TWO
GENTLEMEN
who
were
in
the
lavatory
at
the
time
tried
to
lift
him
up: but
he
was
quite
helpless.
He
lay
curled
up
at
the
foot
of
the stairs
down
which
he
had fallen.
They
succeeded
in
turning
him
over.
His
hat
had rolled
a
few
yards
away
and
his
clothes
were
smeared
with
the
filth
and
ooze
of
the
floor
on
which
he
had lain, face downwards.
His
eyes
were
closed
and
he
breathed
with
a
grunting noise.
A
thin
stream
of
blood trickled
from
the
corner
of
his
mouth.
These
two
gentlemen
and
one
of
the curates carried
him
up
the stairs
and
laid
him
down
again
on
the
floor
of
the bar.
In
two
minutes
he
was
surrounded
by
a
ring
of
men. The manager
of
the
bar
asked everyone
who
he
was
and
who
was
with
him. No
one
knew
who
he
was
but
one
of
the curates said
he
had served the gentleman
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.
A
dark medal
of
blood had formed
itself
near
the man's
head
on
the
tessellated
floor. The manager, alarmed
by
the grey
pallor
of
the man's face, sent
for
a
policeman.
His
collar
was
unfastened
and
his
necktie
undone.
He
opened eyes
for
an instant, sighed
and
closed
them
again.
One
of
gentlemen
who
had carried
him
upstairs held
a
dinged
silk
hat
in
his
hand. The manager asked repeatedly
did
no
one
know
who
the injured
man
was
or
where
had
his
friends gone. The
door
of
the
bar
opened
and
an
immense
constable
entered.
A
crowd
which
had followed
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 constable,
a
young
man
with
thick
immobile
features, listened.
He
moved
his
head
slowly
to
right
and
left
and
from
the manager
to
the
person
on
the floor,
as
if
he
feared
to
be
the
victim
of
some
delusion.
Then
he
drew
off
his
glove, produced
a
small
book
from
his
waist, licked the lead
of
his
pencil
and
made
ready
to
indite.
He
asked
in
a
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
of
bystanders.
He
knelt
down
promptly
beside
the injured
man
and
called
for
water. The
constable
knelt
down
also
to
help. The
young
man
washed the blood
from
the injured man's
mouth
and
then
called
for
some
brandy. The
constable
repeated the order
in
an
authoritative
voice
until
a
curate
came running
with
the glass. The
brandy
was
forced
down
the man's throat.
In
a
few
seconds
he
opened
his
eyes
and
looked
about
him.
He
looked
at
the circle
of
faces
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
a
hospital
and
some
of
the bystanders gave advice. The battered
silk
hat
was
placed
on
the man's head. The
constable
asked: "Where
do
you
live?" The man, without answering, began
to
twirl the ends
of
his
moustache.
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
was
being debated
a
tall
agile
gentleman
of
fair
complexion, wearing
a
long
yellow
ulster, came
from
the
far
end
of
the bar.
Seeing
the spectacle,
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
and
then
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
arm
and
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 doors
in
to
the laneway. The manager brought the
constable
to
the stairs
to
inspect
the
scene
of
the accident.
They
agreed
that
the gentleman
must
have
missed
his
footing. The customers returned
to
the
counter
and
a
curate
set
about
removing the traces
of
blood
from
the floor.
When
they
came
out
into
Grafton Street, Mr. Power whistled
for
an 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
is
Kernan." 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
expressed
his
gratitude
to
the
young
man
and
regretted
that
they
could
not
have
a
little
drink
together. "Another time," said the
young
man. The
car
drove
off
towards
Westmoreland Street.
As
it
passed
Ballast
Office
the clock showed half-past nine.
A
keen
east wind
hit
them, blowing
from
the
mouth
of
the river. Mr. Kernan
was
huddled
together
with
cold.
His
friend
asked
him
to
tell
how
the
accident
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
mouth
which
Mr. Kernan opened obediently. The swaying
movement
of
the
car
brought the match
to
and
from
the opened mouth. The
lower
teeth
and
gums
were
covered
with
clotted blood
and
a
minute
piece
of
the tongue seemed
to
have
been bitten off. The match
was
blown
out. "That's ugly," said Mr. Power. "Sha, 's nothing," said Mr. Kernan, closing
his
mouth
and
pulling the collar
of
his
filthy coat
across
his
neck. Mr. Kernan
was
a
commercial traveller
of
the
old
school
which
believed
in
the
dignity
of
its calling.
He
had
never
been seen
in
the
city
without
a
silk
hat
of
some
decency
and
a
pair
of
gaiters.
By
grace
of
these
two
articles
of
clothing,
he
said,
a
man
could
always
pass muster.
He
carried
on
the
tradition
of
his
Napoleon, the
great
Blackwhite,
whose
memory
he
evoked
at
times
by
legend
and
mimicry.
Modern
business
methods had spared
him
only
so
far
as
to
allow
him
a
little
office
in
Crowe Street,
on
the
window
blind
of
which
was
written the
name
of
his
firm
with
the address—London, E. C.
On
the mantelpiece
of
this
little
office
a
little
leaden
battalion
of
canisters
was
drawn
up
and
on
the table before the
window
stood four
or
five
china
bowls
which
were
usually half
full
of
a
black
liquid.
From
these
bowls
Mr. Kernan tasted tea.
He
took
a
mouthful, drew
it
up, saturated
his
palate
with
it
and
then
spat
it
forth
into
the grate.
Then
he
paused
to
judge. Mr. Power,
a
much
younger man,
was
employed
in
the Royal Irish
Constabulary
Office
in
Dublin Castle. The
arc
of
his
social
rise
intersected the
arc
of
his
friend's decline, but Mr. Kernan's
decline
was
mitigated
by
the
fact
that
certain
of
those
friends
who
had known
him
at
his
highest
point
of
success
still
esteemed
him
as
a
character. Mr. Power
was
one
of
these
friends.
His
inexplicable
debts
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
while
Mr. Power sat downstairs
in
the
kitchen
asking the children
where
they
went
to
school
and
what
book
they
were
in. The children—two girls
and
a
boy,
conscious
of
their
father's helplessness
and
of
their
mother's absence, began
some
horseplay
with
him.
He
was
surprised
at
their
manners
and
at
their
accents,
and
his
brow
grew thoughtful.
After
a
while
Mrs. Kernan entered the kitchen, exclaiming: "Such
a
sight! O, he'll
do
for
himself
one
day
and
that's the
holy
alls
of
it. He's been drinking
since
Friday." Mr. Power
was
careful
to
explain
to
her
that
he
was
not responsible,
that
he
had
come
on
the
scene
by
the merest accident. Mrs. Kernan, remembering Mr. Power's
good
offices
during
domestic
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
of
his, not
like
some
of
the others
he
does
be
with. They're all
right
so
long
as
he
has
money
in
his
pocket
to
keep
him
out
from
his
wife
and
family.
Nice
friends!
Who
was
he
with
tonight, I'd
like
to
know?" Mr. Power shook
his
head
but said nothing. "I'm
so
sorry,"
she
continued, "that I've
nothing
in
the
house
to
offer
you. But
if
you
wait
a
minute
I'll
send
round
to
Fogarty's
at
the corner." Mr. Power stood up. "We
were
waiting
for
him
to
come
home
with
the money.
He
never
seems
to
think
he
has
a
home
at
all." "O, now, Mrs. Kernan," said Mr. Power, "we'll
make
him
turn
over
a
new
leaf. I'll talk
to
Martin. He's the man. We'll
come
here
one
of
these
nights
and
talk
it
over."
She
saw
him
to
the door. The carman
was
stamping
up
and
down
the 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 her husband's pockets.
She
was
an active,
practical
woman
of
middle
age. Not
long
before
she
had celebrated her
silver
wedding
and
renewed her intimacy
with
her husband
by
waltzing
with
him
to
Mr. Power's accompaniment.
In
her days
of
courtship, Mr. Kernan had seemed
to
her
a
not ungallant figure:
and
she
still
hurried
to
the
chapel
door
whenever
a
wedding
was
reported and,
seeing
the
bridal
pair, recalled
with
vivid
pleasure
how
she
had passed
out
of
the Star
of
the
Sea
Church
in
Sandymount, leaning
on
the
arm
of
a
jovial
well-fed man,
who
was
dressed smartly
in
a
frock-coat
and
lavender
trousers
and
carried
a
silk
hat
gracefully balanced
upon
his
other
arm.
After
three
weeks
she
had found
a
wife's
life
irksome and, later on,
when
she
was
beginning
to
find
it
unbearable,
she
had
become
a
mother. The
part
of
mother presented
to
her no
insuperable
difficulties
and
for
twenty-five years
she
had kept
house
shrewdly
for
her husband. Her
two
eldest
sons
were
launched.
One
was
in
a
draper's shop
in
Glasgow
and
the
other
was
clerk
to
a
tea-merchant
in
Belfast.
They
were
good
sons, wrote regularly
and
sometimes sent
home
money. The
other
children
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
accepted
his
frequent
intemperance
as
part
of
the climate, healed
him
dutifully whenever
he
was
sick
and
always
tried
to
make
him
eat
a
breakfast. There
were
worse
husbands.
He
had
never
been
violent
since
the boys had grown up,
and
she
knew
that
he
would walk
to
the
end
of
Thomas
Street
and
back
again
to
book
even
a
small order.
Two
nights after,
his
friends came
to
see
him.
She
brought
them
up
to
his
bedroom, the air
of
which
was
impregnated
with
a
personal
odour,
and
gave
them
chairs
at
the fire. Mr. Kernan's tongue, the occasional stinging
pain
of
which
had
made
him
somewhat
irritable
during
the day, became
more
polite.
He
sat propped
up
in
the
bed
by
pillows
and
the
little
colour
in
his
puffy cheeks
made
them
resemble
warm
cinders.
He
apologised
to
his
guests
for
the disorder
of
the room, but
at
the
same
time
looked
at
them
a
little
proudly,
with
a
veteran's pride.
He
was
quite
unconscious
that
he
was
the
victim
of
a
plot
which
his
friends, Mr. Cunningham, Mr. M'Coy
and
Mr. Power had disclosed
to
Mrs. Kernan
in
the parlour. The
idea
had been Mr. Power's, but its development
was
entrusted
to
Mr. Cunningham. Mr. Kernan came
of
Protestant stock and, though
he
had been converted
to
the Catholic
faith
at
the
time
of
his
marriage,
he
had not 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
an
elder
colleague
of
Mr. Power.
His
own
domestic
life
was
not
very
happy.
People
had
great
sympathy
with
him,
for
it
was
known
that
he
had married an unpresentable
woman
who
was
an
incurable
drunkard.
He
had
set
up
house
for
her
six
times;
and
each
time
she
had pawned the
furniture
on
him. Everyone had
respect
for
poor
Martin
Cunningham.
He
was
a
thoroughly
sensible
man,
influential
and
intelligent.
His
blade
of
human
knowledge,
natural
astuteness particularised
by
long
association
with
cases
in
the
police
courts, had been tempered
by
brief
immersions
in
the waters
of
general
philosophy.
He
was
well
informed.
His
friends bowed
to
his
opinions
and
considered
that
his
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
few
illusions left.
Religion
for
her
was
a
habit,
and
she
suspected
that
a
man
of
her husband's
age
would not
change
greatly
before death.
She
was
tempted
to
see
a
curious
appropriateness
in
his
accident
and, but
that
she
did
not
wish
to
seem
bloody-minded, would
have
told the gentlemen
that
Mr. Kernan's tongue would not
suffer
by
being 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.
She
believed steadily
in
the
Sacred
Heart
as
the
most
generally useful
of
all Catholic devotions
and
approved
of
the sacraments. Her
faith
was
bounded
by
her kitchen, but,
if
she
was
put
to
it,
she
could
believe
also
in
the
banshee
and
in
the
Holy
Ghost. The gentlemen began
to
talk
of
the accident. Mr. Cunningham said
that
he
had
once
known
a
similar
case.
A
man
of
seventy had bitten
off
a
piece
of
his
tongue
during
an
epileptic
fit
and
the tongue had filled
in
again,
so
that
no
one
could
see
a
trace
of
the bite. "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.
His
wife,
who
had been
a
soprano,
still
taught
young
children
to
play
the
piano
at
low
terms.
His
line
of
life
had not been the shortest distance
between
two
points
and
for
short
periods
he
had been driven
to
live
by
his
wits.
He
had been
a
clerk
in
the Midland Railway,
a
canvasser
for
advertisements
for
The Irish Times
and
for
The Freeman's Journal,
a
town
traveller
for
a
coal
firm
on
commission,
a
private
inquiry
agent,
a
clerk
in
the
office
of
the Sub-Sheriff,
and
he
had recently
become
secretary
to
the
City
Coroner.
His
new
office
made
him
professionally interested
in
Mr. Kernan's case. "Pain? Not much," answered Mr. Kernan. "But it's
so
sickening. I feel
as
if
I wanted
to
retch
off." "That's the boose," said Mr. Cunningham firmly. "No," said Mr. Kernan. "I
think
I caught
a
cold
on
the car. There's
something
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
time
with
an air
of
challenge. Mr. Cunningham nodded
his
head
rapidly
and
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.
It
was
known
that
the
speaker
had
secret
sources
of
information.
In
this
case
the
monosyllable
had
a
moral
intention. Mr. Harford sometimes formed
one
of
a
little
detachment
which
left
the
city
shortly
after
noon
on
Sunday
with
the
purpose
of
arriving
as
soon
as
possible
at
some
public-house
on
the outskirts
of
the
city
where
its members duly qualified
themselves
as
bona
fide travellers. But
his
fellow-travellers had
never
consented
to
overlook
his
origin.
He
had begun
life
as
an
obscure
financier
by
lending small sums
of
money
to
workmen
at
usurious interest. Later
on
he
had
become
the partner
of
a
very
fat,
short
gentleman, Mr. Goldberg,
in
the Liffey
Loan
Bank. Though
he
had
never
embraced
more
than
the Jewish ethical code,
his
fellow-Catholics, whenever
they
had smarted
in
person
or
by
proxy
under
his
exactions,
spoke
of
him
bitterly
as
an Irish Jew
and
an illiterate,
and
saw
divine
disapproval
of
usury
made
manifest
through the
person
of
his
idiot
son.
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
wished
his
friends
to
think
there had been
some
mistake,
that
Mr. Harford
and
he
had missed
each
other.
His
friends,
who
knew
quite
well
Mr. Harford's manners
in
drinking
were
silent. Mr. Power said again: "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
of
seven
days, without the
option
of
a
fine." "Yes, yes," said Mr. Kernan, trying
to
remember. "I
remember
now
there
was
a
policeman.
Decent
young
fellow,
he
seemed.
How
did
it
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
not straight-laced, but
he
could
not
forget
that
Mr. M'Coy had recently
made
a
crusade
in
search
of
valises
and
portmanteaus
to
enable Mrs. M'Coy
to
fulfil
imaginary
engagements
in
the country.
More
than
he
resented the
fact
that
he
had been victimised
he
resented
such
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
keenly
conscious
of
his
citizenship, wished
to
live
with
his
city
on
terms mutually
honourable
and
resented
any
affront
put
upon
him
by
those
whom
he
called
country
bumpkins. "Is
this
what
we
pay
rates for?"
he
asked. "To feed
and
clothe
these
ignorant
bostooms...
and
they're
nothing
else." Mr. Cunningham laughed.
He
was
a
Castle
official
only
during
office
hours. "How
could
they
be
anything
else, Tom?"
he
said.
He
assumed
a
thick, provincial
accent
and
said
in
a
tone
of
command: "65,
catch
your cabbage!" Everyone laughed. Mr. M'Coy,
who
wanted
to
enter
the
conversation
by
any
door, pretended
that
he
had
never
heard the story. Mr. Cunningham said: "It
is
supposed—they say,
you
know—to
take
place
in
the
depot
where
they
get
these
thundering
big
country
fellows, omadhauns,
you
know,
to
drill. The
sergeant
makes
them
stand
in
a
row
against the
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
cabbage
before
him
on
the table
and
a
bloody
big
spoon
like
a
shovel.
He
takes
up
a
wad
of
cabbage
on
the spoon
and
pegs
it
across
the
room
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
indignant
still.
He
talked
of
writing
a
letter
to
the papers. "These yahoos coming
up
here,"
he
said, "think
they
can
boss the people. 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
bad
ones
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's my 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.
She
declined it,
saying
she
was
ironing downstairs, and,
after
having exchanged
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
of
the bottles
of
stout took
place
amid
general
merriment. The gentlemen drank
from
their
glasses,
set
the glasses
again
on
the 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
most
convenient
place." "But
we
mustn't
be
late," said Mr. Power earnestly, "because
it
is
sure
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
he
would
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
matter
that
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
a
little... spiritual matter." "O," 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
of
scoundrels,
one
and
all. I say,
one
and
all,"
he
added
with
gruff
charity
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
invalid
and
said: "D'ye
know
what, Tom, has
just
occurred
to
me?
You
night
join
in
and
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
meaning
to
his
mind, but,
understanding
that
some
spiritual agencies
were
about
to
concern
themselves
on
his
behalf,
he
thought
he
owed
it
to
his
dignity
to
show
a
stiff neck.
He
took no
part
in
the
conversation
for
a
long
while, but listened,
with
an air
of
calm
enmity,
while
his
friends discussed the Jesuits. "I haven't
such
a
bad
opinion
of
the Jesuits,"
he
said, intervening
at
length. "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 stands
next
to
the Pope." "There's no mistake
about
it," said Mr. M'Coy, "if
you
want
a
thing
well
done
and
no flies about,
you
go
to
a
Jesuit. They're the boyos
have
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 Jesuit Order.
Every
other
order
of
the Church had
to
be
reformed
at
some
time
or
other
but the Jesuit Order
was
never
once
reformed.
It
never
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
the
congregation
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's
some
of
those
secular
priests, ignorant, bumptious——" "They're all
good
men," said Mr. Cunningham, "each
in
his
own
way. 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
the
world
all
this
time
and
seen
most
sides
of
it
without being
a
judge
of
character." The gentlemen drank again,
one
following
another's example. Mr. Kernan seemed
to
be
weighing
something
in
his
mind.
He
was
impressed.
He
had
a
high
opinion
of
Mr. Cunningham
as
a
judge
of
character
and
as
a
reader
of
faces.
He
asked
for
particulars. "O, it's
just
a
retreat,
you
know," said Mr. Cunningham. "Father Purdon
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
a
friendly
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
born orator.
Did
you
ever
hear
him, Tom?" "Did I
ever
hear
him!" said the invalid, nettled. "Rather! I heard him...." "And
yet
they
say
he
wasn't
much
of
a
theologian," said Mr Cunningham. "Is
that
so?" said Mr. M'Coy. "O,
of
course,
nothing
wrong,
you
know.
Only
sometimes,
they
say,
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
of
his
discourse now. Crofton
and
I
were
in
the
back
of
the... pit,
you
know... the——" "The body," said Mr. Cunningham. "Yes,
in
the
back
near
the door. I
forget
now
what.... O yes,
it
was
on
the Pope, the
late
Pope. I
remember
it
well.
Upon
my
word
it
was
magnificent, the style
of
the oratory.
And
his
voice! God! hadn't
he
a
voice! The
Prisoner
of
the Vatican,
he
called him. I
remember
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
decent
Orangeman too.
We
went
into
Butler's
in
Moore Street—faith, I
was
genuinely moved,
tell
you
the God's truth—and I
remember
well
his
very
words. 'Kernan,'
he
said, 'we worship
at
different
altars,
he
said, but
our
belief
is
the same.' Struck
me
as
very
well
put." "There's
a
good
deal
in
that," said Mr. Power. "There used
always
to
be
crowds
of
Protestants
in
the
chapel
where
Father Tom
was
preaching." "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
the mother
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
fair
trailing moustache
was
repeated
in
the
fair
eyebrows looped
above
pleasantly astonished eyes. Mr. Fogarty
was
a
modest
grocer.
He
had failed
in
business
in
a
licensed
house
in
the
city
because
his
financial condition had constrained
him
to
tie
himself
to
second-class distillers
and
brewers.
He
had opened
a
small shop
on
Glasnevin
Road
where,
he
flattered himself,
his
manners would
ingratiate
him
with
the housewives
of
the district.
He
bore
himself
with
a
certain
grace, complimented
little
children
and
spoke
with
a
neat
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 table
and
sat
down
with
the
company
on
equal terms. Mr. Kernan appreciated the
gift
all the
more
since
he
was
aware
that
there
was
a
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
small measures
of
whisky
were
poured out.
This
new
influence
enlivened the conversation. Mr. Fogarty, sitting
on
a
small
area
of
the chair,
was
specially interested. "Pope Leo XIII," said Mr. Cunningham, "was
one
of
the lights
of
the age.
His
great
idea,
you
know,
was
the union
of
the Latin
and
Greek 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.
It
was
Lux
in
Tenebris, I think—Light
in
Darkness." "O yes," said Mr. M'Coy, "Tenebrae." "Allow me," said Mr. Cunningham positively, "it
was
Lux
upon
Lux.
And
Pius IX
his
predecessor's
motto
was
Crux
upon
Crux—that is,
Cross
upon
Cross—to
show
the
difference
between
their
two
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
with
a
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
school
with
a
sod
of
turf under
his
oxter," said Mr. Kernan sententiously. "The
old
system
was
the best:
plain
honest
education.
None
of
your
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
Pope
Leo's poems
was
on
the
invention
of
the photograph—in Latin,
of
course." "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 photograph
wonderful
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
to
recall the Protestant
theology
on
some
thorny
points
and
in
the
end
addressed Mr. Cunningham. "Tell me, Martin,"
he
said. "Weren't
some
of
the popes—of course, not
our
present
man,
or
his
predecessor, but
some
of
the
old
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
thing
is
this. Not
one
of
them, not the biggest drunkard, not the most... out-and-out ruffian, not
one
of
them
ever
preached ex
cathedra
a
word
of
false
doctrine.
Now
isn't
that
an astonishing thing?" "That is," said Mr. Kernan. "Yes,
because
when
the
Pope
speaks ex cathedra," Mr. Fogarty explained, "he
is
infallible." "Yes," said Mr. Cunningham. "O, I
know
about
the
infallibility
of
the Pope. I
remember
I
was
younger then....
Or
was
it
that——?" Mr. Fogarty interrupted.
He
took
up
the bottle
and
helped the others
to
a
little
more. Mr. M'Coy,
seeing
that
there
was
not
enough
to
go
round, pleaded
that
he
had not finished
his
first measure. The others accepted under protest. The
light
music
of
whisky 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 greatest
scene
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
and
bishops there
were
two
men
who
held
out
against
it
while
the others
were
all
for
it. The
whole
conclave
except
these
two
was
unanimous. No!
They
wouldn't
have
it!" "Ha!" said Mr. M'Coy. "And
they
were
a
German
cardinal
by
the
name
of
Dolling...
or
Dowling... or——" "Dowling
was
no German,
and
that's
a
sure
five," said Mr. Power, laughing. "Well,
this
great
German cardinal, whatever
his
name
was,
was
one;
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. "I
thought
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
he
resumed: "There
they
were
at
it, all the cardinals
and
bishops
and
archbishops
from
all the ends
of
the
earth
and
these
two
fighting
dog
and
devil
until
at
last
the
Pope
himself
stood
up
and
declared
infallibility
a
dogma
of
the Church ex cathedra.
On
the
very
moment
John MacHale,
who
had been arguing
and
arguing against it, 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.
He
submitted 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 church
in
the minds
of
his
hearers.
His
deep,
raucous
voice had thrilled
them
as
it
uttered the
word
of
belief
and
submission.
When
Mrs. Kernan came
into
the room, drying her hands
she
came
into
a
solemn
company.
She
did
not
disturb
the silence, but leaned
over
the rail
at
the
foot
of
the bed. "I
once
saw
John MacHale," said Mr. Kernan, "and I'll
never
forget
it
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 Dwyer
Gray
was
speaking, blathering away,
and
here
was
this
old
fellow, crabbed-looking
old
chap, looking
at
him
from
under
his
bushy eyebrows." Mr. Kernan knitted
his
brows and, lowering
his
head
like
an
angry
bull, glared
at
his
wife. "God!"
he
exclaimed, resuming
his
natural
face, "I
never
saw
such
an
eye
in
a
man's head.
It
was
as
much
as
to
say: I
have
you
properly 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
and
said
with
abrupt
joviality: "Well, Mrs. Kernan, we're going
to
make
your
man
here
a
good
holy
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
his
works
and
pomps." "Get
behind
me, Satan!" said Mr. Fogarty, laughing
and
looking
at
the others. Mr. Power said nothing.
He
felt completely out-generalled. But
a
pleased
expression
flickered
across
his
face. "All
we
have
to
do," said Mr. Cunningham, "is
to
stand
up
with
lighted candles
in
our
hands
and
renew
our
baptismal vows." "O, don't
forget
the candle, Tom," said Mr. M'Coy, "whatever
you
do." "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
and
confession, and... all
that
business. But... no candles! No,
damn
it
all, 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 created an
effect
on
his
audience
and
continuing
to
shake
his
head
to
and
fro. "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
almost
full;
and
still
at
every
moment
gentlemen entered
from
the
side
door
and, directed
by
the lay-brother, walked
on
tiptoe
along
the aisles
until
they
found seating accommodation. The gentlemen
were
all
well
dressed
and
orderly. The
light
of
the lamps
of
the church
fell
upon
an
assembly
of
black
clothes
and
white
collars, relieved here
and
there
by
tweeds,
on
dark mottled pillars
of
green
marble
and
on
lugubrious
canvases. The gentlemen sat
in
the benches, having hitched
their
trousers
slightly
above
their
knees
and
laid
their
hats
in
security.
They
sat
well
back
and
gazed formally
at
the
distant
speck
of
red
light
which
was
suspended before 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
bench
behind
him
sat Mr. Power
and
Mr. Fogarty. Mr. M'Coy had tried unsuccessfully
to
find
a
place
in
the
bench
with
the others, and,
when
the
party
had settled
down
in
the
form
of
a
quincunx,
he
had tried unsuccessfully
to
make
comic
remarks.
As
these
had not been
well
received,
he
had desisted.
Even
he
was
sensible
of
the
decorous
atmosphere
and
even
he
began
to
respond
to
the
religious
stimulus.
In
a
whisper, Mr. Cunningham drew Mr. Kernan's
attention
to
Mr. Harford, the moneylender,
who
sat
some
distance off,
and
to
Mr. Fanning, the
registration
agent
and
mayor
maker
of
the city,
who
was
sitting immediately under the
pulpit
beside
one
of
the
newly
elected councillors
of
the ward.
To
the
right
sat
old
Michael Grimes, the owner
of
three
pawnbroker's shops,
and
Dan Hogan's nephew,
who
was
up
for
the job
in
the
Town
Clerk's office.
Farther
in
front
sat Mr. Hendrick, the
chief
reporter
of
The Freeman's Journal,
and
poor
O'Carroll, an
old
friend
of
Mr. Kernan's,
who
had been
at
one
time
a
considerable
commercial figure. Gradually,
as
he
recognised
familiar
faces, Mr. Kernan began
to
feel
more
at
home.
His
hat,
which
had been rehabilitated
by
his
wife, rested
upon
his
knees.
Once
or
twice
he
pulled
down
his
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
draped
with
a
white
surplice,
was
observed
to
be
struggling
into
the pulpit. Simultaneously the
congregation
unsettled, produced handkerchiefs
and
knelt
upon
them
with
care. Mr. Kernan followed the
general
example. The priest's
figure
now
stood
upright
in
the pulpit, two-thirds
of
its bulk, crowned
by
a
massive
red
face, appearing
above
the balustrade. Father Purdon knelt down, turned
towards
the
red
speck
of
light
and, covering
his
face
with
his
hands, prayed.
After
an interval,
he
uncovered
his
face
and
rose. The
congregation
rose
also
and
settled
again
on
its benches. Mr. Kernan restored
his
hat
to
its
original
position
on
his
knee
and
presented an
attentive
face
to
the preacher. The
preacher
turned
back
each
wide
sleeve
of
his
surplice
with
an
elaborate
large
gesture
and
slowly
surveyed the
array
of
faces.
Then
he
said: "For the children
of
this
world
are
wiser
in
their
generation
than
the children
of
light.
Wherefore
make
unto
yourselves friends
out
of
the mammon
of
iniquity
so
that
when
you
die
they
may
receive
you
into
everlasting dwellings." Father Purdon developed the text
with
resonant
assurance.
It
was
one
of
the
most
difficult
texts
in
all the Scriptures,
he
said,
to
interpret
properly.
It
was
a
text
which
might
seem
to
the
casual
observer
at
variance
with
the lofty
morality
elsewhere
preached
by
Jesus Christ. But,
he
told
his
hearers, the text had seemed
to
him
specially adapted
for
the guidance
of
those
whose
lot
it
was
to
lead the
life
of
the
world
and
who
yet
wished
to
lead
that
life
not
in
the
manner
of
worldlings.
It
was
a
text
for
business
men
and
professional men. Jesus Christ,
with
His
divine
understanding
of
every
cranny
of
our
human
nature, understood
that
all men
were
not called
to
the
religious
life,
that
by
far
the
vast
majority
were
forced
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
very
worshippers
of
Mammon
who
were
of
all men the
least
solicitous
in
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
his
fellow-men.
He
came
to
speak
to
business
men
and
he
would
speak
to
them
in
a
businesslike way.
If
he
might
use
the metaphor,
he
said,
he
was
their
spiritual accountant;
and
he
wished
each
and
every
one
of
his
hearers
to
open
his
books, the books
of
his
spiritual life,
and
see
if
they
tallied accurately
with
conscience. Jesus Christ
was
not
a
hard
taskmaster.
He
understood
our
little
failings, understood the weakness
of
our
poor
fallen nature, understood the temptations
of
this
life.
We
might
have
had,
we
all had
from
time
to
time,
our
temptations:
we
might
have,
we
all had,
our
failings. But
one
thing
only,
he
said,
he
would
ask
of
his
hearers.
And
that
was:
to
be
straight
and
manly
with
God.
If
their
accounts 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
admit
the truth,
to
be
frank
and
say
like
a
man: "Well, I
have
looked
into
my accounts. I find
this
wrong
and
this
wrong. But,
with
God's grace, I
will
rectify
this
and
this. I
will
set
right
my accounts."