Page 14 - The Gonzaga Record 1994
P. 14
r
y ea r’s regency (i.e. teaching) in B elvedere, and four years' theology in
Milltown Park, where he was ordained priest on 28 July 1948. Then began his
long association with Belvedere, interrupted only by his short stint at Gonzaga.
A man of many parts, I said. Yes, a man who gave his full commitment to the
task in hand and while with us he generously shared his gift for organisation, his
pedagogical experience, his aptitude for m aking friends, his rich vein of
humour, his understanding of youth, his wise counselling and encouragement,
and all his other many talents. I have spoken to a number of past pupils who
were in G onzaga betw een 1965 and 1967 and I have found that they all
remember him with affection, recognising a person who was efficient, helpful,
kind and very fair. In his dealings with boys, especially seniors, there were no
‘scenes’, no tirades. His own mature handling of situations seemed to call forth
a reciprocal maturity. One past pupil reminded me of how he would visit a
classroom and, having made whatever pronouncement the occasion required, he
would move towards the door, but then, as if an afterthought, deliver himself of
an exit line in the form of an apt quotation, not infrequently in Latin.
Thinking of Fr Eddie there comes naturally to my mind the passage from
Goldsmith’s The Deserted Village:
A man severe he was, and stern to view;
I knew him well, and every truant new;
Well had the boding tremblers learn’d to trace
The day’s disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laugh’d with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper, circling round.
Convey’d the dismal tidings when he frowned;
Yet he was kind; or if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault.
Yes, he was, perhaps, a trifle ‘stern to view ’. His fiery top contributed
somewhat to this image, and I recall now the remark of a colleague who one day
caught him in a pensive mood, in a pose that had him glaring at his fingernails
‘as if he were daring his fingers to answer back’. In memory’s eye I see him
with those same fingers poised menacingly over the keyboard of a piano, an
instrument he always played fortissimo and, at times, agitato: I see him with his
head thrust forward like a turtle’s, his nose almost pressed against the sheet of
music because of his short-sightedness. He was no mean musician and among
his compositions is a String Quartet which had its premiere in Belvedere.
But then, I suppose, anyone who takes on the job of Prefect of Studies must
make an effort to look a bit severe, and his pupils may see only one aspect of
him. As one who shared his student days and had him as a friend and colleague
6
y ea r’s regency (i.e. teaching) in B elvedere, and four years' theology in
Milltown Park, where he was ordained priest on 28 July 1948. Then began his
long association with Belvedere, interrupted only by his short stint at Gonzaga.
A man of many parts, I said. Yes, a man who gave his full commitment to the
task in hand and while with us he generously shared his gift for organisation, his
pedagogical experience, his aptitude for m aking friends, his rich vein of
humour, his understanding of youth, his wise counselling and encouragement,
and all his other many talents. I have spoken to a number of past pupils who
were in G onzaga betw een 1965 and 1967 and I have found that they all
remember him with affection, recognising a person who was efficient, helpful,
kind and very fair. In his dealings with boys, especially seniors, there were no
‘scenes’, no tirades. His own mature handling of situations seemed to call forth
a reciprocal maturity. One past pupil reminded me of how he would visit a
classroom and, having made whatever pronouncement the occasion required, he
would move towards the door, but then, as if an afterthought, deliver himself of
an exit line in the form of an apt quotation, not infrequently in Latin.
Thinking of Fr Eddie there comes naturally to my mind the passage from
Goldsmith’s The Deserted Village:
A man severe he was, and stern to view;
I knew him well, and every truant new;
Well had the boding tremblers learn’d to trace
The day’s disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laugh’d with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper, circling round.
Convey’d the dismal tidings when he frowned;
Yet he was kind; or if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault.
Yes, he was, perhaps, a trifle ‘stern to view ’. His fiery top contributed
somewhat to this image, and I recall now the remark of a colleague who one day
caught him in a pensive mood, in a pose that had him glaring at his fingernails
‘as if he were daring his fingers to answer back’. In memory’s eye I see him
with those same fingers poised menacingly over the keyboard of a piano, an
instrument he always played fortissimo and, at times, agitato: I see him with his
head thrust forward like a turtle’s, his nose almost pressed against the sheet of
music because of his short-sightedness. He was no mean musician and among
his compositions is a String Quartet which had its premiere in Belvedere.
But then, I suppose, anyone who takes on the job of Prefect of Studies must
make an effort to look a bit severe, and his pupils may see only one aspect of
him. As one who shared his student days and had him as a friend and colleague
6
