14 - Grace

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 metal of blood had formed itself near the man's

head on the tassellated floor. The manager, alarmed by the gray 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 the 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 indict. 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 gloves. 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. Shah, it'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 mustache. 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. Shah's nothing, said the man. The newcomer 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, mister Power, Come now, Tom, said mister 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 mister Power. The gentleman fell down the stairs, said the young man. I ay i ah, I hear, sir, said the injured man, not at all, we have lull not now, not now.

The three men left the bar and the crowd sifted through the doors 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, mister Power whistled for an outsider. The injured man said again as well as he could. I heyy well, oh i'd see here. I

hull ome again. I ay e is Kernan. The shock and the incipient pain had partly sobered him. Don't mention it, said the young man. They shook hands. Mister Kernan was hoisted on to the car, and while mister Power was giving directions to the car man, 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

Belfast Office, the clock showed half past nine. A keen east wind hit them, blowing from the mouth of the river. Mister Kernan was huddled together with cold. His friend asked him to tell how the act incident had happened. I can't, and he answered, I hung it har show. The other leaned over the well of the car and peered into mister Kernan's mouth, but could not see. He struck a match, and, sheltering it in the shell of his hands, peered again

into the mouth, which mister Kernan opened obediently. The swaying movement of the car brought the match to and from the open 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 mister power Shah. It's nothing, said mister Kernan, closing his mouth and pulling the collar of his filthy

coat across his neck. Mister Kernan was a commercial traveler 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 Nonapoleon, the Great Black White, 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 Crow Street, on the window blind of which was written the name of his firm with the address London E. C. On the mantel piece of his 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,

mister 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. Mister Power, a much younger man, was employed in the Royal Irish Constabulary office in Dublin Castle. The arc of his social rise intersected the ark of his friend's decline. But mister 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. Mister 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 glass Nevin Road, and mister Kernan was helped into the house. His wife put him to bed, while mister 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, Missus Cernan entered the kitchen, exclaiming, such a sight. Oh, he'll do for himself one day, and that's the holy alls of it.

He's been drinking since Friday. Mister Power was careful to explain to her that he was not responsible, that he had come on the scene by the merest accident. Missus Ernan, remembering mister Power's good offices during domestic quarrels, as well as many small but opportune loans. Said, Oh, you needn't tell me that, mister 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 is he with to night, I'd like to know. Mister 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 Fogerty's at the corner. Mister Power stood up. We were waiting for him to come with the money. He never seems to think he has a home at all. Oh, now, missus Kernan said, mister 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 knights and talk it over. She saw him to the door. The car man 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 mister 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, said good night, Missus Kernan. Missus 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

mister Power's accompaniment. In her days of courtship, mister 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 prisons 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. Mister 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 odor, and gave them chairs at the fire. Mister 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 bed by pillows, and the little color in his puffy cheeks made them resemble warm cinders. He apologized 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 mister Cunningham, mister mc coy and mister Power had disclosed to missus Kernan in the parlor. The idea had been mister Powers, but its development was

entrusted to mister Cunningham. Mister 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. Mister Cunningham was the very man for such a case. He was an elder colleague of mister Power. His own domestic life was very high. 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. Every One had respect for poor Martin Cunningham. He was a thoroughly sensible man, influential and intelligent. His blade of human knowledge, natural astuteness, particularized 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, Missus Kernan had said, I leave it all in your hands, mister 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 gentleman that mister cernan's tongue would not suffer by being shortened. However, mister 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 gentleman began to talk of the accident. Mister 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 mister Cunningham. It doesn't pain you, now, asked mister mc coy. Mister mc 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 traveler 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 mister Kernan's case. Pain not much, answered mister Keernan. But it's so sickening.

I feel as if I wanted to wretch off. That's the booze, said mister Cunningham. Firmly, No, said mister Cernan. I think I caught cold on the car. There's something keeps coming into my throat phlegm or mucus, said mister mc coy. It keeps coming like from down in my throat sickening. Yes, yes, said mister mc coy, that's the thorax. He looked at mister Cunningham and mister Power at the

same time with an air of challenge. Mister Cunningham nodded his head rapidly, and mister Power said, Ah, well, all's well, that ends well. I'm very much obliged to you, old man, said the invalid. Mister Power waved his hand. Those other two fellows I was with? Who were you with, asked mister 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? Hum said mister Cunningham. When mister

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. Mister Harford sometimes formed one of a little detachment which left the city shortly afternoon 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 bonafide travelers.

But his fellow travelers had never consented to overlook his origin. He had begun life as an obscure financier by lending small sums of money to workmen at eusurious interest. Later on he had become the partner of a very fat,

short gentleman, mister Goldberg in the Liffey Lone 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 mister Kernan. He wished

the details of the incident to remain vague. He wished his friends to think that there had been some mistate, that mister Harford and he had missed each other. His friends, who knew quite well mister Harford's manners in drinking, were silent. Mister Power said again, all's well, that ends well. Mister Kernan changed the subject at once. That was a decent young chap, that medical fellow, he said. Only for him, Oh, only for him, said mister Power. It might have been

a case of seven days without the option of a fine. Yes, yes, said mister Kennan, 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 peluthered, Tom, said mister Cunningham. Gravely true, Bill, said mister Kennan, equally gravely. I suppose you squared the constable, Jack, said mister mc coy. Mister Power did not relish the use of his Christian name.

He was not straight laced, but he could not forget that mister mc coy had recently made a crusade in search of Valise's and Portmanteaus to enable missus mc coy to fulfill in sagenary engagements in the country. More than he resented the fact that he had been victimized, he resented such low playing of the game. He answered the question therefore, as if mister Ernan had asked it. The

narrative made mister Cernan indignant. He was keenly conscious of his citizenship, wished to live with his city on terms mutually honorable, 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 bostumes and learn nothing else. Mister 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, sixty five, catch your cabbage. Everyone laughed. Mister mc coy, who wanted to enter the conversation by any door, pretended that he had never heard the story. Mister Cunningham said, it is supposed, they say, you know, to take place in the depot where they get these thundering big country fellows Omron's 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. Sixty five catch your cabbage. Every one laughed again, but mister Curnant was somewhat indignant. Still. He

talked of writing letters 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. Mister Cunningham gave a qualified assent. It's like everything else in this world, he said. You get some badmins and you get some good ones. Oh, yes, you get some good ones, I admit, said mister Cernan. Satisfied. It's better to have nothing to say to them, said mister mc coy.

That's my opinion. Missus Kernan entered the room, and, placing a tray on the table, said help yourselves, gentlemen. Mister Power stood up to officiate, offering her his chair. She declined it, saying she was ironing downstairs, and, after having exchanged a nod with mister Cunningham behind mister Power's back, prepared to leave the room. Her husband called out to her, and have you nothing for me? Ducky Oh you the back of my hand to you, said missus Cernan, 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 mister Cunningham turned towards mister Power and said, casually, on Thursday night, you said, Jack Thursday, Yes, said mister Power. Right, oh, said mister Cunningham. Promptly.

We can meet in mc cauley's, said mister mc coy that'll be the most convenient place. But we mustn't be late, said mister Power, earnestly, because it is sure to be crammed to the doors. We can meet at half seven, said mister mc coy. Right, oh, said mister Cunningham. Half seven at mc cauley's be it. There was a short silence. Mister Kenan waited to see whether he would be taken into his friend's confidence. Then he asked, what's in the wind.

Oh it's nothing, said mister Cunningham. It's only a little matter that we're arranging about for Thursday the opera, is it, said mister Cernan. No, No, said mister Cunningham in an evasive tone. It's just a little spiritual matter. Oh, said mister Curnan. There was silence again. Then mister Power said, point blank, to tell you the truth. Tom, We're going to make a retreat. Yes, that's it, said mister Cunningham. Jack and I and mc 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 in turning to mister Power. Own up. Now, I own up, said mister Power. And I own up, said mister mc coy. So we're going to wash the pot together, said mister Cunningham. A

thought seemed to strike him. He turned suddenly to the invalid and said, do you know what Tom has just occurred to me? You might join in and we'll have a four handed reel. Good idea, said mister Power, the four of us together. Mister 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 mister Cunningham with enthusiasm. The General of the Jesuits stands next to the Pope. There's no mistake about it,

said mister mc 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 mister Power. It's a curious thing, said mister 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 mister mc coy. That's a fact,

said mister cunningham. That's history. Look at their church too, said mister Power. Look at the congregation. They have. The Jesuits cater for the upper classes, said mister mc coy, Of course, said mister Power. Yes, said mister cunan. That's why I have a feeling for them. It's some of those secular priests, ignorant, umptuous. They're all good men, said mister Cunningham, each in his own way. The Irish priesthood

is honored all the world over. Oh yes, said mister Power, Not like some of the other priesthoods on the continent, said mister mc coy, unworthy of the name. Perhaps you're right, said mister cunnan, relenting. Of course, I'm right, said mister Cunningham. I haven't been in the world all this time and seen most sides of it without being a judge of character. The gentleman drank again, one following another's example. Mister Cernan seemed to be weighing something in his mind. He was impressed.

He had a high opinion of mister Cunningham as a judge of character and as a reader of faces. He asked for particulars. Oh, it's just a retreat, you know, said mister Cunningham. Father Perdon is giving it. It's for business men, you know. He won't be too hard on us, Tom, said mister Power. Persuasively, Father Perdon. Father Perdon said the invalid. Oh you must know him, Tom, said mister 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. No, it's not exactly a sermon, you know, it's just kind of a friendly talk, you know, in a common sense way, mister Kernan deliberated. Mister mc coy said, Father Tom Burke, that was the boy. Oh, Father Tom Burke said, mister 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 mister Cunningham. Is that so, said mister mc coy, Oh, 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 mister mc coy. I heard him once. Mister Cernan 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 mister Cunha. Yes, in the back near the door. I forget now what. Oh, 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 mister Power. Corse he is, said mister Kernan, and a damned decent orangeman too. We went in Butler's in Moore Street. Faith 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 mister Power. There used always be crowds of Protestants in the chapel where Father Tom was preaching. There's not much difference between us, said mister mc coy. We both believe in he hesitated for a moment, in the Redeemer. They don't believe in the

Pope and in the Mother of God. But of course, said mister Cunningham, quietly and effectively, our religion is the religion, the old original faith. Not a doubt of it, said mister Cernan warmly. Missus Cernan came to the door of the bedroom and announced, here's a visitor for you. Who is it, mister Fogerty, Oh, come in come in a pale oval face came forward into the light. The arch of its fair trailing mustache was repeated in the fair

eyebrows looped above pleasantly astonished eyes. Mister Fogerty 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 Glasnovan 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 and unasation.

He was not without culture. Mister Foggerty brought a gift with him, a half pint of special whisky. He inquired politely for mister Kernan placed his gift on the table and sat down with the company on equal terms. Mister Kernan appreciated the gift all the more since he was aware that there was a small account for groceries unsettled between him and mister Foggerty. He said, I wouldn't doubt you,

old man, open that jack, will you. Mister Power again officiated, glasses were rinsed, and five small measures of whisky were poured out. The new influence enlivened the conversation. Mister Foggerty, sitting on a small area of the chair, was specially interested. Pope Leo the thirteenth, said mister Cunningham was one of the delights 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 mister Power. I mean, apart from his being Pope. So he was, mister Cunningham, if not the most so. His motto, you know, as Pope, was lucks upon luck's light upon light. No no, said mister Fogerty eagerly, I think you're wrong. There it was lucks in Tenebrus, I think light in darkness. Oh yes, said mister mc coy Tenebrie. Allow me, said mister Cunningham, positively. It was lucks upon lucks and pious

the ninth. His predecessor's motto was Crooks upon crook's, that is, cross upon cross, to show the difference between their two pontificates. The inference was allowed. Mister Cunningham continued. Pope Leo, you know, was a great scholar and a poet. He had a strong face, said mister Cunnan. Yes, said mister Cunningham. He wrote Latin poetry. Is that so, said mister Foggerty. Mister mc 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 mister Power. Following mister mc 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 mister Cernan sententiously. The old system was the best, plain, honest education, None of your modern trumpery quite right, said mister Power. No superfluities,

said mister Fogerty. He enunciated the word and then drank gravely. I remember reading, said mister Cunningham, that one of Pope Leo's poems was on the invention of the photograph in Latin. Of course, on the photograph, exclaimed mister Kernan. Yes, said mister Cunningham. He also drank from his glass. Well, you know, said mister mc coy. Isn't a photograph wonderful when you come to think of it? Of course, said mister Power. Great minds con see things. As the poet says, great

minds are very near to madness, said mister Fogerty. Mister Cernan seemed to be troubled in mind. He made an effort to recall the Protestant theology on some thorny points, and in the end addressed mister 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. Mister Cunningham said, Oh, of course

there were some bad lots, but the astounding 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 mister Carnan. Yes, because when the Pope speaks ex cathedra, mister Foggerty explained, he is infallible. Yes, said mister Cunningham. Oh, I know about the infallibility of the Pope. I remember I was

younger then, Or was it that mister Foggerty interrupted. He took up the bottle and helped the others to a little more. Mister mc 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 whiskey falling into glasses made an agreeable interlude. What's that you were saying, Tom, asked mister mc coy. Papal infallibility, said mister Cunningham. That was the greatest scene

in the whole history of the church. How is that, Martin asked mister Power. Mister 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 mister mc coy. And they were a German cardinal by the name of Doling or Dowling or Dowling was no German. That's a sure five, said

mister Power, laughing. Well, this great German cardinal, whatever his name was, was one, and the other was John mc hail. What cried mister cunan, Is it John of two? M Are you sure of that? Now, asked mister Foggardy dubiously. I thought it was some Italian or American John of two m repeated mister Cunningham was the man. He drank, and the other gentleman 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 Michhail, who had been arguing and arguing against it, stood up and shouted out with the voice of a lion. Credo, I believe, said mister Foggerty. Credo, said mister Cunningham. That showed the faith he had. He submitted the moment the

Pope spoke. And what about Dowling, asked mister mc coy. The German cardinal wouldn't submit. He left the church. Mister 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 Missus Cernan came into the room, drawing 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 Michail, said mister Kennan, and I'll never forget it as long as I live. He turned towards his wife to be confirmed. I often told you that Missus Ernan 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. Mister 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 were any good, said mister Power. There was a pause again. Mister Power turned to missus Ernan and said, with abrupt joviality, Well, missus Kernan, were going to me make your man here a good, holy, pious and god fearing Roman Catholic. He swept his arm round the company exclusively.

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 mister Curnan, smiling a little nervously. Missus 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. Mister 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. Mister Cunningham

intervened promptly. We'll all renounce the devil, he said, together, not forgetting his works and pumps. Get behind me, Satan, said mister Foggerty, laughing and looking at the others. Mister Power said nothing. He felt completely out generaled, but a pleased expression flickered across his face. All we have to do, said mister Cunningham, is to stand up with lighted candles in our hands, and you are baptismal vows. Oh, don't forget the candle, tom said mc coy. Whatever you do,

what said mister Cernan. I must I have a candle? Oh yes, said mister Cunningham. No damn it all, said mister Cernan. 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 mister Cernan, conscious of having created an effect on his audience, and continuing to shake his head to and fro, I bar the magic lantern business. Every one laughed heartily. There's a nice Catholic for you, said his wife. No candles, repeated mister Ernan, obdurately, that's off. The transept of the Jesuit Church in Gardener 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, set mister Cunningham and mister Kernan. In the bench behind set mister mc coy alone, and in the

bench behind him sat mister Power and mister Fogerty. Mister mc 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 quincuncax, 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. Mister Cunningham drew mister Kernan's attention to mister Harford, the money lender, who sat some distance off, and to mister Fanning, the registration agent and mayor maker of the city, who was sitting immediately under the pulpit beside one of the newly elected councilors 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 mister Hendrick, the chief reporter of the Freeman's Journal, and Poor o' carroll, an old friend of mister Kernan's who had been at one time a considerable commercial figure. Gradually, as he recognized familiar faces, mister 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. Mister 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 Perdin 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. Mister 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 era 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 Pardon 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 yet who wished to lead the 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 task master. 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 and of grace. By James Joyce, read by Richard Wallace, Liberty, Missouri, ten April two thousand nine,