Dubliners

“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.