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Authors: Graham Greene
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you for your instruction.â
âWell, Iâll lend you Jone, if you like, for yours.â
âIt might at least send me to sleep,â the Mayor said and extracted the small green book from Father Quixoteâs pocket.
Father Quixote lay on his back and listened to his companion turning the pages. Once the Mayor gave a yap of laughter. Father Quixote could remember nothing funny in Jone, but then it was forty years since he had read his Moral Theology . Sleep continued to escape him, while the terrible dream of his siesta stayed with him like a cheap tune in the head.
He had dreamt that Christ had been saved from the Cross by the legion of angels to which on an earlier occasion the Devil had told Him that He could appeal. So there was no final agony, no heavy stone which had to be rolled away, no discovery of an empty tomb. Father Quixote stood there watching on Golgotha as Christ stepped down from the Cross triumphant and acclaimed. The Roman soldiers, even the Centurion, knelt in His honour, and the people of Jerusalem poured up the hill to worship Him. The disciples clustered happily around. His mother smiled through her tears of joy. There was no ambiguity, no room for doubt and no room for faith at all. The whole world knew with certainty that Christ was the Son of God.
It was only a dream, of course it was only a dream, but none the less Father Quixote had felt on waking the chill of despair felt by a man who realizes suddenly that he has taken up a profession which is of use to no one, who must continue to live in a kind of Saharan desert without doubt or faith, where everyone is certain that the same belief is true. He had found himself whispering, âGod save me from such a belief.â Then he heard the Mayor turn restlessly on the bed beside him, and he added without thought, âSave him too from belief,â and only then he fell asleep again.
3
The old woman was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. There was a crack in the wood on the bottom step and Father Quixote stumbled and nearly fell. The old woman crossed herself and began to gabble at him, waving a piece of paper.
âWhat does she want?â the Mayor asked.
âOur name and address and where weâve come from and where we are going.â
âThatâs not a hotel ficha . Itâs just a piece of paper out of a notebook.â
The gabble continued, rising in tone and threatening to become a scream.
âI canât understand a word,â the Mayor said.
âYou donât have the practice of listening which I have in the confessional. She says sheâs been in trouble before now with the police for not having a record of her guests. Communists they were, she says, and they were wanted men.â
âWhy didnât she make us do it when we arrived?â
âShe thought we wouldnât take the room and then she forgot. Lend me a pen. Itâs not worth a fuss.â
âOne guest is enough. Especially when heâs a priest. And donât forget to put in âMonsignorâ.â
âWhere shall I say we are going?â
âWrite Barcelona.â
âYou never said anything about Barcelona.â
âWho knows? We might go there. Your ancestor did. Anyway, I have never believed in confiding anything to the police.â
Father Quixote reluctantly obeyed. Would Father Jone have taken this for a lie? He remembered that Father Jone had divided lies rather oddly into malicious, officious and jocose lies. This lie wasnât malicious, and it certainly wasnât jocose. Officious lies are told for oneâs own or anotherâs advantage. He saw no advantage to anyone in a mis-statement. Perhaps it wasnât a lie at all. It was even possible that their wanderings might one day take them to Barcelona.
V
HOW MONSIGNOR QUIXOTE
AND SANCHO VISIT A HOLY SITE
1
âYou want to go north?â Father Quixote asked. âI thought perhaps we might at least
âWell, Iâll lend you Jone, if you like, for yours.â
âIt might at least send me to sleep,â the Mayor said and extracted the small green book from Father Quixoteâs pocket.
Father Quixote lay on his back and listened to his companion turning the pages. Once the Mayor gave a yap of laughter. Father Quixote could remember nothing funny in Jone, but then it was forty years since he had read his Moral Theology . Sleep continued to escape him, while the terrible dream of his siesta stayed with him like a cheap tune in the head.
He had dreamt that Christ had been saved from the Cross by the legion of angels to which on an earlier occasion the Devil had told Him that He could appeal. So there was no final agony, no heavy stone which had to be rolled away, no discovery of an empty tomb. Father Quixote stood there watching on Golgotha as Christ stepped down from the Cross triumphant and acclaimed. The Roman soldiers, even the Centurion, knelt in His honour, and the people of Jerusalem poured up the hill to worship Him. The disciples clustered happily around. His mother smiled through her tears of joy. There was no ambiguity, no room for doubt and no room for faith at all. The whole world knew with certainty that Christ was the Son of God.
It was only a dream, of course it was only a dream, but none the less Father Quixote had felt on waking the chill of despair felt by a man who realizes suddenly that he has taken up a profession which is of use to no one, who must continue to live in a kind of Saharan desert without doubt or faith, where everyone is certain that the same belief is true. He had found himself whispering, âGod save me from such a belief.â Then he heard the Mayor turn restlessly on the bed beside him, and he added without thought, âSave him too from belief,â and only then he fell asleep again.
3
The old woman was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. There was a crack in the wood on the bottom step and Father Quixote stumbled and nearly fell. The old woman crossed herself and began to gabble at him, waving a piece of paper.
âWhat does she want?â the Mayor asked.
âOur name and address and where weâve come from and where we are going.â
âThatâs not a hotel ficha . Itâs just a piece of paper out of a notebook.â
The gabble continued, rising in tone and threatening to become a scream.
âI canât understand a word,â the Mayor said.
âYou donât have the practice of listening which I have in the confessional. She says sheâs been in trouble before now with the police for not having a record of her guests. Communists they were, she says, and they were wanted men.â
âWhy didnât she make us do it when we arrived?â
âShe thought we wouldnât take the room and then she forgot. Lend me a pen. Itâs not worth a fuss.â
âOne guest is enough. Especially when heâs a priest. And donât forget to put in âMonsignorâ.â
âWhere shall I say we are going?â
âWrite Barcelona.â
âYou never said anything about Barcelona.â
âWho knows? We might go there. Your ancestor did. Anyway, I have never believed in confiding anything to the police.â
Father Quixote reluctantly obeyed. Would Father Jone have taken this for a lie? He remembered that Father Jone had divided lies rather oddly into malicious, officious and jocose lies. This lie wasnât malicious, and it certainly wasnât jocose. Officious lies are told for oneâs own or anotherâs advantage. He saw no advantage to anyone in a mis-statement. Perhaps it wasnât a lie at all. It was even possible that their wanderings might one day take them to Barcelona.
V
HOW MONSIGNOR QUIXOTE
AND SANCHO VISIT A HOLY SITE
1
âYou want to go north?â Father Quixote asked. âI thought perhaps we might at least
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