Montez had talked at some length. He had reported the progress of the Altar Society in the last year-they had a balance in hand of twenty-two pesos. He had noted it down for comment-there it was, A.S. 22. Montez had been very anxious to start a branch of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul-and some [87] woman had complained that bad books were being sold in Concepcion, fetched from the capital by mule: her child had got hold of one called A Husband for a Night. In his speech he said he would write to the Governor on the subject.
The moment he had said that the local photographer had set off his flare, and so he could remember himself at that instant, just as if he had been a stranger looking in from the outside-attracted by the noise-on some happy and festal and strange occasion: noticing with envy, and perhaps a little amusement, the fat youngish priest who stood with one plump hand splayed authoritatively out while the tongue played pleasantly with the word Governor. Mouths were open all round-fishily, and the faces glowed magnesium-white, with all the lines and individuality wiped out.
That moment of authority had jerked him back to seriousness-he had ceased to unbend and everybody was happier. He said: The balance of twenty-two pesos in the accounts of the Altar Society-though quite revolutionary for Concepcion-is not the only cause for congratulation in the last year The Children of Mary have increased their membership by nine-and the Guild of the Blessed Sacrament last autumn made our annual retreat more than usually successful But we mustn't rest on our laurels-and I confess I have got plans you may find a little startling. You already think me a man, I know, of inordinate ambitions-well, I want Concepcion to have a better school-and that means a better presbytery too, of course. We are a big parish and the priest has a position to keep up. I'm not thinking of myself but of the Church. And we shall not stop there-though it will take a good many years, I'm afraid, even in a place the size of Concepcion, to raise the money for that. As he talked a whole serene life lay ahead-he had ambition: he saw no reason why one day he might not find himself in the state capital, attached to the cathedral, leaving another man to pay off the debts in Concepcion. An energetic priest was always known by his debts. He went on, waving a plump and eloquent hand: Of course, many dangers here in Mexico threaten our dear Church. In this state we are unusually lucky-men have lost their lives in the north and we must be prepared -he refreshed his dry mouth with a draught of wine- for the worst. Watch and pray, he went vaguely on, [88] watch and pray. The devil like a raging lion- The Children of Mary stared up at him with their mouths a little open, the pale blue ribbons slanting across their dark best blouses.
He talked for a long while, enjoying the sound of his own voice: he had discouraged Montez on the subject of the St. Vincent de Paul Society-because you had to be careful not to encourage a layman too far, and he had told a charming story about a child's deathbed-she was dying of consumption, very firm in her faith at the age of eleven. She asked who it was standing at the end of her bed, and they had said: That's Father So-and-so, and she had said: No, no. I know Father So-and-so. I mean the one with the golden crown. One of the Guild of the Blessed Sacrament had wept. Everybody was very happy. It was a true story too, though he couldn't quite remember where he had heard it. Perhaps he had read it in a book once. Somebody refilled his glass. He took a long breath and said: My children ...
… and as the mestizo stirred and grunted by the door he opened his eyes and the old life peeled away like a labeclass="underline" he was lying in torn peon trousers in a dark unventilated but with a price upon his head. The whole world had changed-no Church anywhere: no brother priest, except Padre José, the outcast, in the capital. He lay listening to the heavy breathing of the half-caste and wondered why he had not gone the same road as Padre José and conformed to the laws. I was too ambitious, he thought, that was it. Perhaps Padre José was the better man-he was so humble that he was ready to accept any amount of mockery: at the best of times he had never considered himself worthy of the priesthood. There had been a conference once of the parochial clergy in the capital-in the happy days of the old Governor, and he could remember Padre José slinking in at the tail of every meeting, curled up half out of sight in a back row, never opening his mouth. It was not, like some more intellectual priests, that he was over-scrupulous: he had been simply filled with an overwhelming sense of God. At the Elevation of the Host you could see his hands trembling-he was not like St. Thomas, who needed to put his hands into the wounds in order to believe: the wounds bled anew for him over every altar. Once Padre José had said to him in a burst [89] of confidence: Every time ... I have such fear. His father had been a peon.
But it was different in his case-he had ambition. He was no more an intellectual than Padre José, but his father was a storekeeper, and he knew the value of a balance of twenty-two pesos and how to manage mortgages. He wasn't content to remain all his life the priest of a not very large parish. His ambitions came back to him now as something faintly comic, and he gave a little gulp of astonished laughter in the candlelight. The half-caste opened his eyes and said: Are you still not asleep?
Sleep yourself, the priest said, wiping a little sweat off his face with his sleeve.
I am so cold.
Just a fever. Would you like this shirt? It isn't much, but it might help.
No, no. I don't want anything of yours. You don't trust me.
No, if he had been humble like Padre José, he might be living in the capital now with Maria on a pension. This was pride, devilish pride, lying here offering his shirt to the man who wanted to betray him. Even his attempts at escape had been half-hearted because of his pride-the sin by which the angels fell. When he was the only priest left in the state his pride had been all the greater; he thought himself the devil of a fellow carrying God around at the risk of his life; one day there would be a reward. ... He prayed in the half-light: O God, forgive me-I am a proud, lustful, greedy man. I have loved authority too much. These people are martyrs-protecting me with their own lives. They deserve a martyr to care for them-not a fool like me, who loves all the wrong things. Perhaps I had better escape-if I tell people how it is over here, perhaps they will send a good man with a fire of love ... As usual his self-confession dwindled away into the practical problem-what am I to do?
Over by the door the mestizo was uneasily asleep.
How little his pride had to feed on-he had celebrated only four Masses this year, and he had heard perhaps a hundred confessions. It seemed to him that the dunce of any seminary could have done as well ... or better. He raised himself very carefully and began to move on his naked toes across the floor. He [90] must get to Carmen and away again quickly before this man … the mouth was open, showing the pale hard toothless gums: in his sleep he was grunting and struggling; then he collapsed upon the floor and lay still.
There was a sense of abandonment, as if he had given up every struggle from now on and lay there a victim of some power. ... The priest had only to step over his legs and push the door-it opened outwards.
He put one leg over the body and a hand gripped his ankle. The mestizo stared up at him, Where are you going?
I want to relieve myself, the priest said.
The hand still held his ankle. Why cant you do it here? the man whined at him. What's preventing you, father? You are a father, aren't you?