The Centenary of 'The Rector of Maliseet': A Guest Post by John Howard

One of the most appealing ways to start a story is with a leisurely journey by train. For the author it provides the ideal opportunity to introduce the protagonist, set the scene, and hint at what might be in store; for the reader the sense of movement and progression can foster a pleasing anticipation. Useful information may be gained through casual or overheard conversation in the confined space of the railway carriage, or at the station when the destination is at last in sight. Although the journey is over, for the story it is merely the end of the beginning. Now read on… As did those who opened The Rector of Maliseet by Leslie Reid, first published one hundred years ago in February 1925.

It is late summer, a warm September. Leonard Carr has been engaged as secretary to St John Clare, an old college friend of Carr’s father. Clare is a clergyman of the Church of England and Rector of Maliseet, a quiet and remote village in ‘unvisited Raithshire’: a perfect situation for a young man recovering from illness. The sun is already low when Carr changes trains for the final part of his journey. Although there is plenty of lyrical description of the landscape under the slowly dying light, here and throughout the novel it also possesses a ‘brooding’ aspect. It is certainly beautiful to look at – yet there seems more to it, something lying just beneath or beyond what can be seen.

Apart from his liturgical obligations and duties in the parish, the Rector has spent his time ‘collecting material for a large work dealing with the lesser-known saints of early Christian times’ (36). This fills several drawers in a cabinet; Carr’s job is to arrange the notes so the Rector can make them into a coherent narrative for his book. Carr quickly warms to his task and enjoys reading the material. He finds one account particularly intriguing. Ambrose, abbot of the nearby but long-ruined Pellerin Abbey, had been pious and zealous, but fell under the influence of Satan. Ambrose had periods of remorse which did not last. He finally decided to commit suicide and throw his soul on the mercy of God – but there the document ends, incomplete, the remainder torn away.

Carr attends church on Sundays, and sometimes in the evening, when he is the only member of the congregation. He had previously observed that candles are kept continually burning on the altar: an ancient tradition. Carr slowly begins to find parallels between Ambrose and the Rector. Each has two sides, spiritual and sensual, which are at war with each other (157). The Rector continues to be reticent and mysterious; Carr explores the disused part of the Rectory and finds that his employer uses a room there, which he keeps permanently locked.

Carr had become acquainted with Forbes, the village doctor. Over dinner Forbes explains that he found some old documents, including the conclusion to the story of Ambrose. The abbot, intent on killing himself, had climbed the steps cut into a huge rock outcrop known as The Stone – and at the top had been forgiven by God. Now permanently reformed, he went on preaching tours. He was appointed Rector of Maliseet and began the custom of perpetually burning candles on the church altar.

Several weeks later, Carr asks the Rector about the missing conclusion to the story. He talks about Ambrose before he degraded himself: ‘To such men there may come a time when they are as nearly on an equal footing with God as it is possible for men to attain. […] God made his presence known in a way that had been denied to any other individuals in history. There was the utterance of a spoken compact – made between the Almighty and a human creature. The Lord made a promise to Abbot Ambrose, which, for His own good reason, he did not fulfil’ (233).

It seems the promise was that Ambrose should ‘have the privilege of seeing God’ (239). This would be granted on Midsummer Day – that same day – at The Stone, which is first place to catch the rising sun. Carr gets to The Stone just as the sun rises and sees the Rector at the top. Then the priest vanishes from sight. Carr observes that the Rector, in death, looks untroubled for the first time (270). A connection or bond between two remarkable men over some seven centuries has come to a tragic but appropriate conclusion.

Just as the initial situation of a young man travelling to stay and assist with the work of an unusual clergyman is reminiscent of Algernon Blackwood’s novel The Human Chord (1910) so Reid’s invocation of landscape and certain features within as the ‘awful loveliness of paganism’ often reaches the intensity that was such a characteristic feature of Blackwood’s best work. There are ‘secret forces in nature’ which he cannot say are evil or good, but are certainly powerful, belonging to an ‘ultimate world beyond good and evil’ (197f).

In The Rector of Maliseet the priest does not, as in The Human Chord, seek the Divine in order to harness and control it for his own purposes. Rather, it is the reverse: he wishes only to see, to be transformed. Yet both men of God are impious; they find there is a price to pay for their quests. From the outset it is clear that Carr is narrating the entire sequence of events many years later. There was one at least who emerged from that time wiser – even if not, as it would seem, sadder.