Mungo, in Yorkshire, is a dog’s name, but St Mungo is the official, patron saint of Catholics in the cold, miserable city of Glasgow. There are a fish and a ring on the city shield, objects closely related to one of the most extraordinary miracles performed by this venerable, but rather blurry saint, whose name is as cacophonic as it is full of local color.
Mungo doesn’t exist as a name in Spanish. In fact, it is a nickname given to the saint by his admirers in the vein of that same appealing, mysterious mechanism that leads us to call our dear friend Sr M … Ducky, whenever we refer to him. His real name was Ketingern. Ketingern had his heyday back in the sixth century and was a pleasant, helpful fellow who was responsible for some highly worthwhile miracles. His great favorite was the resurrection of birds that cruel children killed in those dark ages. In my opinion, resurrecting birds is as meritorious as whispering sweet nothings to them, which is what St Francis used to do. And this all goes to show that by the sixth century Anglo-Saxons were already as open as the Latin peoples, especially when miracles were involved. As we are talking about wonders, we should also say that St Mungo could set light to the frosty branches of Scottish firs without matches or flint-stones.
However, the high point in the life of this revered gentleman was the incident with the ring and the fish and the theological dispute it gave rise to many years after. The reader will find a retelling of the episode in the following lines. You will also find a short account of the great debate. I personally believe that these facts are in themselves noteworthy and of contemporary relevance. In the course of writing about them I have drawn on the most recent scientific advances and latest discoveries in this important area.
In that bygone era, Glasgow was the capital of a monarchy irrigated by the River Clyde that is still with us today. Little is known of the king, apart from his reputation as a great buffoon. They say he was tall and stout, with a long red beard, a pointy head, and a cheeky girlish voice. His preferred pastime was to call on friendly families, sheathed in iron from head to toe, and talk for hours on end about anything under the sun with respectable old ladies. That was why he entered history as a great loving, generous king and why artists usually portray him surrounded by antique virgins. The queen was addicted to spelling mistakes, and this ensured her an enviable place in the history of the creation of the venerable Gaelic language and brought her fame as a captivating forger of rich new expressions. Edinburgh University Library has in its keeping a copy of the collection of her love letters annotated by Sir Charles Lamb’s spicy, subtle hand. The queen was a frivolous, hedonistic individual endowed with all the traits of a genuine pre-Renaissance figure. She romped with lots of people from a variety of social backgrounds, so much so that one anticipates when the day comes to write a history of the democratizing of blue blood her popular bed will be a mandatory point of reference.
One summer’s afternoon, the king took a stroll along the banks of the Clyde, his courtesans and scribes trailed some distance behind, he fanned himself with the brass crown he wore for everyday use. His head was full of what two old biddies had told him that very morning about an original way of playing poker that had just been discovered by erudite friars in a Breton monastery. All of a sudden he saw the body of a breast-plated man, stretched out some twenty feet away quite close to the water’s edge. He tiptoed silently over and saw – as he had anticipated – the prostrate form of one of the bravest generals of his troops. Scottish generals at the time often took a nap on the banks of the country’s rivers in the summer. The famous historian Gregorovius reports that contemporary German generals had the same habit, which is an estimable comparative discovery. So, then, the warrior was fast asleep and his hoarse breathing made the metal box he was wearing tinkle. He had removed his chain-mail gloves and placed them by his side on the green sod. The king gazed at him a while, pleased that such a fine man was his general. However, in a flash he was struggling to choke down a cry of horror and rage. He undoubtedly had good reason to be horrified! The king had noticed that the general was wearing one of his queen’s rings. As a matter of fact, it was the one he’d given her before they were married. The benign king had heard gossip about his wife’s frivolous ways but had never raised an eyebrow. He’d put it down to distillers speculating with an eye to pushing up the price of whisky. Nevertheless, the discovery was a brutal blow. How the hell, he wondered, did this ring of the queen end up on the finger of a brigadier general? It turned into a distressing obsession. The king, as we’ve said, was being cuckolded on all sides, but his question remained unanswered in his mind. Nonetheless, he decided to act immediately. He tried to remove the ring from the general’s finger as gently as he could. The operation was a great success: he put the ring in his pocket and continued his walk, highly excited, but managing not to show it. A taste for a refined form of vengeance had replaced the primitive, unbecoming rage in his heart. Forty yards upstream he threw the ring into the river. After doing that, he decided to go back to the palace. The queen was waiting for him.
“My dear queen,” he said sweetly the minute he arrived, “I feel rather chilly and could do with getting into a sweat. Come and lie with me. I beg you.”
Though she’d just walked away from a loving tryst with a noble who lived round the corner, the queen had no choice but to obey and follow him. In those days people rarely stripped off, and, consequently, everything was more functional than it is today. However, that isn’t the real issue; as historians of antiquity and the Middle Ages point out, the real issue was that the wives of absolute monarchs had only limited powers. And if we mention that it’s not because we want to ensure that people feel sympathy for these ladies but simply to affirm what was a fact. On that day, moreover, she had to give him a thousand caresses and repeatedly touch and tweak his red beard, which is what the king most liked. The monarch acted his part very cleverly and beseeched her, almost cloyingly, to show him all the rings and jewels he had given her. More dead than alive, the queen was able to show him the lot except for one: the ring the king had thrown into the river.
“I lent the missing ring,” she said in a quivering voice, “to my first lady-in-waiting. It’s her son’s wedding tomorrow, and I wanted to give her a token of my friendship by contributing with this small detail to make that proper occasion even more solemn. As soon as the celebrations are over, you will see the ring untouched.”
The king grinned benignly and listened to her explanation and then excused her of any further duties. When he was by himself, he uttered in that whimpering voice of his a sentence that was to become renowned: “Beheading the queen will be a piece of cake.”
As soon as the queen reached her chambers, she had a prolonged fainting fit. When she came to, she was clear about one thing: only a miracle could save her. The fame of Ketingern or Mungo as a miracle maker had reached as far as the chambers of the Royal Palace. However, the prolific nature of his wondrous deeds meant the aristocracy paid them little attention. More attuned to real, penetrating acts than the stuff of dreams, the queen’s character predisposed her against the holy male. She didn’t doubt his powers but felt he wasn’t sufficiently skilful to come to her rescue. “How can one compare,” exclaimed the tearful queen, “resurrecting little birds and setting fire to wet branches to the difficulties of my present plight?” She summoned him, even though she harbored no great expectations.
“Secretary, bring me that good man!” ordered the queen majestically. “Bring him to me via the back door. If you bring him straight away, I’ll give you one of your favorite presents.”
The secretary she had addressed was over seventy years old, but had preserved an enviable spontaneity of feeling and loyalty towards the royal family. He rushed off to seek Mungo out. He visited every church in the city but didn’t find him. Then he began to run around the monasteries, and this being such an onerous task that requires lots of courage, he entered a tavern for a second to take some refreshment. Imagine his surprise when he saw Mungo deep in that den, holding a dram, by a table strewn with bottles and glasses. The holy man was surrounded by a ruddy-faced, impoverished crowd that was in turn woeful and jolly. The secretary had no time to reflect on the futility of human aspirations or finish his drink. He summoned Mungo over to tell him what it was all about.
“Yes, sir!” said the saint merrily. “In my view, this is such a trivial matter it would be better to send a disciple of mine who started not long ago and is broken in …”
“You’re completely mistaken!” replied the secretary solemnly. “The queen wants to speak to you personally, and you cannot opt out.”
The holy person went through the back door with a degree of relish. He made what was an excellent bow in the presence of the queen because he felt so excited. The queen ordered everyone to leave and was thus alone with the venerable fellow. Weeping and simpering, half fainting, half serene, alternating pledges of penitence with allusions to her regrettable affair, she fully confessed the actions of her life. Then she asked the saint to help her to save it.
“If I have understood you aright,” said the venerable fellow, “it’s what we poor people call adultery when we’re calling a spade a spade. The Church teaches us that adultery is a mortal sin. I have given you confession, and that’s never a bad thing. Before God, you are completely forgiven. But before humanity can one say the same? You are asking me to be an accomplice to your situation by throwing human justice off course with an unheard of intervention. This would be an undeniably monstrous step to take, from a theological point of view. When you married, you promised to remain faithful to your husband. Why did you break your pledge? You now want a supernatural act to restore a faithfulness you’ve not upheld … Madam, theology is implacable. It’s a risky proposal.”
“I broke my pledge because the king is …”
“That goes without saying!” said the saint, burying his face in his hands. “But what difference does that make? You are a married woman and the law demands that you repress your passions and abide by the demands of human decency. Your situation is very serious. I would like to help but this is a very delicate matter. My heart and patriotic spirit are with you, but some things are sacred. The only thing that can save us all, my queen, is for hearts to melt and the impulse for forgiveness to be genuine.”
“Holy man! What does the Church want at this moment in time?”
“The Church wants your soul to be saved together with the greatness and prosperity of Scotland.”
“That’s right: exactly what I want too.”
They went their separate ways.
Early next morning this curious character walked along the banks of the Clyde, looking deeply worried. He stared into the water and his senses were so concentrated he seemed to be going mad. He made strange shapes with his hands and scraps of prayer hung on his lips. Then he stopped dead and saw a large bubble appear in mid-stream. When the bubble popped, he saw the gills of a salmon stick out in the very same place. St Mungo immediately nodded to it to swim over, and smiled, probably hoping to win the fish’s trust. The fish began to swim to the mud of the bank, head out of water, eyes alert, and came gently to rest by the feet of the saint. It was a handsome salmon that weighed more than sixteen pounds. The holy man grasped the fish as if it were a babe in diapers and cradled it in his arms. If we’d been in that place at that time with a smattering of Gaelic, we’d have understood this peculiar exchange: “Salmon, we’re suffering from a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Are you willing to help me save our bacon?”
“I’m ready to do whatever is called for!”
“Go then, search out the ring, salmon, and enter the annals of history.”
“I’m more interested in fulfilling the designs of Providence than entering the annals of history.”
“Your sacrifice will be much appreciated, for you will have reinforced the nexus of cause and effect.”
“I agree that nothing should be fractured. We found things as they are and should leave them as such.”
“Indeed. We should do whatever we can to preserve the happiness of mankind …”
“And peace within families …”
“And give days of glory to Scotland, our beloved country.”
“And for so many other reasons it would too long, although very lovely, to list now …”
“Yes, for many other important reasons …”
“Indeed, for many other reasons …”
The holy man blessed the fish, which, at the end of that ritual, made a lethal leap and belly-flopped on the water. It disappeared in a second. Then the blessed saint kneeled and started to pray, head up and eyes rolling. It was a charming scene and would require the artlessness of the primitives to paint such a miraculous atmosphere. The Clyde flowed slowly that morning and a breeze was refreshing the landscape. In the distance, a foggy Glasgow was lazily stirring. Time passed – the time required for the miracle, in short – and finally another bubble appeared on the water and then an eye came into view of a fish splashing in its liquid element. The man watched it approach, ecstatic. When it reached the river bank, with endearing stoicism, the fish rolled on to its back. Firmly, though not at all roughly, St Mungo sank the point of a lath into its white flesh to open it up. The sacrifice was made and the ring glinted in the fish’s entrails. The saint extracted it carefully, washed it and gave thanks to God for his goodness. When he’d finished, he grabbed the fish by the gills and took it to an old fish shop famed for its sophisticated fry-ups.
“Cook this fish slowly, mistress!” he said, from the bottom of his heart. “And give me a lift, because nothing could be more exhausting than these tasks of mine. Don’t skimp and have the table ready for twelve, because there is a gentleman who can cure everything, and God is so almighty …”
At ten he entered the palace via the back door. The queen, who’d not yet managed any shut-eye, was hard-pressed not to swoon again when she heard him. They administered syrup but, the second she saw the holy man clutching her ring she came round with such a vengeance they had to close windows and doors to avoid a shocking din.
She repeatedly kissed the venerable saint’s robes and had no time, naturally, to engage in a proper act of thanksgiving. As soon as she could string a sentence together, she demanded an audience with the king.
“My lord and liege,” she began, or so the story goes, “my lord and liege, here is the ring you wanted to see yesterday. The wedding ceremony finished much earlier than expected and my marvelous first lady-in-waiting has just returned it. I thank you for your paternal concerns and you know you can always rely on your most adoring subject who …”
When he realized what it was all about, the half-dozing king chortled incredulously and grabbed the jewel in both hands. He held it for ages, quite speechless, and, as time passed, he grew visibly paler. By his bedside, the queen continued to survey the floor. Finally, the monarch sighed and looked anxiously at the queen. Then he lowered his gaze and burst into tears.
“For a moment I cast doubts on your fidelity, my queen!” he exclaimed, his head now beneath his pillow. “May God punish my grave error …!”
“So do you believe me now? Let’s put all that behind us …!” exclaimed the queen, laughing mischievously and tugging at his flowing beard. “Would you like me to accompany you for a few minutes?”
“This isn’t a good time,” said the king, in a daze. “I much prefer it after lunch …” In truth, the historical account concludes here, and epilogues are probably quite unnecessary. However, to satisfy my readers’ curiosity, we’ll add that, thanks to this extraordinary event, the king was easily able to plow his idiosyncratic furrow and the queen could, with complete impunity, try out the nation’s greatest dolts in the democratic vein she truly made her own.
Many years later, when for reasons of State it was decided that the deeds we have just recounted would have no impact of any kind, they were allowed to circulate. We believe it hardly needs saying that they prompted lots of comment. People have always been very simple-minded, and in the course of these conversations, the humble, hallowed fellow received the greatest praise. Such a favorable aura sprang up around his miraculous activities that the doors were easily opened to his becoming a patron saint. The queen was also much praised, and the anecdote fleshed out the literary halo that already enjoyed the granite-hard base of her spelling mistakes but needed a genial incident of this kind to set it on fire. The historic reputation of the brigadier general also gained from the publication of these deeds, because nothing could be better for the prestige of a knight-in-arms than a spot of tricky amorous jousting. And, naturally, the king was much envied. “Cuckolded he may have been,” said the people, “but much better that it was the result of cosmic say-so than the whims of a local barber or taxi driver.”
Within two or three centuries, the oral tradition of these events remained very strong. The enlightenment had followed its course, and the moment came when the party that we will describe as non-conformist won a majority in the Glasgow Town Hall. From the very first day, this party implemented policies that some believed to be populist, which included, among others, the plan to give the city a shield. A municipal councilor proposed, with sly sleight-of-hand, to put a ring and a fish on the shield and his motion was approved. But this led to such an uproar, people were so up in arms, that for the first time ever an inquiry into the miracle was begun, with no holds barred. Theological issues blossomed, spliced with all manner of saucy comment and anecdote. Casuistry had its moment of brilliance. Resonances reached the world outside, and the different dominations decided to debate the issue fully.
“All in all,” said the casuist, “the fish is the guilty party.”
“Fish don’t have souls, ergo, there can be no question of its guilt.”
“Fish do possess souls, but the fact they are so tiny means they aren’t worth worrying about.”
“You go too far. Fish have the souls they need: I mean they have the fragment of soul necessary to get by in life. Plotinus, who in his day studied this matter …”
“That man was a heretic!”
“That is an invalid argument; if we have to listen to such paltry argumentation, we might as well go home …”
Some people tried to highlight the role played by the saint, clearly wanting to find fault.
“There are shocking details,” said one indignant academic, “that are hardly edifying.”
“What do you mean?”
“What you heard …”
“Would you, by any chance, prefer a miracle by the book?”
“Please, clarify your ideas.”
“Aren’t they crystal clear?”
“A miracle should be constructive; is anyone lunatic enough to doubt this? Well, then: who will deny that St. Mungo’s miracle gave Scotland days of peace and put an end to violence and turmoil?”
“This is undeniable.”
“So why make a mountain out of a molehill?”
“Your reformist opinions reveal a regrettable flaw …”
“I speak with the best of intentions, and cannot have expressed myself well.”
At that moment, a well-known authority interjected in a booming voice: “The king didn’t perform at all brilliantly.”
“Ho, ho,” chortled a jolly gentleman.
“This kind of laughter is out of place here. This gathering is for well-mannered, refined people.”
“And does that give us the right to deny the truth?”
“It obliges us to speak politely, the rules are clear on that front. If we don’t act in such a way, we turn our backs on the very possibility of civil life. We are appalled and horrified by the permissive nature of antiquity, we must ensure that something similar doesn’t happen with our grandchildren in relation to our own sincerity.”
“In any case, this doesn’t obscure the fact that the king’s performance wasn’t exactly brilliant.”
“I don’t know why you say that; I discern in that generous, credulous man evident symptoms of a fine attitude – intimations of extreme sophistication.”
“Yours is an interesting opinion. The king was a long-suffering cuckold, a prototype of modern man. At bottom, a man worthy of our respect …”
“Ho, ho!” chortled the cheery wag, insidiously.
“You may well laugh!” said a man who looked cautious and sensible.
The casuist asked to speak and stated in a rudely superior tone: “And are we not forgetting the queen? After the fish, in my opinion, she is the most obviously significant element in this case. Her strong-headedness met no opposition at all. You should note and understand, moreover, that later on she didn’t learn her lesson …”
“It would be best to find something to preserve the supernatural cunning human felines always display.”
“Why do you say that? The queen was what she was …”
“Agreed, agreed. She was a wretched creature who, nevertheless, was the conduit through which a noble and prosperous peace came to the land of Scotland.”
“The theory of the instrument of grace is even more recondite, and now is surely not the place or time to debate that.”
“Recondite? The ways of grace are always gracefully transparent.”
“It’s obvious that this discussion has gone completely off the rails and it is futile to continue, if we cannot a priori separate out the temporal from the spiritual.”
“Your modernity is pernicious.”
“Oh, come, come!”
“It’s of no matter. The queen must be saved – whatever it takes. The services she rendered were positive and quite remarkable. Besides, she has a fine literary reputation, and we can’t afford the luxury of scorning anything from the six century, spelling errors included. Besides, she was the queen of a country that is intent on growing in importance …”
In the meantime, while propping up a column in Paradise’s room of wasted opportunities, the holy man was commenting on these bygone deeds to a circle of friends and colleagues.
“My friends, you can now see,” he said, “the depths we have sunk to. You all know me and are aware of the efforts I have always made to keep to the high ground of good faith. I believed that my participation in the business of the ring and the fish was positive because it avoided an outbreak of passion, violence, bloodletting, and chaos. Now you see how they deal with me and those events. But that’s how men and women on impious earth speak, who will probably always speak in a like manner. I confess, nevertheless, that any bodily suffering could never compare to my present sorrows. I find this gang of casuists and toffee-nosed sages disgusting, and I’d never heard so much tripe in so short a time. Those amongst us who have a gift for soothing troubled waters know that, in effect, it is a thankless task. Our actions are always caught between two lines of fire: they please some and upset others. All human works are ever thus. Why then don’t we make the effort to transpose the study of this matter to a purely platonic realm? From the point of view of the king’s self-interest, the miracle of the ring and the fish was quite unfortunate. From the point of view of the queen, it was, on the other hand, and though I am hardly the one to say this, it was sublime and angelical. But the fact remains that if we don’t make the effort to rise above these miserable trifles we will never achieve anything serious. It is impossible to legislate for these acts. To enable miracles to come within the reach of everyone would be insane. The only solution would be to have miracles performed for ideal ends, for general reasons, properly measured by our own individual grace. I believe that the establishment of a period of peace and prosperity for bonny Scotland will always justify my participation. Yet, the truth is that once the deed is done, it will always be best to bury and forget it and get on with life. That is why I said you should measure the miracle with your own individual grace. I don’t think anything could be clearer. And so, friends and colleagues: a few yards from this room a gang of lunatics is holding forth on the only thing they shouldn’t speak about. Isn’t that appalling? Now you see the way the wind is blowing, I suppose you will immediately grasp why this gathering puts years on me and turns my hair gray. I’d heard a lot about human ingratitude, but aren’t these fools overstepping the mark! Do you see how they’ve rewarded me …!”
If they hadn’t repeatedly agreed that he was most certainly in the right, Mungo would have started moaning and whining.