Grace
TWO GENTLEMEN who were in the lavatory at the time tried tolift him up: but he was quite helpless. He lay curled up at the footof the stairs down which he had fallen. They succeeded in turninghim over. His hat had rolled a few yards away and his clothes weresmeared with the filth and ooze of the floor on which he had lain,face downwards. His eyes were closed and he breathed with agrunting noise. A thin stream of blood trickled from the corner ofhis mouth.These two gentlemen and one of the curates carried him up thestairs and laid him down again on the floor of the bar. In twominutes he was surrounded by a ring of men. The manager of thebar asked everyone who he was and who was with him. No oneknew who he was but one of the curates said he had served thegentleman with a small rum."Was he by himself?" asked the manager."No, sir. There was two gentlemen with him.""And where are they?"No one knew; a voice said:"Give him air. He's fainted."The ring of onlookers distended and closed again elastically. Adark medal of blood had formed itself near the man's head on thetessellated floor. The manager, alarmed by the grey pallor of theman's face, sent for a policeman.His collar was unfastened and his necktie undone. He opened eyesfor an instant, sighed and closed them again. One of gentlemenwho had carried him upstairs held a dinged silk hat in his hand.The manager asked repeatedly did no one know who the injuredman was or where had his friends gone. The door of the baropened and an immense constable entered. A crowd which hadfollowed him down the laneway collected outside the door,struggling to look in through the glass panels.The manager at once began to narrate what he knew. The costable,a young man with thick immobile features, listened. He moved hishead slowly to right and left and from the manager to the personon the floor, as if he feared to be the victim some delusion. Thenhe drew off his glove, produced a small book from his waist,licked the lead of his pencil and made ready to indite. He asked ina suspicious provincial accent:"Who is the man? What's his name and address?"A young man in a cycling-suit cleared his way through the ring ofbystanders. He knelt down promptly beside the injured man andcalled for water. The constable knelt down also to help. The youngman washed the blood from the injured man's mouth and thencalled for some brandy. The constable repeated the order in anauthoritative voice until a curate came running with the glass. Thebrandy was forced down the man's throat. In a few seconds heopened his eyes and looked about him. He looked at the circle offaces and then, understanding, strove to rise to his feet."You're all right now?" asked the young man in the cycling- suit."Sha,'s nothing," said the injured man, trying to stand up.He was helped to his feet. The manager said something about ahospital and some of the bystanders gave advice. The battered silkhat was placed on the man's head. The constable asked:"Where do you live?"The man, without answering, began to twirl the ends of hismoustache. He made light of his accident. It was nothing, he said:only a little accident. He spoke very thickly."Where do you live" repeated the constable.The man said they were to get a cab for him. While the point wasbeing debated a tall agile gentleman of fair complexion, wearing along yellow ulster, came from the far end of the bar. Seeing thespectacle, he called out:"Hallo, Tom, old man! What's the trouble?""Sha,'s nothing," said the man.The new-comer surveyed the deplorable figure before him andthen turned to the constable, saying:"It's all right, constable. I'll see him home."The constable touched his helmet and answered:"All right, Mr. Power!""Come now, Tom," said Mr. Power, taking his friend by the arm."No bones broken. What? Can you walk?"The young man in the cycling-suit took the man by the other armand the crowd divided."How did you get yourself into this mess?" asked Mr. Power."The gentleman fell down the stairs," said the young man."I' 'ery 'uch o'liged to you, sir," said the injured man."Not at all.""'ant we have a little...?""Not now. Not now."The three men left the bar and the crowd sifted through the doorsin to the laneway. The manager brought the constable to the stairsto inspect the scene of the accident. They agreed that thegentleman must have missed his footing. The customers returnedto the counter and a curate set about removing the traces of bloodfrom the floor.When they came out into Grafton Street, Mr. Power whistled foran outsider. The injured man said again as well as he could."I' 'ery 'uch o'liged to you, sir. I hope we'll 'eet again. 'y na'e isKernan."The shock and the incipient pain had partly sobered him."Don't mention it," said the young man.They shook hands. Mr. Kernan was hoisted on to the car and,while Mr. Power was giving directions to the carman, he expressedhis gratitude to the young man and regretted that they could nothave a little drink together."Another time," said the young man.The car drove off towards Westmoreland Street. As it passedBallast Office the clock showed half-past nine. A keen east windhit them, blowing from the mouth of the river. Mr. Kernan washuddled together with cold. His friend asked him to tell how theaccident had happened."I'an't 'an," he answered, "'y 'ongue is hurt.""Show."The other leaned over the well of the car and peered into Mr.Kernan's mouth but he could not see. He struck a match and,sheltering it in the shell of his hands, peered again into the mouthwhich Mr. Kernan opened obediently. The swaying movement ofthe car brought the match to and from the opened mouth. Thelower teeth and gums were covered with clotted blood and aminute piece of the tongue seemed to have been bitten off. Thematch was blown out."That's ugly," said Mr. Power."Sha, 's nothing," said Mr. Kernan, closing his mouth and pullingthe collar of his filthy coat across his neck.Mr. Kernan was a commercial traveller of the old school whichbelieved in the dignity of its calling. He had never been seen in thecity without a silk hat of some decency and a pair of gaiters. Bygrace of these two articles of clothing, he said, a man could alwayspass muster. He carried on the tradition of his Napoleon, the greatBlackwhite, whose memory he evoked at times by legend andmimicry. Modern business methods had spared him only so far asto allow him a little office in Crowe Street, on the window blind ofwhich was written the name of his firm with the address -- London,E. C. On the mantelpiece of this little office a little leadenbattalion of canisters was drawn up and on the table before thewindow stood four or five china bowls which were usually halffull of a black liquid. From these bowls Mr. Kernan tasted tea. Hetook a mouthful, drew it up, saturated his palate with it and thenspat it forth into the grate. Then he paused to judge.Mr. Power, a much younger man, was employed in the Royal IrishConstabulary Office in Dublin Castle. The arc of his social riseintersected the arc of his friend's decline, but Mr. Kernan's declinewas mitigated by the fact that certain of those friends who hadknown him at his highest point of success still esteemed him as acharacter. Mr. Power was one of these friends. His inexplicabledebts were a byword in his circle; he was a debonair young man.The car halted before a small house on the Glasnevin road and Mr.Kernan was helped into the house. His wife put him to bed whileMr. Power sat downstairs in the kitchen asking the children wherethey went to school and what book they were in. The children --two girls and a boy, conscious of their father helplessness and oftheir mother's absence, began some horseplay with him. He wassurprised at their manners and at their accents, and his brow grewthoughtful. After a while Mrs. Kernan entered the kitchen,exclaiming:"Such a sight! O, he'll do for himself one day and that's the holyalls of it. He's been drinking since Friday."Mr. Power was careful to explain to her that he was notresponsible, that he had come on the scene by the merest accident.Mrs. Kernan, remembering Mr. Power's good offices duringdomestic quarrels, as well as many small, but opportune loans,said:"O, you needn't tell me that, Mr. Power. I know you're a friend ofhis, not like some of the others he does be with. They're all right solong as he has money in his pocket to keep him out from his wifeand family. Nice friends! Who was he with tonight, I'd like toknow?"Mr. Power shook his head but said nothing."I'm so sorry," she continued, "that I've nothing in the house tooffer you. But if you wait a minute I'll send round to Fogarty's, atthe corner."Mr. Power stood up."We were waiting for him to come home with the money. Henever seems to think he has a home at all.""O, now, Mrs. Kernan," said Mr. Power, "we'll make him turn overa new leaf. I'll talk to Martin. He's the man. We'll come here one ofthese nights and talk it over."She saw him to the door. The carman was stamping up and downthe footpath, and swinging his arms to warm himself."It's very kind of you to bring him home," she said."Not at all," said Mr. Power.He got up on the car. As it drove off he raised his hat to her gaily."We'll make a new man of him," he said. "Good-night, Mrs.Kernan." Mrs. Kernan's puzzled eyes watched the car till it was out of sight.Then she withdrew them, went into the house and emptied herhusband's pockets.She was an active, practical woman of middle age. Not long beforeshe had celebrated her silver wedding and renewed her intimacywith her husband by waltzing with him to Mr. Power'saccompaniment. In her days of courtship, Mr. Kernan had seemedto her a not ungallant figure: and she still hurried to the chapeldoor whenever a wedding was reported and, seeing the bridal pair,recalled with vivid pleasure how she had passed out of the Star ofthe Sea Church in Sandymount, leaning on the arm of a jovialwell-fed man, who was dressed smartly in a frock-coat andlavender trousers and carried a silk hat gracefully balanced uponhis other arm. After three weeks she had found a wife's lifeirksome and, later on, when she was beginning to find itunbearable, she had become a mother. The part of motherpresented to her no insuperable difficulties and for twenty-fiveyears she had kept house shrewdly for her husband. Her two eldestsons were launched. One was in a draper's shop in Glasgow andthe other was clerk to a tea- merchant in Belfast. They were goodsons, wrote regularly and sometimes sent home money. The otherchildren were still at school.Mr. Kernan sent a letter to his office next day and remained in bed.She made beef-tea for him and scolded him roundly. She acceptedhis frequent intemperance as part of the climate, healed himdutifully whenever he was sick and always tried to make him eat abreakfast. There were worse husbands. He had never been violentsince the boys had grown up, and she knew that he would walk tothe end of Thomas Street and back again to book even a smallorder.Two nights after, his friends came to see him. She brought them upto his bedroom, the air of which was impregnated with a personalodour, and gave them chairs at the fire. Mr. Kernan's tongue, theoccasional stinging pain of which had made him somewhatirritable during the day, became more polite. He sat propped up inthe bed by pillows and the little colour in his puffy cheeks madethem resemble warm cinders. He apologised to his guests for thedisorder of the room, but at the same time looked at them a littleproudly, with a veteran's pride.He was quite unconscious that he was the victim of a plot whichhis friends, Mr. Cunningham, Mr. M'Coy and Mr. Power haddisclosed to Mrs. Kernan in the parlour. The idea been Mr.Power's, but its development was entrusted to Mr. Cunningham.Mr. Kernan came of Protestant stock and, though he had beenconverted to the Catholic faith at the time of his marriage, he hadnot been in the pale of the Church for twenty years. He was fond,moreover, of giving side-thrusts at Catholicism.Mr. Cunningham was the very man for such a case. He was anelder colleague of Mr. Power. His own domestic life was veryhappy. People had great sympathy with him, for it was known thathe had married an unpresentable woman who was an incurabledrunkard. He had set up house for her six times; and each time shehad pawned the furniture on him.Everyone had respect for poor Martin Cunningham. He was athoroughly sensible man, influential and intelligent. His blade ofhuman knowledge, natural astuteness particularised by longassociation with cases in the police courts, had been tempered bybrief immersions in the waters of general philosophy. He was wellinformed. His friends bowed to his opinions and considered thathis face was like Shakespeare's.When the plot had been disclosed to her, Mrs. Kernan had said:"I leave it all in your hands, Mr. Cunningham."After a quarter of a century of married life, she had very fewillusions left. Religion for her was a habit, and she suspected that aman of her husband's age would not change greatly before death.She was tempted to see a curious appropriateness in his accidentand, but that she did not wish to seem bloody-minded, would havetold the gentlemen that Mr. Kernan's tongue would not suffer bybeing shortened. However, Mr. Cunningham was a capable man;and religion was religion. The scheme might do good and, at least,it could do no harm. Her beliefs were not extravagant. Shebelieved steadily in the Sacred Heart as the most generally usefulof all Catholic devotions and approved of the sacraments. Her faithwas bounded by her kitchen, but, if she was put to it, she couldbelieve also in the banshee and in the Holy Ghost.The gentlemen began to talk of the accident. Mr. Cunningham saidthat he had once known a similar case. A man of seventy hadbitten off a piece of his tongue during an epileptic fit and thetongue had filled in again, so that no one could see a trace of thebite."Well, I'm not seventy," said the invalid."God forbid," said Mr. Cunningham."It doesn't pain you now?" asked Mr. M'Coy.Mr. M'Coy had been at one time a tenor of some reputation. Hiswife, who had been a soprano, still taught young children to playthe piano at low terms. His line of life had not been the shortestdistance between two points and for short periods he had beendriven to live by his wits. He had been a clerk in the MidlandRailway, a canvasser for advertisements for The Irish Times andfor The Freeman's Journal, a town traveller for a coal firm oncommission, a private inquiry agent, a clerk in the office of theSub-Sheriff, and he had recently become secretary to the CityCoroner. His new office made him professionally interested in Mr.Kernan's case."Pain? Not much," answered Mr. Kernan. "But it's so sickening. Ifeel as if I wanted to retch off.""That's the boose," said Mr. Cunningham firmly."No," said Mr. Kernan. "I think I caught cold on the car. There'ssomething keeps coming into my throat, phlegm or----""Mucus." said Mr. M'Coy."It keeps coming like from down in my throat; sickening.""Yes, yes," said Mr. M'Coy, "that's the thorax."He looked at Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Power at the same timewith an air of challenge. Mr. Cunningham nodded his head rapidlyand Mr. Power said:"Ah, well, all's well that ends well.""I'm very much obliged to you, old man," said the invalid.Mr. Power waved his hand."Those other two fellows I was with----""Who were you with?" asked Mr. Cunningham."A chap. I don't know his name. Damn it now, what's his name?Little chap with sandy hair....""And who else?""Harford.""Hm," said Mr. Cunningham.When Mr. Cunningham made that remark, people were silent. Itwas known that the speaker had secret sources of information. Inthis case the monosyllable had a moral intention. Mr. Harfordsometimes formed one of a little detachment which left the cityshortly after noon on Sunday with the purpose of arriving as soonas possible at some public-house on the outskirts of the city whereits members duly qualified themselves as bona fide travellers. Buthis fellow-travellers had never consented to overlook his origin.He had begun life as an obscure financier by lending small sums ofmoney to workmen at usurious interest. Later on he had becomethe partner of a very fat, short gentleman, Mr. Goldberg, in theLiffey Loan Bank. Though he had never embraced more than theJewish ethical code, his fellow-Catholics, whenever they hadsmarted in person or by proxy under his exactions, spoke of himbitterly as an Irish Jew and an illiterate, and saw divinedisapproval of usury made manifest through the person of his idiotson. At other times they remembered his good points."I wonder where did he go to," said Mr. Kernan.He wished the details of the incident to remain vague. He wishedhis friends to think there had been some mistake, that Mr. Harfordand he had missed each other. His friends, who knew quite wellMr. Harford's manners in drinking were silent. Mr. Power saidagain:"All's well that ends well."Mr. Kernan changed the subject at once."That was a decent young chap, that medical fellow," he said."Only for him----""O, only for him," said Mr. Power, "it might have been a case ofseven days, without the option of a fine.""Yes, yes," said Mr. Kernan, trying to remember. "I remember nowthere was a policeman. Decent young fellow, he seemed. How didit happen at all?""It happened that you were peloothered, Tom," said Mr.Cunningham gravely."True bill," said Mr. Kernan, equally gravely."I suppose you squared the constable, Jack," said Mr. M'Coy.Mr. Power did not relish the use of his Christian name. He was notstraight-laced, but he could not forget that Mr. M'Coy had recentlymade a crusade in search of valises and portmanteaus to enableMrs. M'Coy to fulfil imaginary engagements in the country. Morethan he resented the fact that he had been victimised he resentedsuch low playing of the game. He answered the question,therefore, as if Mr. Kernan had asked it.The narrative made Mr. Kernan indignant. He was keenlyconscious of his citizenship, wished to live with his city on termsmutually honourable and resented any affront put upon him bythose whom he called country bumpkins."Is this what we pay rates for?" he asked. "To feed and clothe theseignorant bostooms... and they're nothing else."Mr. Cunningham laughed. He was a Castle official only duringoffice hours."How could they be anything else, Tom?" he said.He assumed a thick, provincial accent and said in a tone ofcommand:"65, catch your cabbage!"Everyone laughed. Mr. M'Coy, who wanted to enter theconversation by any door, pretended that he had never heard thestory. Mr. Cunningham said:"It is supposed -- they say, you know -- to take place in the depotwhere they get these thundering big country fellows, omadhauns,you know, to drill. The sergeant makes them stand in a row againstthe wall and hold up their plates."He illustrated the story by grotesque gestures."At dinner, you know. Then he has a bloody big bowl of cabbagebefore him on the table and a bloody big spoon like a shovel. Hetakes up a wad of cabbage on the spoon and pegs it across theroom and the poor devils have to try and catch it on their plates:65, catch your cabbage."Everyone laughed again: but Mr. Kernan was somewhat indignantstill. He talked of writing a letter to the papers."These yahoos coming up here," he said, "think they can boss thepeople. I needn't tell you, Martin, what kind of men they are."Mr. Cunningham gave a qualified assent."It's like everything else in this world," he said. "You get some badones and you get some good ones.""O yes, you get some good ones, I admit," said Mr. Kernan,satisfied."It's better to have nothing to say to them," said Mr. M'Coy. "That'smy opinion!"Mrs. Kernan entered the room and, placing a tray on the table,said:"Help yourselves, gentlemen."Mr. Power stood up to officiate, offering her his chair. Shedeclined it, saying she was ironing downstairs, and, after havingexchanged a nod with Mr. Cunningham behind Mr. Power's back,prepared to leave the room. Her husband called out to her:"And have you nothing for me, duckie?""O, you! The back of my hand to you!" said Mrs. Kernan tartly.Her husband called after her:"Nothing for poor little hubby!"He assumed such a comical face and voice that the distribution ofthe bottles of stout took place amid general merriment.The gentlemen drank from their glasses, set the glasses again onthe table and paused. Then Mr. Cunningham turned towards Mr.Power and said casually:"On Thursday night, you said, Jack ""Thursday, yes," said Mr. Power."Righto!" said Mr. Cunningham promptly."We can meet in M'Auley's," said Mr. M'Coy. "That'll be the mostconvenient place.""But we mustn't be late," said Mr. Power earnestly, "because it issure to be crammed to the doors.""We can meet at half-seven," said Mr. M'Coy."Righto!" said Mr. Cunningham."Half-seven at M'Auley's be it!"There was a short silence. Mr. Kernan waited to see whether hewould be taken into his friends' confidence. Then he asked:"What's in the wind?""O, it's nothing," said Mr. Cunningham. "It's only a little matterthat we're arranging about for Thursday.""The opera, is it?" said Mr. Kernan."No, no," said Mr. Cunningham in an evasive tone, "it's just alittle... spiritual matter.""0," said Mr. Kernan.There was silence again. Then Mr. Power said, point blank:"To tell you the truth, Tom, we're going to make a retreat.""Yes, that's it," said Mr. Cunningham, "Jack and I and M'Coy here-- we're all going to wash the pot."He uttered the metaphor with a certain homely energy and,encouraged by his own voice, proceeded:"You see, we may as well all admit we're a nice collection ofscoundrels, one and all. I say, one and all," he added with gruffcharity and turning to Mr. Power. "Own up now!""I own up," said Mr. Power."And I own up," said Mr. M'Coy."So we're going to wash the pot together," said Mr. Cunningham.A thought seemed to strike him. He turned suddenly to the invalidand said:"D'ye know what, Tom, has just occurred to me? You night join inand we'd have a four-handed reel.""Good idea," said Mr. Power. "The four of us together."Mr. Kernan was silent. The proposal conveyed very little meaningto his mind, but, understanding that some spiritual agencies wereabout to concern themselves on his behalf, he thought he owed itto his dignity to show a stiff neck. He took no part in theconversation for a long while, but listened, with an air of calmenmity, while his friends discussed the Jesuits."I haven't such a bad opinion of the Jesuits," he said, intervening atlength. "They're an educated order. I believe they mean well, too.""They're the grandest order in the Church, Tom," said Mr.Cunningham, with enthusiasm. "The General of the Jesuits standsnext to the Pope.""There's no mistake about it," said Mr. M'Coy, "if you want a thingwell done and no flies about, you go to a Jesuit. They're the boyoshave influence. I'll tell you a case in point....""The Jesuits are a fine body of men," said Mr. Power."It's a curious thing," said Mr. Cunningham, "about the JesuitOrder. Every other order of the Church had to be reformed at sometime or other but the Jesuit Order was never once reformed. Itnever fell away.""Is that so?" asked Mr. M'Coy."That's a fact," said Mr. Cunningham. "That's history.""Look at their church, too," said Mr. Power. "Look at thecongregation they have.""The Jesuits cater for the upper classes," said Mr. M'Coy."Of course," said Mr. Power."Yes," said Mr. Kernan. "That's why I have a feeling for them. It'ssome of those secular priests, ignorant, bumptious----""They're all good men," said Mr. Cunningham, "each in his ownway. The Irish priesthood is honoured all the world over.""O yes," said Mr. Power."Not like some of the other priesthoods on the continent," said Mr.M'Coy, "unworthy of the name.""Perhaps you're right," said Mr. Kernan, relenting."Of course I'm right," said Mr. Cunningham. "I haven't been in theworld all this time and seen most sides of it without being a judgeof character."The gentlemen drank again, one following another's example. Mr.Kernan seemed to be weighing something in his mind. He wasimpressed. He had a high opinion of Mr. Cunningham as a judgeof character and as a reader of faces. He asked for particulars."O, it's just a retreat, you know," said Mr. Cunningham. "FatherPurdon is giving it. It's for business men, you know.""He won't be too hard on us, Tom," said Mr. Power persuasively."Father Purdon? Father Purdon?" said the invalid."O, you must know him, Tom," said Mr. Cunningham stoutly."Fine, jolly fellow! He's a man of the world like ourselves.""Ah,... yes. I think I know him. Rather red face; tall.""That's the man.""And tell me, Martin.... Is he a good preacher?""Munno.... It's not exactly a sermon, you know. It's just kind of afriendly talk, you know, in a common-sense way."Mr. Kernan deliberated. Mr. M'Coy said:"Father Tom Burke, that was the boy!""O, Father Tom Burke," said Mr. Cunningham, "that was a bornorator. Did you ever hear him, Tom?""Did I ever hear him!" said the invalid, nettled. "Rather! I heardhim....""And yet they say he wasn't much of a theologian," said MrCunningham."Is that so?" said Mr. M'Coy."O, of course, nothing wrong, you know. Only sometimes, theysay, he didn't preach what was quite orthodox.""Ah!... he was a splendid man," said Mr. M'Coy."I heard him once," Mr. Kernan continued. "I forget the subject ofhis discourse now. Crofton and I were in the back of the... pit, youknow... the----""The body," said Mr. Cunningham."Yes, in the back near the door. I forget now what.... O yes, it wason the Pope, the late Pope. I remember it well. Upon my word itwas magnificent, the style of the oratory. And his voice! God!hadn't he a voice! The Prisoner of the Vatican, he called him. Iremember Crofton saying to me when we came out----""But he's an Orangeman, Crofton, isn't he?" said Mr. Power."'Course he is," said Mr. Kernan, "and a damned decentOrangeman too. We went into Butler's in Moore Street -- faith, wasgenuinely moved, tell you the God's truth -- and I remember wellhis very words. Kernan, he said, we worship at different altars, hesaid, but our belief is the same. Struck me as very well put.""There's a good deal in that," said Mr. Power. "There used alwaysbe crowds of Protestants in the chapel where Father Tom waspreaching.""There's not much difference between us," said Mr. M'Coy."We both believe in----"He hesitated for a moment."... in the Redeemer. Only they don't believe in the Pope and in themother of God.""But, of course," said Mr. Cunningham quietly and effectively,"our religion is the religion, the old, original faith.""Not a doubt of it," said Mr. Kernan warmly.Mrs. Kernan came to the door of the bedroom and announced:"Here's a visitor for you!""Who is it?""Mr. Fogarty.""O, come in! come in!"A pale, oval face came forward into the light. The arch of its fairtrailing moustache was repeated in the fair eyebrows looped abovepleasantly astonished eyes. Mr. Fogarty was a modest grocer. Hehad failed in business in a licensed house in the city because hisfinancial condition had constrained him to tie himself tosecond-class distillers and brewers. He had opened a small shop onGlasnevin Road where, he flattered himself, his manners wouldingratiate him with the housewives of the district. He bore himselfwith a certain grace, complimented little children and spoke with aneat enunciation. He was not without culture.Mr. Fogarty brought a gift with him, a half-pint of special whisky.He inquired politely for Mr. Kernan, placed his gift on the tableand sat down with the company on equal terms. Mr. Kernanappreciated the gift all the more since he was aware that there wasa small account for groceries unsettled between him and Mr.Fogarty. He said:"I wouldn't doubt you, old man. Open that, Jack, will you?"Mr. Power again officiated. Glasses were rinsed and five smallmeasures of whisky were poured out. This new influenceenlivened the conversation. Mr. Fogarty, sitting on a small area ofthe chair, was specially interested."Pope Leo XIII," said Mr. Cunningham, "was one of the lights ofthe age. His great idea, you know, was the union of the Latin andGreek Churches. That was the aim of his life.""I often heard he was one of the most intellectual men in Europe,"said Mr. Power. "I mean, apart from his being Pope.""So he was," said Mr. Cunningham, "if not the most so. His motto,you know, as Pope, was Lux upon Lux -- Light upon Light.""No, no," said Mr. Fogarty eagerly. "I think you're wrong there. Itwas Lux in Tenebris, I think -- Light in Darkness.""O yes," said Mr. M'Coy, "Tenebrae.""Allow me," said Mr. Cunningham positively, "it was Lux uponLux. And Pius IX his predecessor's motto was Crux upon Crux --that is, Cross upon Cross -- to show the difference between theirtwo pontificates."The inference was allowed. Mr. Cunningham continued."Pope Leo, you know, was a great scholar and a poet.""He had a strong face," said Mr. Kernan."Yes," said Mr. Cunningham. "He wrote Latin poetry.""Is that so?" said Mr. Fogarty.Mr. M'Coy tasted his whisky contentedly and shook his head witha double intention, saying:"That's no joke, I can tell you.""We didn't learn that, Tom," said Mr. Power, following Mr.M'Coy's example, "when we went to the penny-a-week school.""There was many a good man went to the penny-a-week schoolwith a sod of turf under his oxter," said Mr. Kernan sententiously."The old system was the best: plain honest education. None ofyour modern trumpery....""Quite right," said Mr. Power."No superfluities," said Mr. Fogarty.He enunciated the word and then drank gravely."I remember reading," said Mr. Cunningham, "that one of PopeLeo's poems was on the invention of the photograph -- in Latin, ofcourse.""On the photograph!" exclaimed Mr. Kernan."Yes," said Mr. Cunningham.He also drank from his glass."Well, you know," said Mr. M'Coy, "isn't the photographwonderful when you come to think of it?""O, of course," said Mr. Power, "great minds can see things.""As the poet says: Great minds are very near to madness," said Mr.Fogarty.Mr. Kernan seemed to be troubled in mind. He made an effort torecall the Protestant theology on some thorny points and in the endaddressed Mr. Cunningham."Tell me, Martin," he said. "Weren't some of the popes -- ofcourse, not our present man, or his predecessor, but some of theold popes -- not exactly ... you know... up to the knocker?"There was a silence. Mr. Cunningham said"O, of course, there were some bad lots... But the astonishing thingis this. Not one of them, not the biggest drunkard, not the most...out-and-out ruffian, not one of them ever preached ex cathedra aword of false doctrine. Now isn't that an astonishing thing?""That is," said Mr. Kernan."Yes, because when the Pope speaks ex cathedra," Mr. Fogartyexplained, "he is infallible.""Yes," said Mr. Cunningham."O, I know about the infallibility of the Pope. I remember I wasyounger then.... Or was it that----?"Mr. Fogarty interrupted. He took up the bottle and helped theothers to a little more. Mr. M'Coy, seeing that there was notenough to go round, pleaded that he had not finished his firstmeasure. The others accepted under protest. The light music ofwhisky falling into glasses made an agreeable interlude."What's that you were saying, Tom?" asked Mr. M'Coy."Papal infallibility," said Mr. Cunningham, "that was the greatestscene in the whole history of the Church.""How was that, Martin?" asked Mr. Power.Mr. Cunningham held up two thick fingers."In the sacred college, you know, of cardinals and archbishops andbishops there were two men who held out against it while theothers were all for it. The whole conclave except these two wasunanimous. No! They wouldn't have it!""Ha!" said Mr. M'Coy."And they were a German cardinal by the name of Dolling... orDowling... or----""Dowling was no German, and that's a sure five," said Mr. Power,laughing."Well, this great German cardinal, whatever his name was, wasone; and the other was John MacHale.""What?" cried Mr. Kernan. "Is it John of Tuam?""Are you sure of that now?" asked Mr. Fogarty dubiously. "Ithought it was some Italian or American.""John of Tuam," repeated Mr. Cunningham, "was the man."He drank and the other gentlemen followed his lead. Then heresumed:"There they were at it, all the cardinals and bishops andarchbishops from all the ends of the earth and these two fightingdog and devil until at last the Pope himself stood up and declaredinfallibility a dogma of the Church ex cathedra. On the verymoment John MacHale, who had been arguing and arguing againstit, stood up and shouted out with the voice of a lion: 'Credo!'""I believe!" said Mr. Fogarty."Credo!" said Mr. Cunningham "That showed the faith he had. Hesubmitted the moment the Pope spoke.""And what about Dowling?" asked Mr. M'Coy."The German cardinal wouldn't submit. He left the church."Mr. Cunningham's words had built up the vast image of the churchin the minds of his hearers. His deep, raucous voice had thrilledthem as it uttered the word of belief and submission. When Mrs.Kernan came into the room, drying her hands she came into asolemn company. She did not disturb the silence, but leaned overthe rail at the foot of the bed."I once saw John MacHale," said Mr. Kernan, "and I'll never forgetit as long as I live."He turned towards his wife to be confirmed."I often told you that?"Mrs. Kernan nodded."It was at the unveiling of Sir John Gray's statue. Edmund DwyerGray was speaking, blathering away, and here was this old fellow,crabbed-looking old chap, looking at him from under his bushyeyebrows."Mr. Kernan knitted his brows and, lowering his head like an angrybull, glared at his wife."God!" he exclaimed, resuming his natural face, "I never saw suchan eye in a man's head. It was as much as to say: I have youproperly taped, my lad. He had an eye like a hawk.""None of the Grays was any good," said Mr. Power.There was a pause again. Mr. Power turned to Mrs. Kernan andsaid with abrupt joviality:"Well, Mrs. Kernan, we're going to make your man here a goodholy pious and God-fearing Roman Catholic."He swept his arm round the company inclusively."We're all going to make a retreat together and confess our sins --and God knows we want it badly.""I don't mind," said Mr. Kernan, smiling a little nervously.Mrs. Kernan thought it would be wiser to conceal her satisfaction.So she said:"I pity the poor priest that has to listen to your tale."Mr. Kernan's expression changed."If he doesn't like it," he said bluntly, "he can... do the other thing.I'll just tell him my little tale of woe. I'm not such a bad fellow----"Mr. Cunningham intervened promptly."We'll all renounce the devil," he said, "together, not forgetting hisworks and pomps.""Get behind me, Satan!" said Mr. Fogarty, laughing and looking atthe others.Mr. Power said nothing. He felt completely out-generalled. But apleased expression flickered across his face."All we have to do," said Mr. Cunningham, "is to stand up withlighted candles in our hands and renew our baptismal vows.""O, don't forget the candle, Tom," said Mr. M'Coy, "whatever youdo.""What?" said Mr. Kernan. "Must I have a candle?""O yes," said Mr. Cunningham."No, damn it all," said Mr. Kernan sensibly, "I draw the line there.I'll do the job right enough. I'll do the retreat business andconfession, and... all that business. But... no candles! No, damn itall, I bar the candles!"He shook his head with farcical gravity."Listen to that!" said his wife."I bar the candles," said Mr. Kernan, conscious of having createdan effect on his audience and continuing to shake his head to andfro. "I bar the magic-lantern business."Everyone laughed heartily."There's a nice Catholic for you!" said his wife."No candles!" repeated Mr. Kernan obdurately. "That's off!" The transept of the Jesuit Church in Gardiner Street was almostfull; and still at every moment gentlemen entered from the sidedoor and, directed by the lay-brother, walked on tiptoe along theaisles until they found seating accommodation. The gentlemenwere all well dressed and orderly. The light of the lamps of thechurch fell upon an assembly of black clothes and white collars,relieved here and there by tweeds, on dark mottled pillars of greenmarble and on lugubrious canvases. The gentlemen sat in thebenches, having hitched their trousers slightly above their kneesand laid their hats in security. They sat well back and gazedformally at the distant speck of red light which was suspendedbefore the high altar.In one of the benches near the pulpit sat Mr. Cunningham and Mr.Kernan. In the bench behind sat Mr. M'Coy alone: and in the benchbehind him sat Mr. Power and Mr. Fogarty. Mr. M'Coy had triedunsuccessfully to find a place in the bench with the others, and,when the party had settled down in the form of a quincunx, he hadtried unsuccessfully to make comic remarks. As these had not beenwell received, he had desisted. Even he was sensible of thedecorous atmosphere and even he began to respond to the religiousstimulus. In a whisper, Mr. Cunningham drew Mr. Kernan'sattention to Mr. Harford, the moneylender, who sat some distanceoff, and to Mr. Fanning, the registration agent and mayor maker ofthe city, who was sitting immediately under the pulpit beside oneof the newly elected councillors of the ward. To the right sat oldMichael Grimes, the owner of three pawnbroker's shops, and DanHogan's nephew, who was up for the job in the Town Clerk'soffice. Farther in front sat Mr. Hendrick, the chief reporter of TheFreeman's Journal, and poor O'Carroll, an old friend of Mr.Kernan's, who had been at one time a considerable commercialfigure. Gradually, as he recognised familiar faces, Mr. Kernanbegan to feel more at home. His hat, which had been rehabilitatedby his wife, rested upon his knees. Once or twice he pulled downhis cuffs with one hand while he held the brim of his hat lightly,but firmly, with the other hand.A powerful-looking figure, the upper part of which was drapedwith a white surplice, was observed to be struggling into the pulpit.Simultaneously the congregation unsettled, producedhandkerchiefs and knelt upon them with care. Mr. Kernanfollowed the general example. The priest's figure now stoodupright in the pulpit, two-thirds of its bulk, crowned by a massivered face, appearing above the balustrade.Father Purdon knelt down, turned towards the red speck of lightand, covering his face with his hands, prayed. After an interval, heuncovered his face and rose. The congregation rose also andsettled again on its benches. Mr. Kernan restored his hat to itsoriginal position on his knee and presented an attentive face to thepreacher. The preacher turned back each wide sleeve of hissurplice with an elaborate large gesture and slowly surveyed thearray of faces. Then he said:"For the children of this world are wiser in their generation thanthe children of light. Wherefore make unto yourselves friends outof the mammon of iniquity so that when you die they may receiveyou into everlasting dwellings."Father Purdon developed the text with resonant assurance. It wasone of the most difficult texts in all the Scriptures, he said, tointerpret properly. It was a text which might seem to the casualobserver at variance with the lofty morality elsewhere preached byJesus Christ. But, he told his hearers, the text had seemed to himspecially adapted for the guidance of those whose lot it was to leadthe life of the world and who yet wished to lead that life not in themanner of worldlings. It was a text for business men andprofessional men. Jesus Christ with His divine understanding ofevery cranny of our human nature, understood that all men werenot called to the religious life, that by far the vast majority wereforced to live in the world, and, to a certain extent, for the world:and in this sentence He designed to give them a word of counsel,setting before them as exemplars in the religious life those veryworshippers of Mammon who were of all men the least solicitousin matters religious.He told his hearers that he was there that evening for no terrifying,no extravagant purpose; but as a man of the world speaking to hisfellow-men. He came to speak to business men and he wouldspeak to them in a businesslike way. If he might use the metaphor,he said, he was their spiritual accountant; and he wished each andevery one of his hearers to open his books, the books of hisspiritual life, and see if they tallied accurately with conscience.Jesus Christ was not a hard taskmaster. He understood our littlefailings, understood the weakness of our poor fallen nature,understood the temptations of this life. We might have had, we allhad from time to time, our temptations: we might have, we all had,our failings. But one thing only, he said, he would ask of hishearers. And that was: to be straight and manly with God. If theiraccounts tallied in every point to say:"Well, I have verified my accounts. I find all well."But if, as might happen, there were some discrepancies, to admitthe truth, to be frank and say like a man:"Well, I have looked into my accounts. I find this wrong and thiswrong. But, with God's grace, I will rectify this and this. I will setright my accounts."
zpostcode
Recruit
weather
mreligion
Yellowpages
sport
constellation
shopping
name
game
directory
literature
Word
tour
furnish
Lottery
tftnews
lyrics
News
digital
car
dir
Edu
Finance
