J. Powers - Morte D'Urban

But could the Bishop do such a thing? He could. The Clementines had had it done to them before, most recently at Bolivar Springs, Missouri, where they’d run a minor seminary and boys’ boarding school, an indifferent enterprise economically and scholastically, and where the local bishop had wanted first one of his men on the faculty, then two, to which demands the Clementines had gracefully acceded, and thus passed the point of no return. As soon as the Bishop had educated enough men (elsewhere) to operate the institution, the Clementines had been eased out altogether and paid off. To an outsider it might have appeared that this was all to the good — and thus, had the Clementines complained, it would have been made to appear to Rome. Nuns could coo their way out of such difficulties, or, that failing, would often fight, and sometimes cardinals would ride forth in their behalf. But it was almost impossible for a small, unentrenched order of men (whose record might have been better) to defend itself against a bishop and his hordes. What could wrens do against starlings?

“You have to have strong grounds for effecting a transfer of ownership such as the Bishop is contemplating,” said Father Urban. He had been making the best of the poor library at the Hill, reading up on the subject of contracts between bishops and religious. “Canon law is quite clear about such things.”

“Indeed it is — about any number of things,” said Monsignor Renton, in a way that made Father Urban think.

Next year — if there was one — there would have to be a well-defined, enforceable policy on who was entitled to play the course. Who? Any man who’d made a retreat at the Hill? His wife? His wife’s brother? And his wife? What about teenagers with, just possibly, vocations to the priesthood? What about women in shorts? What about ministers of rival faiths? Where did you draw the line? Father Urban didn’t know. But sooner or later there would be a scandal of some kind — there were indications that lovers were coming to the course after dark — and voices would be raised against the Clementines.

That wasn’t all. A woman in shorts had tittered when the Bishop, teeing off on his first visit to the course, had swung and missed the ball completely. And this after the Bishop had noticed that the new black-and-white sign painted by Brother Harold had been desecrated. The sign had to do with rules of play and was addressed “TO THE FRIENDS AND MEMBERS OF THE ORDER OF SAINT CLEMENT.” The “R” had been scratched out of “FRIENDS.” That was the public for you.

For some the perfect solution would be to close the course to everybody except the clergy. But Father Urban felt about the course as “a certain eccentric pastor” was said (in one of Father Urban’s amusing yet hard-hitting talks to priests) to feel about the Church — that it should exist for the people’s benefit, too.

Monsignor Renton held that the Bishop was no different from anyone else in wanting his own seminary—“Half the fun for the big frog is having the little ones around him”—but Father Urban wondered if a thing like a woman’s laugh might not be at the bottom of the man’s desire to seize St Clement’s Hill.

In his discussions with Monsignor Renton, Father Urban sometimes clutched at straws. “As I understand it, a bishop needs the consent of his consultors, where this much is at stake. If things get rough, a thousand lire won’t even pay for the aspirins,” he said, remembering this key figure from his reading. Anything over a thousand lire was considered a big deal.

“I can’t recall when we’ve withheld our consent,” said Monsignor Renton. “I don’t say we wouldn’t, mind you, if our consciences so dictated.”

“That’s sort of what I had in mind.”

“Yes, but suppose one consultor’s against something a bishop wants to do, but he knows the other consultors aren’t — he knows he’s going to be outvoted. In the circumstances, it might not be wise for this consultor to expose himself, nor should he be expected to do so.”

“I suppose it would be asking a lot — of this consultor.”

“I’m sorry to hear you take that tone,” Monsignor Renton said. “I’m doing all I can, within reason, and I’m prepared to go on doing so. In my opinion, you guys have done a pretty fair job here, on the whole.”

“Nice of you to say so,” said Father Urban, thinking that the course was a godsend to Monsignor Renton, who had let his membership in the Great Plains Country Club expire.

“I can’t say better than that, everything considered.”

“I know,” said Father Urban. The last months didn’t quite make up for the time before he arrived at the Hill.

“Here’s something that occurred to me,” Monsignor Renton said. “I don’t know why I haven’t mentioned it before. Let’s say this place does become a diocesan seminary — well, why shouldn’t you guys be the ones to run it, or at least staff it? On a thing like that, I’d go down the line for you, and I don’t think I’d be alone.”

“Whose side are you on, anyway?” asked Father Urban, and then described what had happened to the Clementines at Bolivar Springs.

“Circumstances alter cases,” Monsignor Renton said. “It doesn’t necessarily follow that you’d get the heave-ho in a few years, or that you couldn’t go on giving retreats here.”

“Nothing doing — if I have my way.” There were moments, though, when Father Urban wished he weren’t fighting alone, but no good, he knew, would come from alerting Wilf to the danger — Wilf would just go to pieces. As long as the Bishop didn’t declare his intention, Father Urban saw no reason to turn the matter over to less capable hands.

“I advise you to think it over,” Monsignor Renton said. “Sometimes, you know, you can’t win. Or so I have found.”

“Thank God, there’s always Rome.”

“Rome!” cried Monsignor Renton. “Let’s keep Rome out of it. While you’re appealing to Rome, how many retreatants do you suppose you’ll get from this diocese? And what’ll happen to all this ?” The course was lovely in August.

All other remedies should have failed before one resorted to Rome, where, said Monsignor Renton, a judgment might not be rendered until all the principals were safely on the wrong side of the grass. Of such was the wisdom, the terrible wisdom, of the Church. Therefore, one’s thoughts inclined not to litigation but to peaceful persuasion. Or should. “It’s the only thing,” said Monsignor Renton.

“I hadn’t thought of that ,” said Father Urban.

But they had entirely different ideas as to who should be persuaded, and Monsignor Renton was fearful lest Father Urban jump the gun or otherwise betray him to the Bishop. “Watch it,” he said, “if you don’t want me to lose my job. As it is now, I may be the best club in your bag.”

“Let’s hope not,” said Father Urban. He had little faith in peaceful persuasion as a weapon against the Bishop. Nevertheless, it was one that appealed to him, as it would to anyone with his special gifts.

Father Urban was frankly proud of the little improvements he’d made in the clubhouse since the Bishop’s other visit — candy counter, pop machine, pro shop — proud, yes, but far from satisfied. The clubhouse — Mr Hanson’s old house — was badly in need of paint. “Green,” Father Urban said as he walked to the first tee with the Bishop and Father Feld, the Bishop’s young friend. “I think it should be dark green, with white trim — unless we get some shutters for the windows, and then it would be the other way around.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if you just stuck to white?” said Father Feld. “Easier and cheaper?”