Adrian Fortescue

Dr. Fortescue was not a born parish priest, but he was a far better one than many people who think they understood him suspect. The work was often against the grain—it offended the extreme reticence which was the key-note of his character—but he never shirked a duty. His visits to the poor and the sick were paid with the most scrupulous regularity, no matter how busy he might be, and he was never known to refuse to see any caller, however inconvenient it might be for him to interrupt his work to receive him. That reticence of his, and his horror of humbug, as well as his impatience with stupidity, and his absolute inability to grasp the difficulties of untrained minds and to make excuses accordingly, often caused temporary misunderstandings between him and his parishioners. There is no harm in saying—because everyone knows it—that he had a quick and very acid wit. Often—but not nearly so often of late years— he wounded the feelings of inoffensive people without, apparently, being able to realise that he was cruel. When he did realise it, he gave himself no peace until he had made amends. He would catch you up on his bicycle in the town, jump off, and without any preliminary good-mornings (he hated ceremony, and would never shake hands): ‘Look here/ he would say,’ let’s be friends. I’ve been a beast to you. When are you coming to tea with me? Come next Monday.’In one way, at least, he was an ideal parish priest. His congregation was (as Dr. Vance said in his funeral oration) the best educated in Europe. He took endless pains to make every person in the parish understand his religion, and appreciate the liturgy. He gave up two hours every Saturday evening to writing, in his exquisite hand, the notice-sheet for the week.