DUBLINERS (14/15), by James Joyce (1882-1941).
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LA GRÂCE


Deux messieurs qui se trouvaient dans les toilettes à ce moment-là essayèrent de le soulever, mais il était tout à fait dépourvu de réaction. Il était replié sur lui-même au pied de l'escalier d'où il était tombé. Ils réussirent à le retourner.
Son chapeau avait roulé quelques mètres plus loin et ses vêtements étaient maculés par les souillures et l'humidité du carrelage sur lequel il s'était retrouvé, face contre terre.
Ses yeux étaient clos et il respirait bruyamment. Un mince filet de sang s'écoulait du coin de sa bouche.

Ces deux messieurs et l'un des serveurs le portèrent en haut de l'escalier et le déposèrent à même le sol du bar. En deux minutes, il fut entouré d'un cercle d'hommes. Le patron de l'établissement demanda à la ronde qui il était et qui l'accompagnait. Personne ne savait qui il était, mais l'un des serveurs déclara qu'il lui avait servi un petit verre de rhum.

— Était-il seul ? demanda le patron.

— Non, monsieur. Il y avait deux messieurs avec lui. — Et où sont-ils ? Personne ne le savait ; quelqu'un dit : — Donnez-lui un peu d'air. Il est tombé dans les pommes. Le cercle de curieux se dispersa et se reforma aussi sec. Une sombre tache de sang au niveau de la tête du blessé s'était répandue sur le carrelage. Le patron, effrayé par le teint grisâtre de l'homme, envoya chercher un policier.

Le col de la victime était défait et son nœud de cravate dénoué. Il ouvrit les yeux un instant, soupira puis les referma. L'un de ceux qui l'avaient transporté à l'étage avait en main un chapeau de soie tout cabossé. Le patron demanda à plusieurs reprises si quelqu'un savait qui était l'individu blessé et où étaient partis ses amis. La porte du bar s'ouvrit et un gendarme imposant entra. La foule qui l'avait suivi le long de la rue se rassembla devant la porte, s'efforçant d'entrapercevoir quelque chose à travers la vitrine.

La patron se mit instantanément à raconter ce qu'il savait. L'agent, un jeune homme aux traits épais et flasques, était tout ouïe. Il bougeait lentement la tête de droite à gauche, son regard allant du patron à la personne au sol, comme s'il craignait d'être victime d'une hallucination. Puis il retira un gant, sortit un petit carnet de sa ceinture, lécha la mine de son crayon et s'apprêta à prendre des notes. Il demanda, avec un léger accent provincial : — Qui est cet homme ? Quel est son nom ? Et son adresse ? Un jeune homme, en tenue de cycliste, se fraya un passage à travers le cercle des badauds. Il s'agenouilla promptement auprès du blessé et demanda de l'eau. L'agent s'agenouilla également pour prêter assistance. Le jeune homme nettoya le sang autour de la bouche du blessé et réclama du cognac.
Le policier renouvela la demande d'une voix autoritaire jusqu'à ce qu'un serveur accourût avec le verre. Le cognac fut introduit de force dans le gosier de l'homme. Au bout de quelques secondes, il ouvrit les yeux et regarda autour de lui.
Il vit le cercle de visages penchés au-dessus de lui, puis, comprenant, fit un effort pour se redresser.

— Vous vous sentez mieux maintenant ? demanda le jeune homme en tenue de cycliste.

— Oui, ce n'est rien, répondit le quidam en essayant de se lever.

On dut l'aider à se mettre debout. Le patron évoqua vaguement de le conduire à l'hôpital et certains passants dispensèrent des conseils. On lui remit sur la tête son chapeau de soie cabossé. L'agent de police demanda : — Où habitez-vous ? L'individu, sans répondre, se mit à tortiller les pointes de sa moustache.
Il prenait son accident à la légère. Il dit que ce n'était rien, un simple petit accident. Il avait la bouche pâteuse.

— Où habitez-vous ? répéta l'agent.

L'homme demanda qu'on lui appelât un fiacre. Alors qu'on discutait la chose, un homme grand et svelte, au teint clair, portant un long pardessus jaune, arriva du fond du bar. Découvrant le spectacle, il dit : — Eh bien, Tom, mon vieux ! Qu'est-ce qui t'arrive ? — Oh, ch'a, ch'est rien... dit le gars.

Le nouveau venu examina la pauvre figure qui lui faisait face, puis il se tourna vers le policier et lui dit : — Tout va bien, monsieur l'agent. Je vais le raccompagner. L'agent effleura son casque et répondit : — Très bien, Mr Power ! — Viens, Tom, dit Mr Power en prenant son ami par le bras. Rien de cassé. Quoi ? Tu peux marcher ? Le jeune cycliste attrapa le cabossé par l'autre bras et les badauds s'écartèrent.

— Comment t'es-tu fourré dans un tel état ? demanda Mr Power.

— Monsieur a dévalé les escaliers, annonça le jeune homme.

— J'vous choui tès recon'ssant, m'chieu, dit le malheureux.

— Je vous en prie. — On pourrait prendr' une p'tite goutte... ? — Pas maintenant. Pas maintenant. Les trois hommes quittèrent le bar et les gens se faufilèrent par les portes pour atteindre la ruelle. Le patron conduisit l'agent de police jusqu'aux escaliers pour observer le lieu de l'accident. Ils tombèrent d'accord sur le fait que l'homme avait dû rater une marche. Les clients retournèrent au comptoir et un serveur se mit à nettoyer les traces de sang sur le sol.

Lorsqu'ils atteignirent Grafton Street, Mr Power héla un fiacre. Le blessé répéta du mieux qu'il pût : — J' vous ch'oui très r'connaissant, m'sieur. J'espèr' ben vous r'voir. J' m'appelle Kernan. Le choc et la douleur qu'il commençait à ressentir l'avaient un peu dégrisé.

— Il n'y a pas de quoi, répondit le jeune homme.

Ils se serrèrent la main. Mr Kernan fut hissé dans la voiture et, tandis que Mr Power donnait des instructions au cocher, il exprimait sa gratitude au jeune cycliste et regrettait qu'ils n'aient pas bu un coup ensemble.

— Une prochaine fois, dit le jeune homme.

Le fiacre prit la direction de Westmoreland Street. Comme il passait devant Ballast Office, l'horloge indiquait neuf heures et demie. Un fort vent d'est soufflant de l'embouchure du fleuve les pénétrait. Mr Kernan, mort de froid, se blottit contre son ami. Ce dernier lui demanda comment l'accident s'était produit.

— J'peux pas, répondit-il, j'souffre d'la langue. — Montrez-moi. L'autre se pencha au-dessus du siège voisin et regarda dans la bouche de Mr Kernan mais il ne put rien voir. Il gratta une allumette et, protégeant la flamme de ses deux mains en conque regarda à nouveau l'intérieur de la bouche que Mr Kernan ouvrit docilement. Le balancement du véhicule rapprochait puis éloignait l'allumette de la bouche ouverte. Les dents de la mâchoire inférieure et les gencives étaient couvertes de sang caillé et un minuscule morceau de la langue semblait avoir été arraché. L'allumette s'éteignit.

— C'est assez moche, dit Mr Power.

— Ch'est bas grav', dit Mr Kernan en fermant la bouche et en remontant le col de son manteau souillé sur son cou.

Mr Kernan était un voyageur de commerce de la vieille école qui croyait en la dignité de son métier. On ne l'avait jamais vu en ville sans un chapeau de soie d'une certaine élégance et une paire de guêtres. Grâce à ces deux articles vestimentaires, disait-il, un homme peut toujours se montrer à la hauteur. Il perpétuait la tradition de son Napoléon, le grand Blackwhite, dont il honorait de temps à autre la mémoire par des légendes ou des imitations.
Les méthodes commerciales modernes ne lui avaient que laissé le choix d'un petit bureau dans Crowe Street sur le store duquel étaient inscrits le nom de sa modeste entreprise et l'adresse : London, E. C. Sur la cheminée de cet espace exigu était exposé un bataillon de petits soldats de plomb et, sur la table installée devant la fenêtre, étaient posés quatre ou cinq bols de porcelaine habituellement remplis à moitié d'un liquide noir. Dans ces bols, Mr Kernan goûtait le thé. Il en prenait une gorgée, s'arrêtait pour s'en imprégner le palais, puis allait cracher dans la cheminée. Alors, il prenait une pause pour en juger le goût.

Mr Power, un homme beaucoup plus jeune, était un employé de la police royale irlandaise de Dublin. L'arc de son ascension sociale croisait celui du crépuscule de son ami, mais le déclin de Mr. Kernan était atténué par le fait que certains de ces amis qui l'avaient connu à son apogée l'estimaient encore en tant que personne.
Mr Power était l'un de ses amis. Ses dettes inexplicables étaient proverbiales dans son entourage ; c'était un jeune homme débonnaire.

Le fiacre s'arrêta devant une petite maison sur la route de Glasnevin et on aida Mr Kernan à y entrer. Son épouse le mit au lit pendant que Mr Power s'asseyait en bas dans la cuisine et demandait aux enfants où ils allaient à l'école et quels étaient leurs manuels. Les enfants, deux filles et un garçon, conscients de l'impuissance de leur père et de l'absence de leur mère, commencèrent à le chahuter assez rudement. Il fut surpris de leurs manières et de leurs expressions, et son front s'assombrit. Au bout d'un moment, Mrs Kernan revint dans la cuisine et s'exclama : — Quel spectacle ! Oh, il devra se débrouiller tout seul un jour et ce sera à la grâce de Dieu. Il picole depuis vendredi. Mr Power prit soin de lui expliquer qu'il n'était pas responsable et qu'il s'était trouvé sur place par simple hasard. Mrs Kernan, se rappelant les bons services que Mr Power avait rendus pendant leurs querelles de ménage, ainsi que ses nombreux prêts, modestes mais bienvenus, répondit : — Oh, Mr Power, vous z'avez pas b'soin d'le m'dire. J'sais bien qu'vous êtes son ami, pas comme certains avec qui i' traîne. Tant qu'il a de l'argent à dépenser, i'sont copains et l'entraînent loin d'sa femme et d'sa famille.
Sont mignons les amis ! Qui c'est qu'était avec lui c'te nuit, j'voudrais bien l' savoir ? Mr Power hocha la tête mais ne dit rien.

J'suis désolée, continua-t-elle, mais j'ai rien ici à vous offrir. Mais si vous attendez une minute, j'vais aller chez Fogarty, au coin d'la rue. Mr Power se leva.

— On attendait qu'i' r'vienne avec les sous. On dirait qu'i' pense jamais qu'il a une maison. — Oh, Mrs Kernan, dit Mr Power, nous allons le remettre dans le droit chemin. Je parlerai à Martin. C'est l'homme de la situation. Nous passerons ici un de ces soirs et nous en discuterons. Elle le raccompagna à la porte. Le cocher trépignait sur le trottoir et battait des bras pour se réchauffer.

— C'est très gentil de votre part de l'avoir ramené à la maison, dit-elle.

— De rien, répondit Mr Power.

Il monta dans la voiture. Quand la voiture s'éloigna, il souleva gaiement son chapeau en sa direction.

— Nous ferons de lui un nouvel homme, lança-t-il. Bonne nuit, Mrs Kernan. Perplexe, Mrs Kernan suivit des yeux le fiacre jusqu'à ce qu'il soit hors de vue.
Puis elle fit demi-tour, entra dans la maison et vida les poches de son mari.

C'était une femme d'âge moyen, pleine d'énergie et à l'esprit pratique. Peu de temps auparavant, elle avait fêté ses noces d'argent et repris une relation confiante avec son époux en valsant avec lui au son de l'accompagnement de Mr Power. À l'époque où il la courtisait, Mr Kernan lui avait paru séduisant ; et, encore maintenant, elle se précipitait à la porte de la chapelle lorsqu'il y avait un mariage, admirant les mariés, se rappelant avec un vif plaisir la façon dont elle était sortie de l'église St. Mary's, Star of the Sea à Sandymount, au bras d'un homme jovial et bien portant, vêtu avec élégance d'une redingote et d'un pantalon lavande, portant avec grâce sur l'autre bras un haut-de-forme en soie. Au bout de trois semaines, sa vie d'épouse lui avait paru assommante, et, plus tard, quand elle commença à la trouver insupportable, elle était devenue mère. Le rôle de mère ne lui posa pas de difficultés insurmontables et, pendant vingt-cinq ans, elle tint son ménage avec intelligence au service de son mari. Ses deux grands fils avaient pris leur envol. L'un travaillait pour un drapier de Glasgow et l'autre était commis chez un marchand de thé à Belfast.
C'étaient de bons fils : ils écrivaient régulièrement et envoyaient parfois de l'argent à la maison. Les autres enfants allaient encore à l'école.

Le lendemain, Mr Kernan envoya une lettre à son bureau et garda la chambre. Son épouse lui prépara du bouillon et le réprimanda vertement. Elle acceptait sa fréquente intempérance comme elle supportait les aléas du climat, prenait consciencieusement soin de lui chaque fois qu'il était malade et essayait toujours de lui faire avaler un petit déjeuner.
Il y avait de pires maris. Il n'avait jamais été violent depuis que les garçons avaient grandi et elle savait qu'il irait à pied jusqu'à l'extrémité de Thomas Street et reviendrait pour la moindre petite commande.

Deux soirs plus tard, ses amis vinrent le voir. Elle les conduisit jusqu'à sa chambre dont l'air était imprégné d'odeurs corporelles, et leur offrit des sièges au coin de la cheminée. La langue de Mr Kernan, très douloureuse par moments, ce qui l'avait rendu irritable toute la journée, devint plus adoucie. Il était dans son lit, calé contre des oreillers, et la légère coloration de ses joues bouffies faisait penser à des cendres chaudes. Il s'excusa auprès de ses visiteurs du désordre qui régnait dans la pièce, mais en même temps il les regardait assez fièrement, avec l'orgueil d'un vieux combattant.

Il était tout à fait inconscient d'être la victime d'un complot dont ses amis, Mr Cunningham, Mr M'Coy et Mr Power avaient révélé l'existence à Mrs Kernan dans le salon. C'était l'idée de Mr Power, mais son exécution avait été confiée à Mr Cunningham. Mr Kernan était issu d'une famille protestante et, bien qu'il se fût converti au catholicisme au moment de son mariage, il n'était plus dans le giron de l'Église depuis vingt ans.
D'ailleurs, il adorait faire des entorses au catholicisme.

Mr Cunningham était l'homme de la situation. C'était un ancien collègue de Mr Power. Sa propre vie conjugale n'était pas très brillante. Les gens avaient beaucoup de sympathie pour lui car on savait qu'il avait épousé une femme acariâtre qui était une ivrognesse incurable. À six reprises, il lui avait renouvelé son intérieur et, à chaque fois, elle avait porté les meubles au mont-de-piété.

Tout le monde éprouvait du respect pour ce pauvre Martin Cunnigham. C'était un homme tout à fait sensé, influent et intelligent. Sa large connaissance de la nature humaine — habileté naturelle particularisée par une longue fréquentation des tribunaux de police — avait été tempérée par de brèves immersions dans les eaux de la philosophie générale C'était un homme bien informé. Ses amis se rangeaient à ses opinions et considéraient que l'expression de son visage le faisait ressembler à Shakespeare.

Lorsque le complot lui avait été révélé, Mrs Kernan avait dit : « Je vous laisse vous en charger, Mr Cunningham. » Après un quart de siècle de vie conjugale, il ne lui restait que peu d'illusions. La religion était pour elle une habitude et elle présumait qu'un homme de l'âge de son mari ne changerait pas beaucoup d'ici son décès. Elle était tentée de voir une curieuse pertinence dans l'accident de son mari, mais, ne souhaitant point passer pour une enquiquineuse, elle aurait affirmé à ces messieurs que la langue de Mr Kernan ne souffrirait pas d'être raccourcie.
Cependant, Mr Cunningham était un homme plein de ressources ; et la religion était la religion.
Le stratagème pourrait être efficace ou, au moins, ne causer aucun dommage. Les convictions de Mrs Kernan n'étaient pas farfelues. Elle croyait fermement au Sacré-Coeur comme à la plus nécessaire des dévotions catholiques et approuvait les sacrements. Sa foi était limitée à sa cuisine mais, si elle y était obligée, elle pouvait croire également à la « banshee » et au Saint-Esprit.

Les hommes commencèrent à parler de l'accident. Mr Cunningham dit qu'il avait autrefois connu un cas similaire. Lors d'une crise d'épilepsie, un homme de soixante-dix ans s'était coupé un morceau de langue, laquelle avait repoussé sans laisser aucune trace de la morsure.

— Bah, moi z'ai pas soiss'ante-dix ans, zozota le blessé.

— Grands dieux, non, s'écria Mr Cunningham.

— Ça n'est plus douloureux, maintenant ? interrogea Mr M'Coy.

À un moment donné, Mr M'Coy avait été un ténor auréolé d'un certain prestige. Son épouse, qui avait été soprano, donnait encore des leçons de piano aux enfants pour un prix modique. Sa vie n'avait pas été la ligne plus courte entre deux points et, pendant de courtes périodes, il avait été contraint de vivre d'expédients. Il avait été employé par la société de chemins de fer du Midland, démarcheur de publicité pour « The Irish Times » et « The Freeman's Journal », représentant de commerce payé à la commission pour une entreprise charbonnière, détective privé, commis de bureau pour le shériff adjoint, et il était devenu récemment secrétaire du médecin légiste à la morgue municipale. De par ses nouvelles fonctions, le cas de Mr Kernan suscitait son intérêt sur un plan professionnel.

— Mal ? Pas boucou, répondit Mr Kernan. Mais z'est zi dégoutant. Z'ai l'impression qu' z'ai envie d'vomir. — C'est la gnôle, affirma Mr Cunningham.

— Non, répliqua Mr Kernan. Z'e pense qu' z'ai attrapé froid dans l'fiacre. Y' a queq'soze qui continue à m'rester dans la gorze, des glaires ou... — Des mucosités, précisa Mr M'Coy.

— Z'a r'monte comme du fond d'ma gorze, une soze écœurante. — Oui, oui reprit Mr M'Coy, c'est la cage thoracique. Il regarda en même temps Mr Cunningham et Mr Power avec un air de défi. Mr Cunningham secoua rapidement la tête et Mr Power dit : — Ah, bon, tout est bien qui finit bien. — Vous, z'vous z'uis très r'connaizant, mon vieux, articula péniblement le blessé.

Mr Power agita la main.

— Ch'est deux gas avec qui ch'étais... — Avec qui étiez-vous ? demanda Mr Cunningham.

— Un type. Che ch'sais pas chon nom. Bon chang, comment il ch'appelle. Un p'tit gars aux cheveux blond chablé... — Et qui d'autre ? — Harford. — Hum, fit Mr Cunningham.

Lorsque Mr Cunningham émit cette réflexion, toute l'assemblée resta muette. On savait que ce dernier disposait de sources secrètes d'information. Dans ce cas, une monosyllabe avait une signification morale. Mr Harford faisait parfois partie d'un petit détachement qui quittait la ville peu après midi le dimanche, dans le but d'arriver le plus tôt possible dans quelque cabaret situé à la périphérie de la ville, où ses membres se qualifiaient dûment de voyageurs « bona fide ». Mais ses compagnons de route n'avaient jamais complètement oublié d'où il venait. Il avait commencé sa vie comme obscur financier prêtant de petites sommes d'argent à des ouvriers à des taux d'intérêt usuraires. Par la suite, il était devenu l'associé d'un petit homme obèse, Mr Goldberg, à la Liffey Loan Bank. Bien qu'il n'ait jamais adhéré qu'au code moral juif, ses coreligionnaires, chaque fois qu'ils eurent à souffrir en personne ou par personne interposée de ses abus, parlèrent amèrement de lui comme d'un juif irlandais et d'un analphabète, et voyaient la désapprobation divine de l'usure se manifester à travers son idiot de fils.
À d'autres moments, ils se souvenaient de ses points positifs.

— Je me demande où il est allé, dit Mr Kernan.

Il souhaitait que les détails de l'incident demeurent flous. Il souhaitait que ses amis pensent qu'il y avait eu une confusion, que Mr Harford et lui s'étaient manqués. Ses amis, qui connaissaient bien les penchants de Mr Harford en matière de boisson, ne pipèrent mot. Mr Power répéta : « Tout est bien qui finit bien ». Mr Kernan changea aussitôt de sujet.

— C'était un chic type, cet étudiant en médecine, dit-il. Sans lui... — Oui, sans lui, dit Mr Power, vous étiez bon pour passer sept jours au cachot, sans compter l'amende éventuelle. — Oui, en effet, ajouta Mr Kernan, essayant de raviver ses souvenirs. Je me souviens maintenant qu'il y avait un policier. Un brave gars, il me semble. Comment est-ce arrivé ? — C'est arrivé parce que vous étiez ivre, Tom, répondit gravement Mr Cunningham.

— C'est exact, confirma Mr Kernan d'un ton tout aussi grave.

— Je suppose, Jack, que vous avez réglé les choses avec l'agent de police, intervint Mr M'Coy.

Mr Power n'aimait pas être appelé par son prénom. Il n'était pas collet monté, mais il ne pouvait pas oublier que Mr M'Coy avait récemment entrepris une véritable croisade pour trouver des malles et des valises, afin de permettre à Mrs M'Coy d'honorer des engagements imaginaires à la campagne. Plus que le fait d'avoir été bafoué, c'est que le coup porté fût si bas qui lui avait déplu. Il répondit donc à la question comme si c'était Mr Kernan qui l'avait posée.

Le récit qu'il fit indigna Mr. Kernan. Il était parfaitement conscient de ses droits et devoirs en tant que citoyen, souhaitait vivre avec sa ville dans des conditions mutuellement honorables et s'indignait de tout affront de la part de ceux qu'il appelait les « ploucs ».

— C'est pour ces gens-là que nous payons des impôts ? siffla-t-il. Pour nourrir et habiller ces gens qui ne sont rien*... Mr. Cunningham rit. Il n'était fonctionnaire royal que pendant les heures de service.

— Que pourraient-ils être d'autre, Tom ? demanda-t-il.

Il prit un fort accent campagnard et aboya d'un ton péremptoire : — 65, attrape ton chou ! Tout le monde s'esclaffa. Mr M'Coy, qui voulait absolument apporter son grain de sel dans la conversation, prétendit n'avoir jamais entendu cette histoire. Mr Cunningham expliqua : — C'est censé se passer (d'après ce qu'on dit) dans le dépôt où sont reçus ces campagnards costauds et tonitruants, un peu cinglés, vous savez, afin de les entraîner. Le sergent les fait mettre en rang contre le mur et leur fait tendre leurs assiettes. Il mimait son histoire avec des gestes grotesques.

Pour dîner, voyez-vous. Alors, il a une sacrée soupière de chou devant lui sur la table et une louche grosse comme une pelle. Il prend du chou dans sa louche, le jette à travers la pièce, et les pauvres diables doivent essayer de l'attraper dans leur assiette : « 65, attrape ton chou ». Chacun rit à nouveau, mais Mr Kernan était encore quelque peu choqué. Il parlait d'écrire une lettre aux journaux.

— Ces pedzouilles qui viennent ici, dit-il, ils pensent qu'ils peuvent diriger les gens. Je n'ai pas besoin de vous dire, Martin, quel genre d'hommes ce sont. Mr Cunningham acquiesça avec réserve.

— C'est comme tout en ce bas monde, dit-il. Il y a de mauvaises et de bonnes personnes. — Oui, on en trouve de bonnes, je l'admets, dit Mr Kernan, satisfait.

— Il vaut mieux éviter d'avoir affaire à eux, déclara Mr M'Coy. C'est mon avis ! Mrs Kernan entra dans la pièce et posa un plateau sur la table : — Servez-vous, messieurs. Mr Power se leva pour officier et lui offrit sa chaise. Elle refusa en disant qu'elle faisait du repassage en bas et, après avoir échangé un signe de tête avec Mr Cunningham dans le dos de Mr Power, elle s'apprêta à quitter la chambre. Son mari l'appela : — Et tu n'as rien pour moi, mon canard ? — Oh, pour toi ! Le dos de ma main, lança Mrs Kernan d'un ton sec.

Son mari récrimina : — Rien pour son pauvre petit mari d'amour ! Il prit un visage et une voix si comiques que le partage des bouteilles de stout se fit dans l'allégresse générale.

Les messieurs vidèrent leurs verres, les reposèrent sur la table et se détendirent. Mr Cunningham se tourna alors vers Mr Power et lui dit d'un ton détaché : — Jeudi soir, vous avez dit, Jack. — Jeudi, oui, répondit Mr Power.

— Parfait ! dit Mr Cunningham avec empressement.

— Nous pouvons nous retrouver chez M'Auley, suggéra Mr M'Coy. C'est le plus pratique. — Mais il ne faut pas être en retard, insista Mr Power, parce que ce sera sûrement plein à craquer. — Nous pouvons nous retrouver à sept heures et demie, proposa Mr M'Coy.

— Très bien, répondit Mr Cuningham.

À sept heures et demie chez M'Auleys, alors ! Un ange passa. Mr Kernan attendit de savoir s'il serait mis dans la confidence de ses amis. Puis il demanda : — Qu'y a-t-il dans l'air ? — Oh, ce n'est rien, fit Mr Cunningham. — Ce n'est qu'une petite affaire que nous organisons pour jeudi. — L'opéra, c'est ça ? interrogea Mr Kernan.

— Non, non, dit Mr Cunningham d'un ton évasif, c'est juste une petite... affaire spirituelle. — Oh, dit Mr Kernan.

De nouveau le silence se fit. C'est alors que Mr Power lâcha carrément : — Pour vous dire la vérité, Tom, nous allons faire une retraite. — Oui, c'est ça, dit Mr Cunningham, Jack et moi et M'Coy ici présent, nous allons tous nous récurer le chaudron. Il prononça la métaphore avec une certaine énergie et, encouragé par sa propre voix, poursuivit : — Vous voyez, nous devrions admettre que nous sommes une belle collection de canailles, tout autant les uns que les autres. Je dis bien autant les uns que les autres, ajouta-t-il avec une bienveillance bourrue, et se tournant vers Mr Power, avouez-le ! — Je l'avoue, dit Mr Power.

— Moi de même, avoua Mr M'Coy.

— Ainsi nous allons récurer le chaudron ensemble, dit Mr Cunningham.

Une idée sembla lui venir à l'esprit. Il se tourna brusquement vers le malade et lui dit : — Savez-vous, Tom, ce qui me vient à l'instant à l'esprit ? Vous pourriez vous joindre à nous pour une partie carrée entre hommes. — Bonne idée, dit M. Power. — Les quatre mousquetaires. Mr Kernan ne pipait mot. Cette suggestion n'avait guère de sens pour lui, mais comme il comprenait que des institutions spirituelles étaient sur le point d'intercéder en sa faveur, il estima qu'il devait à sa dignité de montrer un peu de raideur. Pendant un long moment, il ne prit pas part à la conversation, mais écouta, d'un air de calme inimitié, ses amis parler des Jésuites.

— Je n'ai pas une si mauvaise opinion des Jésuites, dit-il en intervenant après un moment. C'est un ordre avisé. Je crois que leurs intentions sont bonnes. — C'est l'ordre le plus prestigieux de l'Église, Tom, dit Mr Cunningham avec enthousiasme. Le supérieur général des Jésuites vient tout de suite après le pape. — Pas d'erreur à ce sujet, continua Mr M'Coy, si vous désirez qu'un projet soit mené à bien, avec perspicacité, allez voir un jésuite. Ce sont des types qui ont de l'influence. Je vais vous donner un exemple... — Les jésuites représentent une belle congrégation, le coupa Mr Power.

— C'est une chose curieuse, l'ordre des jésuites, dit Mr Cunningham.
Tous les autres ordres de l'Église ont été réformés à un moment ou à un autre, mais celui des jésuites ne l'a pas été une seule fois. Il n'a jamais décliné. — Vraiment ? demanda Mr M'Coy.

— C'est la réalité, répondit Mr Cunningham. C'est historique. — Regardez aussi leur église, dit Mr Power. Regardez leur congrégation. — Les jésuites comblent les besoins de la haute bourgeoisie, affirma Mr M'Coy.

— Bien évidemment, renchérit Mr Power.

— Oui, intervint Mr Kernan. C'est pourquoi j'ai un petit faible pour eux. Ce sont certains de ces prêtres séculiers, ignorants, vaniteux.... — Ce sont tous des hommes bons, chacun à leur façon, l'interrompit Mr Cunningham. Le clergé irlandais est honoré partout à travers le monde. — Oh oui, affirma Mr Power.

— Pas comme certaines congrégations religieuses sur le continent, indignes de ce nom, ajouta Mr M'Coy. — Peut-être avez-vous raison, dit Mr Kernan, conciliant.

— Bien sûr que j'ai raison, s'écria Mr Cunningham. Je ne suis pas dans le monde depuis tout ce temps et n'en ai pas vu la plupart des aspects sans être capable de juger des caractères. Les hommes, l'un après l'autre, se remirent à boire. Mr Kernan semblait peser quelque chose intérieurement. Il était impressionné. Il avait une haute opinion de Mr Cunningham en tant que juge des caractères et physionomiste. Il demanda des précisions.

— Oh, ce n'est qu'une simple retraite, vous savez, dit Mr Cunningham. Le père Purdon la dirige. C'est pour les hommes d'affaires, vous savez. — Il ne sera pas trop dur avec nous, Tom, poursuivit Mr Power avec persuasion.

— Le père Purdon ? Le père Purdon ? s'étonna le malade.

— Oh, vous devez le connaître, Tom, dit avec fermeté Mr Cunningham. Un bien bon garçon ! C'est un homme du monde comme nous. — Ah... oui. Il me semble le connaître. Visage plutôt rubicond, grand. — C'est notre homme. — Et dites-moi, Martin... est-il bon prédicateur ? — Eh bien... il ne s'agit pas vraiment de sermon, voyez-vous. C'est plutôt une sorte d'aimable discussion, vous savez, pleine de bon sens. Mr Kernan réfléchit. Mr M'Coy lança : — Le père Tom Burke, lui, c'était quelqu'un ! — Oh, le père Tom Burke, c'était un orateur-né, observa Mr Cunningham. L'avez-vous jamais écouté, Tom ? — Si je l'ai déjà entendu ! s'exclama le malade, agacé. Un peu que je l'ai entendu ! — Et pourtant, on dit que ce n'était pas vraiment un théologien, précisa Mr Cunningham.

— C'est vrai ? demanda Mr M'Coy.

— Oh, bien entendu, rien de grave vous savez. Seulement parfois, dit-on, il ne prêchait pas ce qui était tout à fait orthodoxe. — Ah ! c'était un homme remarquable, dit Mr M'Coy.

— Je l'ai entendu une fois, poursuivit Mr Kernan. J'ai oublié le sujet de son sermon. Crofton et moi étions au fond de... la fosse, vous savez... la... — La nef, dit Mr Cunningham.

Oui, au fond, près du portail. Je ne me souviens plus... Oh si, c'était à propos du pape, le défunt pape. Je m'en souviens à merveille. Parbleu, c'était magnifique, ce talent oratoire. Et sa voix ! Mon Dieu ! Quelle voix ! « Le prisonnier du Vatican », il l'appelait ainsi. Je me rappelle Crofton me dire en sortant... — Mais c'est un Orangiste, Crofton, n'est-ce pas ? demanda Mr Power.

— Bien sûr qu'il l'est, répondit Mr Kernan, et un sacré pur et dur. Nous sommes allés chez Butler dans Moore Street... Ma foi, pour vous dire la vérité, j'étais sincèrement ému... et je me souviens très bien de ses mots. _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 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 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.”
unit 1
GRACE.
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unit 2
unit 3
He lay curled up at the foot of the stairs down which he had fallen.
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unit 4
They succeeded in turning him over.
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unit 6
His eyes were closed and he breathed with a grunting noise.
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unit 7
A thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
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unit 9
In two minutes he was surrounded by a ring of men.
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unit 10
The manager of the bar asked everyone who he was and who was with him.
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unit 11
No one knew who he was but one of the curates said he had served the gentleman with a small rum.
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unit 12
“Was he by himself?” asked the manager.
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unit 13
“No, sir.
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unit 15
He’s fainted.” The ring of onlookers distended and closed again elastically.
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unit 16
A dark medal of blood had formed itself near the man’s head on the tessellated floor.
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unit 17
The manager, alarmed by the grey pallor of the man’s face, sent for a policeman.
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unit 18
His collar was unfastened and his necktie undone.
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unit 19
He opened his eyes for an instant, sighed and closed them again.
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unit 20
One of gentlemen who had carried him upstairs held a dinged silk hat in his hand.
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unit 21
unit 22
The door of the bar opened and an immense constable entered.
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unit 24
The manager at once began to narrate what he knew.
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unit 25
The constable, a young man with thick immobile features, listened.
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unit 28
He asked in a suspicious provincial accent: “Who is the man?
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unit 30
He knelt down promptly beside the injured man and called for water.
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unit 31
The constable knelt down also to help.
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unit 32
The young man washed the blood from the injured man’s mouth and then called for some brandy.
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unit 33
unit 34
The brandy was forced down the man’s throat.
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unit 35
In a few seconds he opened his eyes and looked about him.
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unit 36
He looked at the circle of faces and then, understanding, strove to rise to his feet.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 2 days ago
unit 37
“You’re all right now?” asked the young man in the cycling-suit.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 2 days ago
unit 38
“Sha, ’s nothing,” said the injured man, trying to stand up.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 2 days ago
unit 39
He was helped to his feet.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 2 days ago
unit 40
The manager said something about a hospital and some of the bystanders gave advice.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 2 days ago
unit 41
The battered silk hat was placed on the man’s head.
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unit 43
He made light of his accident.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 2 days ago
unit 44
It was nothing, he said: only a little accident.
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unit 45
He spoke very thickly.
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unit 46
“Where do you live?” repeated the constable.
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unit 47
The man said they were to get a cab for him.
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unit 49
Seeing the spectacle, he called out: “Hallo, Tom, old man!
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 2 days ago
unit 50
What’s the trouble?” “Sha, ’s nothing,” said the man.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 2 days ago
unit 53
“No bones broken.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 54
What?
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unit 56
“How did you get yourself into this mess?” asked Mr Power.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 57
“The gentleman fell down the stairs,” said the young man.
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unit 58
“I’ ’ery ’uch o’liged to you, sir,” said the injured man.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 59
“Not at all.” “’ant we have a little...?” “Not now.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 60
Not now.” The three men left the bar and the crowd sifted through the doors into the laneway.
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unit 61
The manager brought the constable to the stairs to inspect the scene of the accident.
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unit 62
They agreed that the gentleman must have missed his footing.
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unit 64
When they came out into Grafton Street, Mr Power whistled for an outsider.
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unit 65
The injured man said again as well as he could: “I’ ’ery ’uch o’liged to you, sir.
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unit 66
I hope we’ll ’eet again.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 67
’y na’e is Kernan.” The shock and the incipient pain had partly sobered him.
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unit 68
“Don’t mention it,” said the young man.
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unit 69
They shook hands.
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unit 71
“Another time,” said the young man.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 72
The car drove off towards Westmoreland Street.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 73
As it passed Ballast Office the clock showed half-past nine.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 74
A keen east wind hit them, blowing from the mouth of the river.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 75
Mr Kernan was huddled together with cold.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 76
His friend asked him to tell how the accident had happened.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 79
The swaying movement of the car brought the match to and from the opened mouth.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 81
The match was blown out.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 82
“That’s ugly,” said Mr Power.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 84
unit 85
He had never been seen in the city without a silk hat of some decency and a pair of gaiters.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 86
By grace of these two articles of clothing, he said, a man could always pass muster.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 weeks, 1 day ago
unit 90
From these bowls Mr Kernan tasted tea.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 6 days ago
unit 91
unit 92
Then he paused to judge.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 6 days ago
unit 93
unit 95
Mr Power was one of these friends.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 6 days ago
unit 96
His inexplicable debts were a byword in his circle; he was a debonair young man.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 6 days ago
unit 97
unit 100
He was surprised at their manners and at their accents, and his brow grew thoughtful.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 101
After a while Mrs Kernan entered the kitchen, exclaiming: “Such a sight!
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 102
O, he’ll do for himself one day and that’s the holy alls of it.
2 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 105
I know you’re a friend of his, not like some of the others he does be with.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 106
unit 107
Nice friends!
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 108
Who was he with tonight, I’d like to know?” Mr Power shook his head but said nothing.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 109
“I’m so sorry,” she continued, “that I’ve nothing in the house to offer you.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 110
But if you wait a minute I’ll send round to Fogarty’s at the corner.” Mr Power stood up.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 111
“We were waiting for him to come home with the money.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 113
I’ll talk to Martin.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 114
He’s the man.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 115
We’ll come here one of these nights and talk it over.” She saw him to the door.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 116
The carman was stamping up and down the footpath, and swinging his arms to warm himself.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 117
“It’s very kind of you to bring him home,” she said.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 118
“Not at all,” said Mr Power.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 119
He got up on the car.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 120
As it drove off he raised his hat to her gaily.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 121
“We’ll make a new man of him,” he said.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 122
unit 123
Then she withdrew them, went into the house and emptied her husband’s pockets.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 124
She was an active, practical woman of middle age.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 5 days ago
unit 129
Her two eldest sons were launched.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 130
One was in a draper’s shop in Glasgow and the other was clerk to a tea-merchant in Belfast.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 131
They were good sons, wrote regularly and sometimes sent home money.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 132
The other children were still at school.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 133
Mr Kernan sent a letter to his office next day and remained in bed.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 134
She made beef-tea for him and scolded him roundly.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 136
There were worse husbands.
2 Translations, 3 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 4 days ago
unit 138
Two nights after his friends came to see him.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 3 days ago
unit 144
The idea had been Mr Power’s but its development was entrusted to Mr Cunningham.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 146
He was fond, moreover, of giving side-thrusts at Catholicism.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 147
Mr Cunningham was the very man for such a case.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 148
He was an elder colleague of Mr Power.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 149
His own domestic life was not very happy.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 151
He had set up house for her six times; and each time she had pawned the furniture on him.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 152
Everyone had respect for poor Martin Cunningham.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 153
He was a thoroughly sensible man, influential and intelligent.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 155
He was well informed.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 156
His friends bowed to his opinions and considered that his face was like Shakespeare’s.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 160
However, Mr Cunningham was a capable man; and religion was religion.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 161
The scheme might do good and, at least, it could do no harm.
2 Translations, 3 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 162
Her beliefs were not extravagant.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 165
The gentlemen began to talk of the accident.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 166
Mr Cunningham said that he had once known a similar case.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 168
“Well, I’m not seventy,” said the invalid.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 169
“God forbid,” said Mr Cunningham.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 170
“It doesn’t pain you now?” asked Mr M’Coy.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 171
Mr M’Coy had been at one time a tenor of some reputation.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 172
His wife, who had been a soprano, still taught young children to play the piano at low terms.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 week, 1 day ago
unit 175
His new office made him professionally interested in Mr Kernan’s case.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 9 hours ago
unit 176
“Pain?
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 9 hours ago
unit 177
Not much,” answered Mr Kernan.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 9 hours ago
unit 178
“But it’s so sickening.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 9 hours ago
unit 179
I feel as if I wanted to retch off.” “That’s the boose,” said Mr Cunningham firmly.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 9 hours ago
unit 180
“No,” said Mr Kernan.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 9 hours ago
unit 181
“I think I caught a cold on the car.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 9 hours ago
unit 182
There’s something keeps coming into my throat, phlegm or——” “Mucus.” said Mr M’Coy.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 9 hours ago
unit 185
Mr Power waved his hand.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 9 hours ago
unit 186
“Those other two fellows I was with——” “Who were you with?” asked Mr Cunningham.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 9 hours ago
unit 187
“A chap.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 9 hours ago
unit 188
I don’t know his name.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 9 hours ago
unit 189
Damn it now, what’s his name?
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 9 hours ago
unit 190
unit 191
When Mr Cunningham made that remark, people were silent.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 8 hours ago
unit 192
It was known that the speaker had secret sources of information.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 8 hours ago
unit 193
In this case the monosyllable had a moral intention.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 8 hours ago
unit 195
But his fellow-travellers had never consented to overlook his origin.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 7 hours ago
unit 197
unit 199
At other times they remembered his good points.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 2 hours ago
unit 200
“I wonder where did he go to,” said Mr Kernan.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 2 hours ago
unit 201
He wished the details of the incident to remain vague.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 2 hours ago
unit 203
His friends, who knew quite well Mr Harford’s manners in drinking, were silent.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 2 hours ago
unit 204
Mr Power said again: “All’s well that ends well.” Mr Kernan changed the subject at once.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 6 days, 2 hours ago
unit 205
“That was a decent young chap, that medical fellow,” he said.
2 Translations, 3 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 23 hours ago
unit 207
“I remember now there was a policeman.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 2 hours ago
unit 208
Decent young fellow, he seemed.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 5 days, 2 hours ago
unit 210
“True bill,” said Mr Kernan, equally gravely.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 9 hours ago
unit 211
“I suppose you squared the constable, Jack,” said Mr M’Coy.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 9 hours ago
unit 212
Mr Power did not relish the use of his Christian name.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 9 hours ago
unit 214
unit 215
He answered the question, therefore, as if Mr Kernan had asked it.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 4 hours ago
unit 216
The narrative made Mr Kernan indignant.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 4 hours ago
unit 218
“Is this what we pay rates for?” he asked.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 4 hours ago
unit 219
unit 220
He was a Castle official only during office hours.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 4 hours ago
unit 221
“How could they be anything else, Tom?” he said.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 4 days, 2 hours ago
unit 226
“At dinner, you know.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 4 hours ago
unit 227
unit 229
He talked of writing a letter to the papers.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 2 hours ago
unit 230
“These yahoos coming up here,” he said, “think they can boss the people.
2 Translations, 4 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 11 hours ago
unit 231
I needn’t tell you, Martin, what kind of men they are.” Mr Cunningham gave a qualified assent.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 11 hours ago
unit 232
“It’s like everything else in this world,” he said.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 11 hours ago
unit 234
“It’s better to have nothing to say to them,” said Mr M’Coy.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 11 hours ago
unit 237
Her husband called out to her: “And have you nothing for me, duckie?” “O, you!
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 11 hours ago
unit 238
The back of my hand to you!” said Mrs Kernan tartly.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 11 hours ago
unit 240
The gentlemen drank from their glasses, set the glasses again on the table and paused.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 11 hours ago
unit 242
“Righto!” said Mr Cunningham promptly.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 11 hours ago
unit 243
“We can meet in M’Auley’s,” said Mr M’Coy.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 11 hours ago
unit 245
“Righto!” said Mr Cunningham.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 3 days, 2 hours ago
unit 246
“Half-seven at M’Auley’s be it!” There was a short silence.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 11 hours ago
unit 247
Mr Kernan waited to see whether he would be taken into his friends’ confidence.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 11 hours ago
unit 248
Then he asked: “What’s in the wind?” “O, it’s nothing,” said Mr Cunningham.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 11 hours ago
unit 251
There was silence again.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 11 hours ago
unit 253
I say, one and all,” he added with gruff charity and turning to Mr Power.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 2 hours ago
unit 254
“Own up now!” “I own up,” said Mr Power.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 2 hours ago
unit 255
“And I own up,” said Mr M’Coy.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 2 hours ago
unit 256
“So we’re going to wash the pot together,” said Mr Cunningham.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 2 hours ago
unit 257
A thought seemed to strike him.
2 Translations, 3 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 2 hours ago
unit 258
He turned suddenly to the invalid and said: “D’ye know what, Tom, has just occurred to me?
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 2 hours ago
unit 259
You might join in and we’d have a four-handed reel.” “Good idea,” said Mr Power.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 2 hours ago
unit 260
“The four of us together.” Mr Kernan was silent.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 2 hours ago
unit 263
“I haven’t such a bad opinion of the Jesuits,” he said, intervening at length.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 2 hours ago
unit 264
“They’re an educated order.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 2 hours ago
unit 267
They’re the boyos have influence.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 1 hour ago
unit 268
I’ll tell you a case in point....” “The Jesuits are a fine body of men,” said Mr Power.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 1 hour ago
unit 269
“It’s a curious thing,” said Mr Cunningham, “about the Jesuit Order.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 1 hour ago
unit 271
It never fell away.” “Is that so?” asked Mr M’Coy.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 days, 1 hour ago
unit 272
“That’s a fact,” said Mr Cunningham.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 3 hours ago
unit 273
“That’s history.” “Look at their church, too,” said Mr Power.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 3 hours ago
unit 275
“Of course,” said Mr Power.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 3 hours ago
unit 276
“Yes,” said Mr Kernan.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 3 hours ago
unit 277
“That’s why I have a feeling for them.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 3 hours ago
unit 279
The Irish priesthood is honoured all the world over.” “O yes,” said Mr Power.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 3 hours ago
unit 281
“Of course I’m right,” said Mr Cunningham.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 3 hours ago
unit 283
Mr Kernan seemed to be weighing something in his mind.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 2 hours ago
unit 284
He was impressed.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 2 hours ago
unit 285
He had a high opinion of Mr Cunningham as a judge of character and as a reader of faces.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 2 hours ago
unit 286
He asked for particulars.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 2 hours ago
unit 287
“O, it’s just a retreat, you know,” said Mr Cunningham.
2 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 7 hours ago
unit 288
“Father Purdon is giving it.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 2 hours ago
unit 290
“Father Purdon?
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 2 hours ago
unit 291
Father Purdon?” said the invalid.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 2 hours ago
unit 292
“O, you must know him, Tom,” said Mr Cunningham stoutly.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 2 hours ago
unit 293
“Fine jolly fellow!
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 1 day, 2 hours ago
unit 294
He’s a man of the world like ourselves.” “Ah, ... yes.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 14 hours ago
unit 295
I think I know him.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 14 hours ago
unit 299
Did you ever hear him, Tom?” “Did I ever hear him!” said the invalid, nettled.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 14 hours ago
unit 300
“Rather!
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 7 hours ago
unit 302
“Is that so?” said Mr M’Coy.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 14 hours ago
unit 303
“O, of course, nothing wrong, you know.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 14 hours ago
unit 304
Only sometimes, they say, he didn’t preach what was quite orthodox.” “Ah!
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 hours ago
unit 305
... he was a splendid man,” said Mr M’Coy.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 hours ago
unit 306
“I heard him once,” Mr Kernan continued.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 hours ago
unit 307
“I forget the subject of his discourse now.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 hours ago
unit 309
“Yes, in the back near the door.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 hours ago
unit 310
I forget now what.... O yes, it was on the Pope, the late Pope.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 hours ago
unit 311
I remember it well.
1 Translations, 2 Upvotes, Last Activity 2 hours ago
unit 312
Upon my word it was magnificent, the style of the oratory.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 38 minutes ago
unit 313
And his voice!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 38 minutes ago
unit 314
God!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 37 minutes ago
unit 315
hadn’t he a voice!
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 37 minutes ago
unit 316
_The Prisoner of the Vatican_, he called him.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 37 minutes ago
unit 318
“‘Course he is,” said Mr Kernan, “and a damned decent Orangeman too.
1 Translations, 1 Upvotes, Last Activity 37 minutes ago
unit 323
“We both believe in——” He hesitated for a moment.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 324
“... in the Redeemer.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 327
come in!” A pale oval face came forward into the light.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 329
Mr Fogarty was a modest grocer.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 333
He was not without culture.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 334
Mr Fogarty brought a gift with him, a half-pint of special whisky.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 337
He said: “I wouldn’t doubt you, old man.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 338
Open that, Jack, will you?” Mr Power again officiated.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 339
Glasses were rinsed and five small measures of whisky were poured out.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 340
This new influence enlivened the conversation.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 341
unit 342
unit 343
His great idea, you know, was the union of the Latin and Greek Churches.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 347
“I think you’re wrong there.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 349
And Pius IX.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 351
Mr Cunningham continued.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 353
“Yes,” said Mr Cunningham.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 354
“He wrote Latin poetry.” “Is that so?” said Mr Fogarty.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 356
“The old system was the best: plain honest education.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 357
None of your modern trumpery....” “Quite right,” said Mr Power.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 358
“No superfluities,” said Mr Fogarty.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 359
He enunciated the word and then drank gravely.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 361
“Yes,” said Mr Cunningham.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 362
He also drank from his glass.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 364
Mr Kernan seemed to be troubled in mind.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 366
“Tell me, Martin,” he said.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 368
Mr Cunningham said: “O, of course, there were some bad lots....
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 369
But the astonishing thing is this.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 371
Now isn’t that an astonishing thing?” “That is,” said Mr Kernan.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 373
“O, I know about the infallibility of the Pope.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 375
He took up the bottle and helped the others to a little more.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 377
The others accepted under protest.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 378
unit 379
“What’s that you were saying, Tom?” asked Mr M’Coy.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 381
Mr Cunningham held up two thick fingers.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 383
The whole conclave except these two was unanimous.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 384
No!
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 385
They wouldn’t have it!” “Ha!” said Mr M’Coy.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 392
“_Credo!_” said Mr Cunningham.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 393
“That showed the faith he had.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 395
“The German cardinal wouldn’t submit.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 401
“I often told you that?” Mrs Kernan nodded.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 402
“It was at the unveiling of Sir John Gray’s statue.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 405
It was as much as to say: _I have you properly taped, my lad_.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 407
There was a pause again.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 410
Mrs Kernan thought it would be wiser to conceal her satisfaction.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 413
I’ll just tell him my little tale of woe.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 414
I’m not such a bad fellow——” Mr Cunningham intervened promptly.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 416
Mr Power said nothing.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 417
He felt completely out-generalled.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 418
But a pleased expression flickered across his face.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 420
“Must I have a candle?” “O yes,” said Mr Cunningham.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 421
unit 422
I’ll do the job right enough.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 423
unit 424
But ... no candles!
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 426
“Listen to that!” said his wife.
0 Translations, 0 Upvotes, Last Activity None
unit 428
“I bar the magic-lantern business.” Everyone laughed heartily.
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unit 429
“There’s a nice Catholic for you!” said his wife.
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unit 430
“No candles!” repeated Mr Kernan obdurately.
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unit 432
The gentlemen were all well dressed and orderly.
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unit 436
In one of the benches near the pulpit sat Mr Cunningham and Mr Kernan.
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unit 439
As these had not been well received he had desisted.
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unit 445
unit 449
Mr Kernan followed the general example.
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unit 452
After an interval, he uncovered his face and rose.
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unit 453
The congregation rose also and settled again on its benches.
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unit 461
It was a text for business men and professional men.
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unit 466
Jesus Christ was not a hard taskmaster.
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unit 469
But one thing only, he said, he would ask of his hearers.
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unit 470
And that was: to be straight and manly with God.
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unit 473
I find this wrong and this wrong.
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unit 474
But, with God’s grace, I will rectify this and this.
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unit 475
I will set right my accounts.”
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GRACE.

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 his 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 into
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, she 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 thing.”

“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 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 it 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 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 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.”