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 might 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 th
at 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:
Irish Stories and Folklore Page 8
