Liam O'Flaherty - Land

Julia began to shout at the top of her voice, giving praise to the Virgin.

“House of Gold!” she cried. “Tower of Ivory!”

Pat Rice came running from the sacristy, attracted by her cries. He realised at once that she was in communion with the supernatural. He passed through the little wooden gate that led to the aisle and threw himself on his knees beside her. He began to strike his breast with both hands and to repeat her cries.

“Ark of the Covenant!” they intoned. “Morning Star!”

When Julia finally became silent through exhaustion, the sacristan leaned close to her and whispered in her ear:

“What did you see? Tell me everything, now while it’s fresh in your mind.”

Julia told him all that she had seen and heard.

“Ah! God forgive you,” the sacristan said to her after he had heard her story. “There was a message, but it was denied to you on account of your sins. God’s mother was trying to speak to you, but your soul wasn’t pure enough.”

“Ah! Woe!” cried Julia disconsolately. “Is that why I couldn’t understand what she said?”

“Never mind, woman,” cried the withered old man. “She will speak to us again through you. You must purify yourself by prayer and fasting and penance, in order to be ready for the message when it comes again. We’ll get our group together and come here with you every day, to pray and do penance.”

Then he bowed down before her, touching the ground with his forehead.

“You have been chosen,” he cried exultantly. “You are blessed among women. Oh! Heavenly Grandeur! Brightness of all Brightness!”

As she walked home slowly, Julia kept smiling like a foolish person. She had been transported “into a world of her own” by the sacristan’s words of homage and by his gesture. She believed that she was blessed among women.

“Lord save us!” Mrs. McNamara said on seeing her daughter’s strange smile of rapture. “What’s taken hold of you again? Oh! Lord! What new lunacy is this?”

Julia marched upstairs without speaking or even glancing at her mother. She threw herself backwards on her bed without even removing her veil. She clasped her hands behind her neck and stared at the ceiling, smiling in rapture.

She felt wise and triumphant.

Elizabeth was very angry after her return from the parochial house. She sat down in the living-room without even removing her hat and cloak.

“It’s outrageous,” she said. “I’d never believe it possible that he could adopt such an attitude, if I had not heard him with my own ears.”

The whole family had assembled to hear the result of her interview with Father Cornelius. Michael and Lettice sat hand in hand on the sofa. Father Francis crouched over the fire, Raoul stood gloomily looking out the window, against which a squall of driven rain was beating.

“What was his attitude, Aunt Elizabeth?” Lettice said gently, “Was it really very hostile?”

“I would have forgiven him for being genuinely hostile,” Elizabeth said. “It was something far worse than mere hostility.”

“No need to lose your temper over a third-rate provincial like Father Costigan,” said Raoul. “What did the fellow say? Nothing that could possibly be described as straightforward, I warrant.”

Elizabeth turned towards Father Francis and said:

“Why do you remain silent? The people would respect your opinion.”

Father Francis looked at her sadly and shook his head.

“My lips are sealed,” he whispered.

“Well! Mine are not,” said Elizabeth.

“Tell us what happened without more ado,” said Raoul irritably.

“He received me most cordially,” Elizabeth said. “Although I am now convinced that he is an arrant rogue, I admit that he has the manners of a grand gentleman. Frankly, I felt ashamed of having come to upbraid him, after listening for a few minutes to his subtle flattery. I was forced to interrupt him and to broach the subject of the apparition bluntly, fearing that I might be won over to his side unless I made haste to speak. The effect was astonishing. He withdrew into his shell at once and said coldly: ‘I’m afraid that I cannot accept the word superstitition, when used in connection with the events to which you refer.’ I lost my temper at this point. ‘What else could you call it?’ I cried in indignation. ‘Three weeks ago, Father Cornelius, a light-headed young woman claimed to have seen the statue of the Blessed Virgin leave its pedestal and come floating towards her on a cloud, variously described as blue and pale yellow. They can’t even agree on the colour of the cloud. If she was really privileged to see anything of the sort, which I doubt, I most heartily congratulate her. However, we have only her own word for it. There were no witnesses. The woman is known to have a very fertile imagination, together with a vicious nature.’ Then I told him about the attack on Tim Ahearn. ‘It’s very odd,’ I continued, “that Pat Rice, who helped her get Ahearn mobbed and stoned, should arrive so quickly on the scene of the alleged apparition. Don’t you think it quite possible, Father Cornelius, that Rice and this woman planned the whole story in cold blood, in order to delude honest folk?’ He looked at me for a long time in silence. Then he said: ‘I don’t indulge in scandalous suppositions.’ I was hurt to the quick. It was tantamount to accusing me of not being a lady. Nevertheless, I continued to plead with him. ‘For ten days,’ I said, ‘an ever-increasing crowd followed this young woman to the church every evening, hoping for a repetition of the miracle. Poor wretches! I don’t blame them for their credulity. They have become hysterical with fear. The crops have failed miserably again this year. The vile Government is sending troops into the villages. Threats of most repressive measures are being broadcast daily by those on high. It’s no wonder that the poor are ready to believe in a sign of redemption, no matter how extravagant and improbable. Nothing out of the ordinary happened for ten days, much to the disappointment of these poor folk. The statue did not move again. There was no manifestation that could possibly be called supernatural. So that a number of people began to jeer quite openly at the insane creature’s pretentions. She then decided it was time to act, in order to maintain her following. On the tenth evening, she threw herself prostrate on the floor, in the middle of the aisle. She foamed at the mouth and writhed like an epileptic. Finally, she screamed at the top of her voice, saying that she had just received a message from Our Lady. Do you know what the message was, Father Cornelius?’ Again he looked at me for some time in stony silence. Then he said solemnly, looking me straight between the eyes: ‘Antichrist must go.’ Incredible as it may seem, he uttered this ludicrous phrase as if he really believed it came straight from Our Lady. I felt outraged. ‘You must know,’ I continued, ‘that this phrase has been the catch-cry of a certain faction among your parishioners during the past months. The faction has tried to stir up opposition to my brother. Your sacristan, your housekeeper and the creature that saw the statue move are its leading spirits. Don’t you find it odd that their catch-cry should be identical with the message allegedly received from Our Lady? Or do you deny that my brother has been publicly referred to by members of this faction as the Antichrist?’ He sighed, laced his fingers across his chest and launched forth into a long-winded discourse on recent signs and apparitions. ‘It would be wrong,’ he said, ‘to isolate Mrs. Clancy’s experiences from the chain of similar events, that have occurred during the past several weeks in various other parts of the county. These miraculous signs and apparitions have occurred mainly on the scene of revolutionary disorders, at places where the faithful had been momentarily led away from God by wicked ideas. I need only draw your attention to the well-authenticated apparitions at Knock, where many miraculous cures have already taken place and to which thousands of pilgrims are flocking from all parts of Ireland and Great Britain. Surely you could not possibly suspect the miracles at Knock of being a criminal plot against your brother?’ ‘Did I suggest that they were?’ I cried. ‘I never even mentioned them.’ ‘It would be quite useless for you,’ he said, ‘to make any such attempt. There is not a shred of evidence to support such a preposterous claim.’ ‘But I made no such claim,’ I cried, becoming exasperated. ‘I tell you that I never even mentioned Knock. I only mentioned Manister.’ ‘It is impossible to isolate Manister from Knock,’ he said. ‘That is shameful quibbling,’ I said helplessly. ‘I know there is a plot and so do you. All this talk about Knock is a trick. You are using the apparition at Knock as a cloak behind which to hide.’ He gripped the arms of his chair and stared at me in horror for a few moments. Then he leaned forward and said: ‘Did I hear you say that a belief in miracles is superstition?’ ‘You heard nothing of the sort,’ I cried, ‘and it’s contemptible of you to pretend that you did.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I will admit,’ I continued, ‘that I deplore any kind of vulgar hysteria casting its shadow on the glorious traditions of the Catholic Church. I also object, in the strongest possible manner, to having religion made the handmaid of oppression and tyranny.’ At this point he threw out his hands in a gesture of horror. ‘That is an atheistic remark, Miss St. George,’ he said, ‘and I’m deeply pained to hear you make it. It’s a time-worn cant phrase of atheists and communists. It is shocking that a noble lady like yourself should have become contaminated by such hideous ideas.’ I got to my feet in wrath. ‘Hideous, did you say?’ I cried He also got to his feet, bowed to me and said meekly: ‘The struggle to save souls is universal, like the Church herself. Manifestations of divine displeasure cannot be seen in the light of any single individual’s problems. All are equal in the eyes of God and all merit equal attention.’ He went on ranting in this vein for quite some time. It was all Greek to me. He was very likely trying to change the subject gracefully. In any case, I knew by then that he was not to be side-tracked from his vile purpose. I’m now certain that he is the prime mover of the plot. He was far too clever for me. I could not force him to commit himself. I took my leave, silent and crestfallen.”