He also backs away from the vision of those harsh realities whose contemplation posed a threat to his equanimity. He returns to his house, where there is still quite a lot to do, and the wretched of the earth will be hidden from his sight.
There really is something missing from the house: that lived-in feel. He doesn’t want his successor to move into an impersonal, purely material structure. Lived-in houses, full of things that have been used and loved, have a warmth that can’t be faked. And that’s what he decides to work on now; it’s a restful way of passing the time, a reward for the long, exhausting tasks that went before.
As he lives his own life there, the priest discovers that certain things required for the future incumbent to be fully at home are still missing from the house, or perhaps from life itself. Small things, which become apparent only when the need arises. And supplying them, lovingly, one by one, occupies the rest of the earthly sojourn granted him by Providence. Every day he feels he is a little closer to that intuited center, a point in time, not space, which both encloses and reveals the mystery of Charity. He has come to identify that center with a man, the man he has created by thinking of him constantly, and, in a sense, obeying him. The house is full of that beloved, long-awaited stranger: it has all been done for him, so it’s hardly surprising that his absence informs every nook and cranny of the house. Although he is a single man, he is many men in one, all men, in a way. Which is why nothing can be alien to him, a priori. Anything that happens to cross the priest’s mind might be relevant. One day, for instance, a chance association of ideas leads him to chess. . What if his successor likes chess? Why not? And immediately he orders a board and a set of pieces and a little table, and even a timer in case the next priest is a serious player (why not?), and another portable, magnetic board, for traveling or taking on walks in the grounds, and a small but comprehensive set of chess books. . And since he wants it all to have been experienced already, he refreshes his knowledge of the game and starts playing. .
Death surprises him in the midst of another such task (although it’s not really a surprise, because with the passing years he has gone into decline, the maladies of age arriving along with the inner peace that comes from having achieved one’s goal). Ill now, confined to his room and his bed, he remembers that briefly, as a child, he was a passionate stamp collector. And since it has become second nature to turn every thought to the future incumbent, he thinks of what a joy it would be for that priest to find a fine stamp collection on arriving at the house, and how it would free him to spend more time bringing material and spiritual succor to the faithful. He contacts specialist dealers and acquires sets of stamps, collections from various countries, albums, tweezers, catalogs. With loving care, he files away those tiny squares of paper with their perforated edges, marveling at the colors, the figures, the way they evoke distant lands and, at the same time, recall his childhood. The final purchase: a Chinese chest with many drawers and compartments in which to keep the albums and boxes.
By the time the news of his death reaches the relevant diocesan authorities, his successor has already been chosen. Given the old priest’s advanced age and the state of his health, known to be delicate for some time, preparations have been made. So the new priest arrives without delay. He is a young man, as young as his predecessor was when he arrived in the area. And he begins by doing the same things: observing the state of destitution in which his parishioners are living, imagining the effects of charitable action, like bounteous rain in a drought-stricken land. One thing, however, is not repeated: his own living arrangements have been taken care of, splendidly.
Except that they are rather more than “living arrangements” and they have been more than “taken care of.” He realizes this as he visits the house, admires it, discovers its comforts and refinements. It’s as if he had been there already, as if someone had examined his person with a microscope made of days and nights, of sleep and waking, in order to get to know him and communicate with him. You can get to know someone who’s present simply by speaking and looking, but to get to know someone who isn’t there, and may not exist (he estimates that the construction of the house began before he was born), a great deal more is required, as this enormous mansion shows, with its endless grounds and multitudinous riches.
Attending to his duties, he visits the neighboring village and is duly horrified by the poverty and neglect. Initially he is surprised and intrigued by the contrast between that wretchedness and the luxury of the house. Little by little, as the days go by, he begins to understand: he wasn’t mistaken in feeling when he first entered the house that it was trying to tell him something. The house is a message, so is the garden, and every object they contain, a message personally addressed to him, addressed to that which lies deepest within him and participates in the divine being.
And the syntax of that message is so perfect that he finally succeeds in understanding it completely. He’d already realized, though without expressing it in words, that the house had been conceived and built for him. The words, once found and articulated, supply the motive: his predecessor, of whom he knew nothing before but is now, via the motive, coming to know a great deal, wanted him to have everything, so he wouldn’t have to keep anything aside for himself and would be able to give it all to the poor. It’s pretty obvious, really. It’s self-explanatory. He feels a deep and growing admiration for the sacrifice made by his forerunner, who renounced the possibility of fulfilling his mission and thereby opening the gates of heaven, in order that the priest to come might do so. It’s like one of those oriental fables, he thinks: unfathomably mystical and ingeniously constructed. Exploring the house and its treasures feels like entering the fable: a palace of déjà vu in which every step has already been taken and every movement made.
He is grateful, of course. How could he not be? How could he not feel beholden to that kindly genius who dedicated his life to smoothing the way for his successor? But he senses that there is something more. That he can do “something else.” Accepting the gift just like that, as if he had earned it, would be unworthy of a man in whom such great hopes had been placed.
Gradually he clarifies his mission, with a certain number of hesitations, which are observed by the local poor who, ill clad and hungry, are enduring a cruel winter. He has plenty of money and no need to spend a peso on himself. . It’s a great temptation to shower his wealth on those who are silently beseeching him. But that’s just what it is: a temptation. His determination to resist it, and the example set by his predecessor, prove to be stronger. What the dead priest did was so heroic, so saintly in its way, that it demands to be imitated. Also, simply to harvest the fruits of his action would be an injustice to him. These reasons, all of which are valid, are strengthened by an irresistible force, to which the new priest attributes a higher cause.