginning to think I have outlived my
usefulness as Superior of the Order."

"I've never suggested that," Brother George replied angrily.

"You may not have meant to give that impression, but certainly that is
what you have succeeded in making me feel personally," said the
Superior.

"I have been associated with you long enough to be entitled to express
my opinion in private."

"In private, yes. But are you always careful only to do so in private?
I'm not complaining. My only desire is the prosperity and health of the
Order. Next Christmas I am ready to resign, and let the brethren elect
another Superior-general."

"That's talking nonsense," said the Prior. "You know as well as I do
that nobody else except you could possibly be Superior. But recently I
happen to have had a better opportunity than you to criticize our Mother
House, and frankly I'm not satisfied with the men we have. Few of them
will be any use to us. Birinus, Anselm, Giles, Chad, Athanasius if
properly suppressed, Mark, these in varying degrees, have something in
them, but look at the others! Dominic, ambitious and sly, Jerome, a
pompous prig, Dunstan, a nincompoop, Raymond, a milliner, Nicholas,
a--well, you know what I think Nicholas is, Augustine, another
nincompoop, Lawrence, still at Sunday School, and poor Simon, a clown.
I've had a dozen probationers through my hands, and not one of them was
as good as what we've got. I'm afraid I'm less hopeful of the future
than I was in Canada."

"I notice, dear Brother George," said the Father Superior, "that you are
prejudiced in favour of the brethren who follow your lead with a certain
amount of enthusiasm. That is very natural. But I'm not so pessimistic
about the others as you are. Perhaps you feel that I am forgetting how
much the Order owes to your generosity in the past. Believe me, I have
forgotten nothing. At the same time, you gave your money with your eyes
open. You took your vows without being pressed. Don't you think you owe
it to yourself, if not to the Order or to me personally, to go through
with what you undertook? Your three vows were Chastity, Poverty, and
Obedience."

There was no answer from the Prior; a moment later he shut the door
behind him, and went downstairs alone. Mark came into the room at once.

"Reverend Father," he said. "I'm sorry to have to tell you that I
overheard what you and the Reverend Brother were saying." He went on to
explain how this had happened, and why he had not liked to make his
presence known.

"You thought the Reverend Brother would not bear the mortification with
as much fortitude as myself?" the Father Superior suggested with a faint
smile.

It struck Mark how true this was, and he looked in astonishment at
Father Burrowes, who had offered him the key to his action.

"Well, we must forget what we heard, my son," said the Father Superior.
"Sit down, and let's finish off these letters."

An hour's work was done, at the end of which the Reverend Father asked
Mark if his had been the blank paper when the votes were counted in
Chapter, and when Mark admitted that it had been, he pressed him for the
reason of his neutrality.

"I'm not sure that it oughtn't to be called indecision," said Mark. "I
was personally interested in the keeping on of Aldershot, because I had
worked there."

"Then why not have voted for doing so?" the Superior asked, in accents
that were devoid of the least grudge against Mark for disagreeing with
himself.

"I tried to get rid of my personal opinion," Mark explained. "I tried to
look at the question strictly from the standpoint of the member of a
community. As such I felt that the Reverend Brother was wrong to run
counter to his Superior. At the same time, if you'll forgive me for
saying so, I felt that you were wrong to give up Aldershot. I simply
could not arrive at a decision between the two opinions."

"I do not blame you, my son, for your scrupulous cast of mind. Only
beware of letting it chill your enthusiasm. Satan may avail himself of
it one day, and attack your faith. Solomon was just. Our Blessed Lord,
by our cowardly standards, was unjust. Remembering the Gadarene swine,
the barren fig-tree, the parable of the wedding-guest without a garment,
Martha and Mary. . . ."

"Martha and Mary!" interrupted Mark. "Why, that was really the point at
issue. And the ointment that might have been sold for the benefit of the
poor. Yes, Judas would have voted with the Reverend Brother."

"And Pontius Pilate would have remained neutral," added Father Burrowes,
his blue eyes glittering with delight at the effect upon Mark of his
words.

But when Mark was walking back to the Abbey down the winding drive among
the hazels, he wished that he and not the Reverend Father had used that
illustration. However, useless regrets for his indecision in the matter
of the priory at Aldershot were soon obliterated by a new cause of
division, which was the arrival of the Reverend Andrew Hett on the Vigil
of the Annunciation, just in time to sing first Vespers.

It fell to Mark's lot to entertain the new chaplain that evening,
because Brother Jerome who had become guest-master when Brother Anselm
took his place as cellarer was in the infirmary. Mark was scarcely
prepared for the kind of personality that Hett's proved to be. He had
grown accustomed during his time at the Abbey to look down upon the
protagonists of ecclesiastical battles, so little else did any of the
guests who visited them want to discuss, so much awe was lavished upon
them by Brother Raymond and Brother Augustine. It did not strike Mark
that the fight at St. Agnes' might appear to the large majority of
people as much a foolish squabble over trifles, a cherishing of the
letter rather than the spirit of Christian worship, as the dispute
between Mr. So-and-so and the Bishop of Somewhere-or-other in regard to
his use of the Litany of the Saints in solemn procession on high days
and holy days.

Andrew Hett revived in Mark his admiration of the bigot, which would
have been a dangerous thing to lose in one's early twenties. The
chaplain was a young man of perhaps thirty-five, tall, raw-boned,
sandy-haired, with a complexion of extreme pallor. His light-blue eyes
were very red round the rims, and what eyebrows he possessed slanted up
at a diabolic angle. His voice was harsh, high, and rasping as a guinea
fowl's. When Mark brought him his supper, Hett asked him several
questions about the Abbey time-table, and then said abruptly:

"The ugliness of this place must be soul-destroying."

Mark looked at the Guest-chamber with new eyes. There was such a force
of assertion in Hett's tone that he could not contradict him, and indeed
it certainly was ugly.

"Nobody can live with matchboarded walls and ceilings and not suffer for
it," Hett went on. "Why didn't you buy an old tithe barn and live in
that? It's an insult to Almighty God to worship Him in such
surroundings."

"This is only a beginning," Mark pointed out.

"A very bad beginning," Hett growled. "Such brutalizing ugliness would
be inexcusable if you were leading an active life. But I gather that you
claim to be contemplative here. I've been reading your ridiculous
monthly paper _The Dragon_. Full of sentimental bosh about bringing back
the glories of monasticism to England. Tintern was not built of tin. How
can you contemplate Almighty God here? It's not possible. What Divine
purpose is served by collecting men under hundreds of square feet of
corrugated iron? I'm astonished at Charles Horner. I thought he knew
better than to encourage this kind of abomination."

There was only one answer to make to Hett, which was that the religious
life of the Community did not depend upon any externals, least of all
upon its lodging; but when Mark tried to frame this answer, his lips
would not utter the words. In that moment he knew that it was time for
him to leave Malford and prepare himself to be a priest elsewhere, and
otherwise than by what the Rector had stigmatized as the pseudo-monastic
life.

Mark wondered when he had left the chaplain to his ferocious
meditations what would have been the effect of that diatribe upon some
of his brethren. He smiled to himself, as he sat over his solitary
supper in the Refectory, to picture the various expressions he could
imagine upon their faces when they came hotfoot from the Guest-chamber
with the news of what manner of priest was in their midst. And while he
was sipping his bowl of pea-soup, he looked up at the image of St.
George and perceived that the dragon's expression bore a distinct
resemblance to that of the Reverend Andrew Hett. That night it seemed to
Mark, in one of those waking trances that occur like dreams between one
disturbed sleep and another, that the presence of the chaplain was
shaking the flimsy foundations of the Abbey with such ruthlessness that
the whole structure must soon collapse.

"It's only the wind," he murmured, with that half of his mind which was
awake. "March is going out like a dragon."

After Mass next day, when Mark was giving the chaplain his breakfast,
the latter asked who kept the key of the tabernacle.

"Brother Birinus, I expect. He is the sacristan."

"It ought to have been given to me before Mass. Please go and ask for
it," requested the chaplain.

Mark found Brother Birinus in the Sacristy, putting away the white
vestments in the press. When Mark gave him the chaplain's message,
Brother Birinus told him that the Reverend Brother had the key.

"What does he want the key for?" asked Brother George when Mark had
repeated to him the chaplain's request.

"He probably wishes to change the Host," Mark suggested.

"There is no need to do that. And I don't believe that is the reason. I
believe he wants to have Benediction. He's not going to have Benediction
here."

Mark felt that it was not his place to argue with the Reverend Brother,
and he merely asked him what reply he was to give to the chaplain.

"Tell him that the key of the Tabernacle is kept by me while the
Reverend Father is away, and that I regret I cannot give it to him."

The priest's eyes blazed with anger when Mark returned without the key.

"Who is the Reverend Brother?" he rasped.

"Brother George."

"Yes, but what is he? Apothecary, tailor, ploughboy, what?"

"Brother George is the Prior."

"Well, please tell the Prior that I should like to speak to him
instantly."

When Mark found Brother George he had already doffed his habit, and was
dressed in his farmer's clothes to go working on the land.

"I'll speak to Mr. Hett before Sext. Meanwhile, you can assure him that
the key of the Tabernacle is perfectly safe. I wear it round my neck."

Brother George pulled open his shirt, and showed Mark the golden key
hanging from a cord.

On receiving the Prior's message, the chaplain asked for a railway
time-table.

"I see there is a fast train at 10.30. Please order the trap."

"You're not going to leave us?" Mark exclaimed.

"Do you suppose, Brother Mark, that no bishop in the Establishment will
receive me in his diocese because I am accustomed to give way? I should
not have asked for the key of the Tabernacle unless I thought that it
was my duty to ask for it. I cannot take it from the Reverend Brother's
neck. I will not stay here without its being given up to me. Please
order the trap in time to catch the 10.30 train."

"Surely you will see the Reverend Brother first," Mark urged. "I should
have made it clear to you that he is out in the fields, and that all the
work of the farm falls upon his shoulders. It cannot make any difference
whether you have the key now or before Sext. And I'm sure the Reverend
Brother will see your point of view when you put it to him."

"I am not going to argue about the custody of God," said the chaplain.
"I should consider such an argument blasphemy, and I consider the
Prior's action in refusing to give up the key sacrilege. Please order
the trap."

"But if you sent a telegram to the Reverend Father . . . Brother Dominic
will know where he is . . . I'm sure that the Reverend Father will put
it right with Brother George, and that he will at once give you the
key."

"I was summoned here as a priest," said the chaplain. "If the amateur
monk left in charge of this monastery does not understand the
prerogatives of my priesthood, I am not concerned to teach him except
directly."

"Well, will you wait until I've found the Reverend Brother and told him
that you intend to leave us unless he gives you the key?" Mark begged,
in despair at the prospect of what the chaplain's departure would mean
to a Community already too much divided against itself.

"It is not one of my prerogatives to threaten the prior of a monastery,
even if he is an amateur," said the chaplain. "From the moment that
Brother George refuses to recognize my position, I cease to hold that
position. Please order the trap."

"You won't have to leave till half-past nine," said Mark, who had made
up his mind to wrestle with Brother George on his own initiative, and if
possible to persuade him to surrender the key to the chaplain of his own
accord. With this object he hurried out, to find Brother George
ploughing that stony ground by the fir-trees. He was looking ruefully at
a broken share when Mark approached him.

"Two since I started," he commented.

But he was breaking more precious things than shares, thought Mark, if
he could but understand.

"Let the fellow go," said Brother George coldly, when Mark had related
his interview with the chaplain.

"But, Reverend Brother, if he goes we shall have no priest for Easter."

"We shall be better off with no priest than with a fellow like that."

"Reverend Brother," said Mark miserably, "I have no right to remonstrate
with you, I know. But I must say something. You are making a mistake.
You will break up the Community. I am not speaking on my own account
now, because I have already made up my mind to leave, and get ordained.
But the others! They're not all strong like you. They really are not. If
they feel that they have been deprived of their Easter Communion by you
. . . and have you the right to deprive them? After all, Father Hett has
reason on his side. He is entitled to keep the key of the Tabernacle. If
he wishes to hold Benediction, you can forbid him, or at least you can
forbid the brethren to attend. But the key of the Tabernacle belongs to
him, if he says Mass there. Please forgive me for speaking like this,
but I love you and respect you, and I cannot bear to see you put
yourself in the wrong."

The Prior patted Mark on the shoulder.

"Cheer up, Brother," he said. "You mustn't mind if I think that I know
better than you what is good for the Community. I have had a longer time
to learn, you must remember. And so you're going to leave us?"

"Yes, but I don't want to talk about that now," Mark said.

"Nor do I," said Brother George. "I want to get on with my ploughing."

Mark saw that it was as useless to argue with him as attempt to persuade
the chaplain to stay. He turned sadly away, and walked back with heavy
steps towards the Abbey. Overhead, the larks, rising and falling upon
their fountains of song, seemed to mock the way men worshipped Almighty
God.




CHAPTER XXIX

SUBTRACTION


Mark had not spent a more unhappy Easter since the days of Haverton
House. He was oppressed by the sense of excommunication that brooded
over the Abbey, and on the Saturday of Passion Week the versicles and
responses of the proper Compline had a dreadful irony.

_V. O King most Blessed, govern Thy servants in the right way._
_R. Among Thy Saints, O King most Blessed._
_V. By holy fasts to amend our sinful lives._
_R. O King most Blessed, govern Thy Saints in the right way._
_V. To duly keep Thy Paschal Feast._
_R. Among Thy Saints, O King most Blessed._

"Brother Mark," said Brother Augustine, on the morning of Palm Sunday,
"_did_ you notice that ghastly split infinitive in the last versicle at
Compline? _To duly keep._ I can't think why we don't say the Office in
Latin."

Mark felt inclined to tell Brother Augustine that if nothing more vital
than an infinitive was split during this holy season, the Community
might have cause to congratulate itself. Here now was Brother Birinus
throwing away as useless the bundle of palms that lacked the blessing of
a priest, throwing them away like dead flowers.

Sir Charles Horner, who had been in town, arrived at the Abbey on the
Tuesday, and announced that he was going to spend Holy Week with the
Community.

"We have no chaplain," Mark told him.

"No chaplain!" Sir Charles exclaimed. "But I understood that Andrew
Hett had undertaken the job while Father Burrowes was away."

Mark did not think that it was his duty to enlighten Sir Charles upon
the dispute between Brother George and the chaplain. However, it was not
long before he found out what had occurred from the Prior's own lips and
came fuming back to the Guest-chamber.

"I consider the whole state of affairs most unsatisfactory," he said. "I
really thought that when Brother George took charge here the Abbey would
be better managed."

"Please, Sir Charles," Mark begged, "you make it very uncomfortable for
me when you talk like that about the Reverend Brother before me."

"Yes, but I must give my opinion. I have a right to criticize when I am
the person who is responsible for the Abbey's existence here. It's all
very fine for Brother George to ask me to notify Bazely at Wivelrod that
the brethren wish to go to their Easter duties in his church. Bazely is
a very timid man. I've already driven him into doing more than he really
likes, and my presence in his church doesn't alarm the parishioners. In
fact, they rather like it. But they won't like to see the church full of
monks on Easter morning. They'll be more suspicious than ever of what
they call poor Bazely's innovations. It's not fair to administer such a
shock to a remote country parish like Wivelrod, especially when they're
just beginning to get used to the vestments I gave them. It seems to me
that you've deliberately driven Andrew Hett away from the Abbey, and I
don't see why poor Bazely should be made to suffer. How many monks are
you now? Fifteen? Why, fifteen bulls in Wivelrod church would create
less dismay!"

Sir Charles's protest on behalf of the Vicar of Wivelrod was effective,
for the Prior announced that after all he had decided that it was the
duty of the Community to observe Easter within the Abbey gates. The
Reverend Father would return on Easter Tuesday, and their Easter duties
would be accomplished within the Octave. Withal, it was a gloomy Easter
for the brethren, and when they began the first Vespers with the
quadruple Alleluia, it seemed as if they were still chanting the
sorrowful antiphons of Good Friday.

_My spirit is vexed within Me: and My heart within Me is desolate._

_Is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by: behold and see if there
be any sorrow like unto My sorrow, which is done unto Me._

_What are these wounds in Thy Hands: Those with which I was wounded
in the house of My friends._

Nor was there rejoicing in the Community when at Lauds of Easter Day
they chanted:

_V. In Thy Resurrection, O Christ._
_R. Let Heaven and earth rejoice, Alleluia._

Nor when at Prime and Terce and Sext and None they chanted:

_This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be
glad in it._

And when at the second Vespers the Brethren declared:

_V. Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us, therefore let us keep
the Feast._

_R. Not with the old leaven, nor with the leaven of malice and
wickedness; but with the unleavened Bread of sincerity and
truth. Alleluia._

scarcely could they who chanted the versicle challenge with their eyes
those who hung down their heads when they gave the response.

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Tell us your literary dreams
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John Crace digests A Question of Upbringing by Anthony Powell

My English teacher is wearing a barrister's wig. He turns and points towards me as I sit trembling in the dock. "Members of the jury, I put it to you that this man, Tom Robinson, is innocent," he says, rather lugubriously. I want to protest. I want to shout that no, I am not Tom Robinson, but yes, I am innocent! But the words won't come out.

Then I wake up. It's another literary dream – one that's troubled me ever since I studied Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird for GCSE.

Most of the time I'm disappointed to leave my literary dreams, waking to realise that I'm not really ensconced with with the boozing Welsh pensioners from Kingsley Amis's The Old Devils or haven't really been thrashing Harry Potter's Quidditch team. I remember with fondness a skiing trip with William Shakespeare and the delightful discovery that Don DeLillo was serving drinks behind the bar in my local pub.

It's not all sunshine, though. Tom Wolfe once ruined a trip to New York, shouting at me across Fifth Avenue: "You're not even familiar with my work – get outta town, asshole!" But that's nothing on Howard Jacobson. I spent a summer discovering his novels during my waking hours and bumping into him in my sleep. I'd see him in a local restaurant and tell him how much I was enjoying his novels. "Oh right," he'd snap, "that old chestnut, huh?" When I met him for real last year he was, in fact, charm personified. I didn't tell him about the dreams.

But enough about my subconscious, what about yours? It's Friday: forget about work and tell me all about your literary dreams. Don't hold back – it's not like we'll read anything into it.

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