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number of fields with your talents, and you can't tell me the thought of power at least doesn't appeal to you." His left eyebrow flew up. "My dear Mrs. Carson, you're a Cath- olic. You know my vows are sacred. Until my death I remain a priest. I cannot deny it." She snorted with laughter. "Oh, come now! Do you really believe that if you renounced your vows they'd come after you with everything from bolts of lightning to bloodhounds and shotguns?" "Of course not. Nor do I believe you're stupid enough to think fear of retribution is what keeps me within the priestly fold." "Oho! Waspish, Father de Bricassart! Then what does keep you tied? What compels you to suffer the dust, the heat and the Gilly flies? For all you know, it might be a life sentence." A shadow momentarily dimmed the blue eyes, but he smiled, pitying her. "You're a great comfort, aren't you?" His lips parted, he looked toward the ceiling and sighed. "I was brought up from my cradle to be a priest, but it's far more than that. How can I ex- plain it to a woman? I am a vessel, Mrs. Carson, and at times I'm filled with God. If I were a better priest, there would be no periods of emptiness at all. And that filling, that oneness with God, isn't a function of place. Whether I'm in Gillanbone or a bishop's palace, it occurs. But to define it is difficult, because even to priests it's a great mystery. A divine possession, which other men can never know. That's it, perhaps. Abandon it? I couldn't." "So it's a power, is it? Why should it be given to priests, then? What makes you think the mere smearing of chrism during an ex- haustingly long ceremony is able to endow any man with it?" He shook his head. "Look, it's years of life, even before getting to the point of ordination. The careful development of a state of mind which opens the vessel to God. It's earned! Every day it's earned. Which is the purpose of the vows, don't you see? That no earthly THE THORN BIRDS / 71
things come between the priest and his state of mind—not love of a woman, nor love of money, nor unwillingness to obey the dictates of other men. Poverty is nothing new to me; I don't come from a rich family. Chastity I accept without finding it difficult to maintain. And obedience? For me, it's the hardest of the three. But I obey, because if I hold myself more important than my function as a re- ceptacle for God, I'm lost. I obey. And if necessary, I'm willing to endure Gillanbone as a life sentence." "Then you're a fool," she said. "I, too, think that there are more important things than lovers, but being a receptacle for God isn't one of them. Odd. I never realized you believed in God so ardently. I thought you were perhaps a man who doubted." "I do doubt. What thinking man doesn't? That's why at times I'm empty." He looked beyond her, at something she couldn't see. "Do you know, I think I'd give up every ambition, every desire in me, for the chance to be a perfect priest?" "Perfection in anything," she said, "is unbearably dull. Myself, I prefer a touch of imperfection." He laughed, looking at her in admiration tinged with envy. She was a remarkable woman. Her widowhood was thirty-three years old and her only child, a son, had died in infancy. Because of her peculiar status in the Gil- lanbone community she had not availed herself of any of the overtures made to her by the more ambitious males of her acquaint- ance; as Michael Carson's widow she was indisputably a queen, but as someone's wife she passed control of all she had to that someone. Not Mary Carson's idea of living, to play second fiddle. So she had abjured the flesh, preferring to wield power; it was in- conceivable that she should take a lover, for when it came to gossip Gillanbone was as receptive as a wire to an electrical current. To prove herself human and weak was not a part of her obsession.