Dubliners - James Joyce [65]
`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 a 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 forgot 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 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