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 recognized 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 up 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
