I
don't know about everybody else, but I've had more than enough depressing news
about the current state of the Catholic Church, particularly the frequently scandalous
news from the Vatican . I genuinely feel shocked at saying such a thing, and
pray that Almighty God will soon send brave and loyal leaders to restore the Church
to its rightful eminence as the one, holy, and apostolic Church founded by
Jesus Christ for the salvation of mankind.
Thus
my first post this year does not give the Vatican a mention, and I hope will
bring a smile to your face. It is a short story by Fr Bernard Basset S.J.
entitled 'Marjorie Wins on Points', which I suspect he wrote in or about
the 1950s, and which appeared in his delightful book 'The Seven Deadly Virtues,
and Other Stories', published by Sands & Co. (Publishers) London, having
first appeared in local publications, 'Stella Maris' and 'Southwark
Record'. As a matter of interest, in the early 1950s as a teenage
schoolboy at Wimbledon College, I had the good fortune to attend two
Retreats given by Father Basset, which I enjoyed very much, not least due to
Father Basset's great sense of humour. This quality is very evident in his
short stories, which reveal a gentle spirituality allied to a deep
sympathy and understanding of human nature.
*****************
Marjorie Wins on Points
When the heroine decided
to leave her undoubtedly handsome fiancé and enter a convent, Marjorie began to
moisten, and after that she wept pretty continuously throughout the film.
Hollywood had seen to it that there should be plenty of excuse for sobbing, for
we were treated to a ‘close-up’ in the cloister, a full ceremony of clothing,
and a most piteous adieu from behind the convent grille.
The whole film was of the soul-stirring, nose-blowing
sort. There was Reverend Mother (as
unlike a real Reverend Mother as film-land could make her) whispering treacly
platitudes in the corridor, and when she was busy, a choir of nuns chanted
endless Kyrie Eleisons in the chapel, or a bishop went by administering
blessings alternately with either hand. The handsome fiancé was so overcome
that he rejoined his regiment and laid down his life for his country, while his
beloved sobbed her eyes out on a convent prie-dieu, and the audience sniffed in
the stalls.
It was a great relief when the camera mercifully removed
the convent to the other side of the beautiful valley, and the film concluded
with the tinkle of the Angelus bell across the sun-swept fields. As we collected our coats and slowly queued
up to leave the cinema, the whispered verdict of the huge audience was, “too
beautiful,” though some used the word “elevating” and others could only sob.
In the bus, on the way home, Marjorie was separated from me,
so a discussion of the drama was fortunately impossible, and I had a few
moments to read the Evening News.
Only a few minutes, mind you, for the very second our feet touched the pavement
Marjorie was back at the convent on the sun-swept hill. Actually she began the conversation with an
unknown traveller who had alighted from the bus between us, and who, when asked
if he did not think it too beautiful, politely raised his hat and said that he
was a stranger here himself.
After that we were at it hammer and tongs. Marjorie
declared that she had never seen such a film before, and, to judge by her
expressions, the conversion of England seemed likely to take place before we
reached home. She said that it showed the change that was coming over the
people that they should flock to a film which was devoid of all worldly appeal
and rich in spiritual significance. Meanwhile, I made vague noises which were
supposed to signify assent, but Marjorie did not fail to notice a lack of
enthusiasm.
“You don’t sound very gushing,” she remarked vindictively,
“especially as you were crying during the parting in the convent.”
“Maybe I was,” I answered casually, “there are certain
things that always make me cry. “Vapex”, for instance, or that bit in the
funeral march which goes Tum, tiddle-iddle-um, tum-tum. “Besides,” I added, “nothing makes me feel
more like crying than when my neighbour starts to sob.”
Marjorie snorted and muttered something which sounded like
“What a lie,” though she swore that she had only said, “Where’s the latchkey?”
Whatever she said, it was the hunt for the latchkey that ended the first round.
When we were seated at tea, I resumed the discussion after
Marjorie had once more alluded to the question of my tears.
“I’ll explain myself,” said I, “If you’ll remain quiet for
a few moments; have a rock cake.” I continued suasively, “As
eye lotion or wash, the film was most effective, but as religious propaganda it was
deplorable, and I’m afraid it will do a great deal of harm.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Marjorie, tipping hot water in
and around the tea pot, “there wasn’t a risqué
sentence in the whole show. A baby
in arms could have seen it.”
“Some people,” said I, “always imagine that a film has to
be indecent to be bad. This film was
certainly proper enough, but that does not make it good. To judge by what we saw this afternoon,
religion consists of beautiful damsels letting down their fiances in order to
chant meaningless words in a dim church, and moon about old times when Reverend
Mother isn’t looking. You’d think that
all Catholicism had to offer its’ adherents was a good cry.”
“Rubbish,” said Marjorie tartly, “the audience saw for the
first time in their narrow lives the splendid picture of a young girl giving up
all for God. That’ll make them think.”
“Make them think that religion is just sentiment,” I
answered heatedly, and then there was a knock on the door.
Of course, it would be Mrs Hetty just looking in for a
moment on her way back from the pictures, to see if she could borrow a cup of
tea. I felt like telling her that she
could have the whole tea service, tray and all, on condition that she went
away, for I had a ghastly suspicion that she, too, had been to the film. Her eyes were all red. Sure enough she told
us that she had been to the most beautiful show at the Metropole, with Donald
Sainsbury and sweet little Madelaine Deisal in a play all about nuns. Mrs Hetty said that she’d immediately thought
of us during the part in the convent, because we were Catholics. Though she
herself was a Nonconformist, and thanked God for it, yet she was the last
person to be narrow- minded, and she openly admitted that she had cried.
“Quite lovely,” she whispered, pulling a pious face like
Reverend Mother in the picture, “I think I learned so much about your Church.”
Marjorie was delighted.
“I’m so glad you’ve seen it, dear, I’m surprised we didn’t
meet you, for we were there ourselves. I? Yes, I just loved every moment of it,
though my husband was not quite so impressed.”
Mrs Hetty gave me the stern look she usually reserves for
sinners. I drew a deep breath.
“No,” I said firmly, but still patiently, “I thought
it was undiluted twaddle and not at all a fair picture of our Faith.”
Mrs Hetty shuddered delightedly as though she’d heard a
naughty word by mistake.
“Mind you, he cried like the worst of us,” added Marjorie
unkindly, forgetting all those salutary Christian lessons she once had learned
at a convent school.
I put my back to the wall metaphorically.
“I do not like a film,” I answered, “which presents Catholic
practice in a sensational way to people who are quite ignorant of the theory
that lies behind. Holy water, incense,
flowers, have no meaning away from Catholic doctrine, and vocations to religion
appear ridiculous unless you know what religion is. Now the vast majority of
Englishmen have only the haziest notion of religion. Church for them is
associated with old-age, best clothes, collection plates, and Bible
stories. In times of national crisis
they like to sing a hymn and talk of Christian civilisation, but religion,
man’s duties to God, plays no real part in their lives. Hence they do not
understand what our Faith means to us Catholics, and they do not know what the
Catholic Church is at all. They only know
the Catholic Church as they see it on the films and read about it in the
papers. Unfortunately, they get hold of the wrong end of the stick. They read only of those Catholic practices
which are ‘news’ to the journalists. If
a priest blesses some motor cars or dogs, if the Carthusians go for a walk in
Sussex, or a French abbe forecasts the weather, they are fully informed. So, too, in this film, they learn what
Hollywood thinks of a vocation. They see
a bishop spraying nuns with holy water as though they were rose bushes, and
from such an incident they draw the obvious conclusion that the Catholic Church
is all superstitious pageantry and magic.”
I paused, not because I wanted to, but because there was a
further interruption as Molly entered with a friend. There followed the usual
squeaks of greeting and cups of tea were offered and declined.
“Not now, thanks all the same: you see, we’ve had our tea
in town, in fact we stopped to have it at the Metropole after seeing a film.”
If I looked like one suffering from blood pressure,
Marjorie and Mrs Hetty might have had St.Vitus’s dance.
“You haven’t seen it too?” they piped, bobbing up and down
on the sofa. “Wasn’t it just too
heavenly?”
Molly and friend squirmed with joy,
“Fascinating, every bit of it,” said Molly, “quite a
revelation. It only shows how the modern
world is turning to God.”
“That’s just what I said,” replied Marjorie, “but my
husband won’t agree.”
Molly at once turned her searchlights on me.
“Didn’t you love every moment of it?” she asked coyly. “For
me it will be a treasured moment all my life.”
So we began all over again, discussing the motives and
movements of the film with increasing vigour. Marjorie, Molly, and Mrs Hetty
stood resolute in defence of Hollywood, nor could I persuade them to budge an
inch. In vain I pleaded that convents were
not filled by weeping damsels, in vain I urged that it was sensationalism
rather than religion that made the film attractive.
“If you want to know what Catholicism means,” I said, “go
and watch the Little Sisters of the Poor at work, or pay a visit to St
Etheldreda’s, Ely Place, during the lunch hour. There you have the true meaning
of religion illustrated. But if they
filmed the life of a Sister of Charity, not many people would go to see it. I don’t say that the film today wasn’t
interesting, but I do assert that it wasn’t Catholic. Like so many films it
wasn’t true to life. To judge by the average film half the world is divorced
and the other half takes cocaine. Not
every man leaning against a wall, idly, is a detective, and not every damsel
weeping on a prie-dieu is a saint. If
films so often fail to depict ordinary humdrum life for us, they are much more
likely to give a false impression of Catholicism, which the average producer
does not understand. They give a sentimental caricature of our Faith, stressing
the wrong points and omitting the right ones, with the result that the average
Englishman is highly entertained but comes away more agnostic than before.”
I ended my harangue with an eloquent gesture which
upset my teacup, and while the decontamination squad rallied round with
sponges, the women on the sofa had their say.
Mrs Hetty, as a sturdy Nonconformist, bore testimony that she
thought better of Catholicism after seeing the film about the convent. Molly
and friend denied that the film was a caricature, and Marjorie, busily engaged
with a sponge and hot water, still found time to say, “Tosh.”
So we decided to put our cases to the test. It all started with a discussion of the
average Englishman, and when I suggested Larry as typical of English
twentieth-century culture and Christianity, the women were on me like a shot.
“Take him to the Metropole,” said Marjorie, “and see what
he thinks of the film.”
“By all means,” I replied curtly, “I’ll suffer the agony of
another performance just to show you what I mean.”
“Mind you don’t prejudice him beforehand,” said Molly
sharply, while Mrs Hetty made twittering noises indicating assent.
So we fixed it up. I
phoned Larry the next morning and in a few brief sentences explained the
invitation and asked him to fix a time.
“There’s a film on at present,” said I, “which I’m
interested in, and I’d like to hear what you think of it.”
We settled a time, and decided to go on the following
Thursday, the first occasion on which both of us were free.
“What’s it all about?” asked Larry, when we met outside the
cinema. “I hope it isn’t a trick!”
“Heavens, no,” I replied hastily, and briefly explained the
situation. “It’s a film which has some bearing on Catholicism, and Marjorie and
I would like to have your opinion of it as a normal man of the world.”
“Not trying to convert me, are you?” asked Larry, laughing,
“because I’m a bad candidate for Papistry. I spend six days a week in the Bank
of England, and the seventh in the Church of England.”
“Don’t worry about conversion,” said I with conviction,
“this film won’t convert you. Buit Marjorie thinks it gives a very fair idea of
the spirit of Catholicism, so we want to hear your view.” I left it at that,
luckily.
We took our seats in the crowded cinema. As the show began,
Larry was obviously interested, whereas I was definitely bored. We had a
news-reel first, which, happily, was new to me so boredom was postponed. There
followed a Walt Disney symphony which I had not seen before.
“For a religious show this is all very agreeable,” said
Larry in a whisper, and I agreed, adding in an undertone, “you wait.”
We waited. Walt Disney gave way to a glorious knock-about
comedy with much egg-and-flour throwing, heads popping out of coal holes,
confusion in a swing door and hilarious happenings on a tram. All very good
while it lasted, but as I laughed I prepared myself for the worst. It came to
an end too soon I thought, and the big film was about to begin.
“Here you are,” I remarked to Larry, “This is the thing
now. Keep your eyes open and tell me just what you think at the end. Be quite
open about it, because we both want to know your view.”
“Sure,” said Larry, settling himself comfortably in his
chair.
From the very first I began to suspect that something was
wrong with the programme, for in the film about the convent there had been no
sergeant-major in the dramatis personae.
At least, I thought there hadn’t been, but quieted my conscience by
suggesting that I might have missed him through my tears. A few feet of the
film soon made the mistake pretty plain.
We found ourselves in the American army with the hero, a funny man,
messing about on parade. I cannot remember all that he did wrong, but I began
to laugh. He turned left when he should have gone to the right, came on parade
with his braces trailing behind him, and eventually squeezed the General’s arm
by mistake, thinking it was his daughter’s.
There followed endless ridiculous incidents, a court
martial, desertion, and our hero dressed up as a sick nurse to avoid arrest. In
this disguise he turned up in a hospital and actually began to nurse his own
General, who, amidst shrieks of laughter, appeared to be falling in love.
You know the type of thing. There were bewildering scenes
in the hospital before the great man’s daughter called to bring flowers and
consolation to her august parent, and recognised the nurse. Eventually the bogus Florence Nightingale strapped
her commanding officer up with plaster of Paris, poultices and ice-bags, thrust
a thermometer into his mouth, and then tore off her headgear and demanded his
daughter’s hand. I was nearly ill from laughing and, to judge by the noises he
was making, Larry’s condition must have been slightly worse.
So Marjorie won on points. That we had gone to the wrong
Metropole made no
difference to Larry who, as a typical man of the world, refused to hurt the
feelings of the weaker and fairer sex. Apparently he told her that he had never
enjoyed a film so much in all his life, and that if that was the Catholic
spirit she might expect his conversion any day. Marjorie told me this with much
gloating and ended up with a eulogium of the convent film.
“It just shows,” she said, “how much such films are needed.
Poor Larry was obviously extremely ignorant about our Faith. When I asked him
which part of the film he had most appreciated, he said that he had liked the
bit about dressing up as a nurse. I suppose he did not know the difference
between a nurse and a nun,” she added pensively.
“I’m surprised at Larry mixing up nurses and nuns,” I
answered casually.
“I’m not,” said Marjorie, “he tells me he has mixed up
cinemas before now.”
*****************
"Without the divine assistance we cannot resist the might of so many and such powerful enemies; now this assistance is granted only to prayer; therefore, without prayer there is no salvation."
(Thoughts from St Alphonsus - compiled by Rev C McNeiry C.SS.R)
Wishing all readers a very happy New Year - 'umblepie'
