Catholic Fiction

reviewed by John Murphy 

Oh, what Supernatural Luck! 

Henry Harland’s The Cardinal’s Snuff-Box is a delightful Catholic romance-confection. Settle down into a comfortable armchair (preferably next to a blazing fire) with a cuppa tea or glass of dry sherry, and bathe in Harland’s creamy prose and Italy-set story. 

Our hero is one Peter Marchdale, a rather lovelorn Londoner and writer of “beautiful” novels (which naturally have a readership of seven or so people), who is vacationing in Italy while working on a new book. Writing, however, seems to occupy very little of Marchdale’s time once he encounters the striking Duchessa di Santangiolo, a wealthy and aristocratic young widow. So much the worse for our Protestant hero, she is also a pious Catholic. Ah, well…the course of true love never did run smooth. (Though it’s helped along, in this case, by the Duchessa’s keen old uncle, the Cardinal of the title, and a cleric more than happy to employ his snuff-box as an instrument of “Supernatural Luck”.) 

While Catholic novelists like Evelyn Waugh or Graham Greene “cast out into the deep” with their powerful works, Harland is content to skim the shimmering surface of an idyllic, upper-class Italian life. This is not a criticism – ‘catholic’ means ‘universal’ and can encompass a worldwide range of literary styles. Harland may be a featherweight, but his prose has an easy, breezy charm that is ingratiating. Marchdale is a likable, self-deprecating hero with a talent for clever turns-of-phrase. The scenes between him and the Duchessa sparkle with wit and clever bon mots. (Speaking of the Duchessa’s piety, one character notes, “It is said that a Catholic Englishwoman once tried to convert the Pope.” To which the Duchessa replies, “Well, there have been popes whom it wouldn’t have hurt.”)  

Harland, as a stylist, especially shines in his lovingly-evoked descriptions of the Italian countryside:

In the immediate foreground—at his feet, indeed—there was the river, the narrow Aco, peacock-green, a dark file of poplars on either bank, rushing pell-mell away from the quiet waters of the lake. Then, just across the river, at his left, stretched the smooth lawns of the park of Ventirose, with glimpses of the many-pinnacled castle through the trees; and, beyond, undulating country, flourishing, friendly, a perspective of vineyards, cornfields, groves, and gardens, pointed by numberless white villas.

Anyone who has experienced the incomparable charms of an Italian countryside will no doubt go misty-eyed at this painterly rendering.  

This new edition of the long out-of-print book features editorial work and commentary by Idylls Press publisher, Debra Murphy. She addresses (in an Editorial Note) the one ugly aspect of an otherwise fine and frothy work: its shockingly casual bits of anti-Semitism. These are bumps in the road, to be sure, but instructive as indicators of a certain historical mindset, a mindset that was painfully class-conscious and prejudicial. (Note, Judicious Reader, the drubbing the Jesuits take along with the Jews!) Murphy acknowledges the temptation to simply excise the offensive passages (which she compares to an unsightly pimple on a beautiful woman’s face), but such Bowdlerizing often does more harm than good, and outright censorship is never the preferred answer. So the tossed-off anti-Semitism remains, but with thoughtful editorial comment.

Otherwise, Harland’s book is as pretty as the Italian countryside it so lovingly portrays, and is sure to provide readers with an afternoon’s worth of escapist pleasure.