The teams of builders, technicians, and craftsmen come from the city. The priest refrains from employing local workers, even though it would be beneficial for the region, because he’s worried about the delays and imperfections that might result from their lack of expertise. Although he’s working for the future, and, in a sense, for eternity, there is a certain urgency. It’s a paradox worthy of Oscar Wilde (and worthier still of Thomas Aquinas): eternity has to be secured not in the short term but immediately. And the job has to be done well.
It’s a lightning operation, reminiscent of prestidigitation or magic. But, of course, that’s not how it actually works, because walls don’t go up by themselves or by the power of a spell; they are subject to the step-by-step progression of reality. So, between the morning’s discussions of logistical problems and the evening’s review and forward planning, in the middle of the day the priest has quite a lot of time on his hands, which he spends exploring the town and its environs, an activity in which he has hardly engaged until now, what with the hectic demands of planning and supervising the early stages of the building. The task of getting to know his flock and assessing their material and spiritual condition is an essential part of his ministry, which he has been relinquishing for the sake of the future. He only takes it up now because he has time to spare; he wouldn’t have done so otherwise, secure in the knowledge that he is working to ensure that his successor (indeed the whole series of his successors, since the house is intended to serve for a long time) will not have to defer that task.
He’s saddened by what he sees: at close quarters, the poverty is more shocking than he’d imagined. Perhaps, he thinks at first, it’s because of the contrast between the visions that have occupied his mind these last weeks — architectural visions of beauty and comfort — and the incredible deprivation in which those poor people live. But it’s not just that, although the difference may have heightened the impression. What it means to live without a bathroom, without furniture, crammed into a tiny space, sleeping on bug-infested straw mattresses, under roofs of damp thatch that smell of rot is something that can be grasped without recourse to any kind of contrast. Hunger, malnutrition, and illness are the currency of the exchange between children and adults, young and old, men and women. As the priest approaches the doorways of the dark shacks, nauseating odors check his steps; in a paroxysm of horror and pity, his fantasy fills in what he can’t see. The visible is barely half the problem. The other half is ignorance, resulting from an intricate knot of causes and effects: innocent, animal vice; the lack of long-term prospects; the stunned incapacity to see beyond day-by-day survival; the death of hope. His heart bleeds. The domain of charity opens out before him, a wasteland bathed by the angelic light of religion. He’s ready and waiting for the sharp plowshare of compassion to open a deep furrow in him.
But that furrow will not be opened for some time yet, so much time that he will not be the one to receive the wound. At the mere thought of this, he is seized by a doubt. He knows that the reasoning on which he has based his enterprise is sound, and not only sound but just, and yet the heart has its reasons. . His heart bled to see the distressing deprivation that surrounds him, and, bloodless now, it contracts in a spasm of anxiety as he realizes that with the money he is spending on the building of the house he could relieve much of that suffering. He could, for example, build a complex of small houses equipped with all the basic amenities necessary for a hygienic, civilized existence; half the population of the area, or more, would be well housed, and there’d be money left over for a school, a clinic. . But then the priest’s house would remain a depressing, dilapidated pile; at best, he’d be able to do a few repairs, with scraps of money pilfered from charity.
And in that case (here the priest, like someone who has reached the top of a slope and begun the easier descent, resumes his well-rehearsed argument), in that case, his successor might come to shirk the holy duties of charity, invoking the satanic proverb: “Charity begins at home.” Or, even if he wasn’t quite so bold, he could still consider the complex of neat little houses built by his predecessor and say: “It’s all done.” That would be a prodigious error, because the work of charity is never all done, not to mention the fact that to satisfy the housing needs of so many people with a fixed budget, one would have to use cheap materials and unskilled workers, and as a result the little houses in question would already be starting to need repairs by then. No, it certainly wouldn’t be all done; those ignorant people, raised amid filth and neglect, without a sense of civic virtue, would actively contribute to the deterioration of their homes. So it is essential to ensure that the charitable work of supporting, educating, and civilizing will continue. And the best way to do that is to leave a perfectly appointed residence for many priests to come. Once that task is accomplished, the priest will be able to give away all that he has, because he won’t need anything for himself. And the only reason he can’t do it straightaway is that he’s already giving — in secret, which is the best way to give.
This self-granted consolation allows him to return to work on the splendid house, the house of the future, with fresh energy. And in the days that follow, he has no time to fret over the conditions of the needy, because, as the structure nears completion, his tasks have multiplied; in a sense, they’re just beginning, because the walls and the roof are barely a skeleton and must be covered with all the things that make a house habitable. He has already decided which rooms will have marble floors (all those on the piano nobile except the main library and the rooms in the western wing), and where the floors will be wooden or tiled. Bluish-gray tiles of nonslip volcanic rock for the service areas, the kitchens, and the laundries; Slavonian oak, in boards of various widths and parquetry, for the first floor and the attic rooms. For the grand ceremonial staircase, pink Iranian marble, which will also cover the columns in the salons. White Carrara marble for the steps up to the main entrance and down from the rear gallery. The use of marble requires a certain sensitivity and tact: it’s a material that can have an inhibiting effect because of its associations with solemnity or courtly grandeur, but that is precisely why some people like it: because it makes them feel important, as if they’d entered a world in which momentous decisions are being made. The priest attempts to reconcile these opposite reactions by choosing restful forms for the bases of the columns and the sweep of the staircase, in order to impress without intimidating.
For the private bathrooms he has towel racks made to measure from a light, warm wood. The shared bathrooms, which are scattered around the house, away from the bedrooms, are floored with black and white tiles, which create an atmosphere of childlike innocence. He supervises the polishing, tests the waxes, and already he’s considering carpets.
The next step, although it has been under way for some time, is finishing the walls, in one of the three classic fashions: wood paneling, wallpaper (or hangings), and paint. In choosing the woods for the paneling from catalogs and samples, he runs the gamut from humble peteribi to precious cedar. The carvings of flowers, vegetables, animals, fish, scrolls, and capricious geometrical figures, which correspond over large distances so that instead of clearly echoing one another they seem vaguely, unplaceably familiar, are copied from old models and produced by craftsmen in various cities. They begin to arrive along with the wallpaper and hangings, some of which have been ordered from catalogs, while others have been custom-made. The salon walls begin to take on color as they are hung with damasks, brocades, and silks; the hexagonal coffers of the ceilings are covered with old gold leaf so as to hold the light. For the walls of certain bedrooms, floral wallpapers are suitable, while for others a uniform color is best: the pinkish bister of parchment or the midnight blue of Bengal cotton. On the rare occasions when the effect of the wallpaper (not in isolation but in conjunction and contrast with the other papers) is deemed unsatisfactory, it is removed and replaced. Harmony and variety must be reconciled, and monotony avoided without yielding to distracting excesses. The difference that the pictures and furniture will make must also be borne in mind. For the walls of the ancillary spaces, the paint selected is a creamy latex blend in neutral tones, but not so neutral as to exclude the hint of a metallic or watery sheen.