Dubliners, James Joyce [black authors fiction .txt] 📗

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 commonsense 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