My PP came by and took me for a drive around his parish. Very interesting he is, once the sun goes down, and he loses his way, not the man then that brought us You Can Change the World.3 He conscripted Betty to come and utter an opinion at St Kilian’s Hall, where he was throwing a parish debate. Subject: The Hand That Rocks the Cradle Controls the World. He outlined what Betty ought to say, leaving a pamphlet about this little Italian girl (Goretti) who’s up for canonization. I hadn’t heard about it — at least didn’t recognize the name when he was here — and that was somehow in my favor, made me out to be a good, healthy male preoccupied with my pipe. “Oh, he thinks he’s running the show, but it’s the little woman every time. She’s the one who keeps him straight. He just tags along, if he only knew it”—ha, ha. I said I knew it only too well, that I knew the torture of marriage, had dreamt of the beauties of celibacy. He hadn’t been prepared for such an ad-lib, was silent, lips twitching — and I could see that, though I’d spoiled his act, he was pleased to hear what he too regarded as the truth. […]
O’C. and O’F. spoke of Waugh as though he’d lost his mind. Said he had his servants wearing livery, the latest development. I must get something for my man, a cap anyway, who brings me wood, takes away my ashes, works around my demesne. He doesn’t work very hard, brings me green wood. Betty says he knows I’m a fool — her exact words. “Fool for God?” I ask eagerly, but I gather she doesn’t mean that kind. […]
Clark4
HARVEY EGAN
Dysart
Easter 1952
Dear Fr Egan,
[…] The first blood was drawn at Leopardstown5 a week ago. Two winners (8–1; 6–1), and I guess it’s going to be nip and tuck from now on between the track and me. Unfortunately, there are those two-bob6 (28c) machines, and I go with Betty, so even when I win, it’s moderately. A wonderful way to spend an afternoon, though. When I’m there, I always know what you and Thoreau mean. […]
Let me know what the sales were for your book.7 (That’s what writers talk about, incidentally, and you asked.) Got another in the works? Same publisher? Any nibbles from others? Who’s your agent? Any personal troubles? Have to drink to write? I haven’t had a Guinness for a week. Just a little John Jameson. Write.
Jameson
HARVEY EGAN
Greystones
May 11, 1952
Dear Fr Egan,
I enclose an advance complimentary copy of The Children’s Mass Book. I hope that after you have had the opportunity to read it, you will write to me. I value your opinion and look forward to hearing from you. The editor is my PP. Perhaps we could work out an exchange plan: you buy his book and he’ll buy yours. By the way, how are sales?
Haven’t heard from you in some time but suppose you are busy with your yellow slips.8 Did you ever think of getting linen ones, to stand up better under the constant shuffling? I could get you a fair discount on linen. […]
Do you like the new Commonweal format? I object to that arrow ending up at 15c. All for now. You owe me one, so I won’t try to make this more impressive.
Seamus
That May, aside from receiving an exhausting visit from Garrelts and another priest, Jim saved a boy from drowning and was awarded a “certificate of bravery.” Betty described the incident in a letter home: “Some little boys ran up carrying a life preserver and said, ‘A boy’s after falling in the ocean.’ … So Jim found himself standing half in the water on a ledge of rock, holding on to the boy in the life preserver and the waves trying to splash them both out into the ocean. And he had to keep his teeth shut tight because he had his pipe in his mouth and no hand to take it out … There were no end of women and retired men and boys around but no one strong enough to pull them out until the guards came, and also the milkman. (There is nothing that can happen in Greystones without the milkman being there with the first of them.)”
HARVEY EGAN
Greystones
June 3, 1952
Dear Fr Egan,
[…] The Irish — here and everywhere — worry too much about what is written about them. Their favorite reading is writing about them, any chance reference, anything that doesn’t please. It’s all in Joyce, the petty chauvinism, the chemist who wants us to buy Irish soap (which is not very good soap), the piercing look following the question, how do you like Ireland? I like Ireland, but I don’t like these little boosters. Tell them that.
Well, George and Fr Dillon arrived, and we had a fast three days in a hired car, Limerick, Galway, Mullingar races, evening at Sean O’Faolain’s. Our guests left for the Continent … and we went to bed for three days to recover from the rush. George, it turns out, is a tourist with a vengeance, picks up with everybody, and finds out more in three days than we have in six months. They went to the races in civvies, though priests were everywhere in black and white, and the touts called George “the Yank.” […]
Fr Fennelly will be glad to hear you approve his book. He should be back from Barcelona any day. Before he left, he made it clear to the congregation that he was going there to “suffer,” in case, I guess, anyone should get the idea that he was going off on a holiday. Said he couldn’t stand the heat, had no accommodations, would just have to take his chances. I was amused but not impressed by this, remembering his remark last fall that he’d always wanted to go to Spain, having been everywhere else he’d wanted to go — no desire to see the U.S. — but then that’s the Irish way, isn’t it? I do the same thing myself.
Hump9 is still putting out that Lenin-Tolstoi jive. I think he fell on his head sometime in the Thirties. And something stopped inside, turning him into an LP record. Ah, well. When I think of going back, I have to think of going back to Hump — I do think he misses me, is perhaps the only one who does — and I just don’t know if that’s what I want. We are pilgrims only, but since the trip’s quite long, I tend to look around for suitable accommodations. I am desireless. There’s no place anymore that strikes me as the place for me. This is no reflection on Ireland, since I never meant to make this my permanent abode, but on my condition, which is not the condition of most: most can still dream of somewhere else, you of your next year’s garden or a parish in St Paul — I’m just speaking in a manner of speaking, I don’t want to hear of your contentment in Beardsley. You won’t deny, however, that you have a passion for farming equipment, manure, your yellow slips. Me, I have no desires. There’s nothing to give up. Is this perfection?