The Hard Life

  Mr Collopy put down his glass and spoke somewhat sternly, wagging a finger.

  –Now look at here, Father Fahrt, he said, I’m going to say something I’ve said in other ways before. Bedamn but I don’t know that I can trust you men at all. Ye are for ever trimming and adjudicating yourselves to the new winds that do blow. In case of doubt, send for a Jesuit. For your one doubt he will give you twenty new ones and his talk is always full of ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’, rawmaish and pseudo-theology. The word I have heard used for that sort of thing is casuistry. Isn’t that right? Casuistry.

  –There is such a word but it’s not true in this case.

  –Oh now you can always trust a Jesuit to make mischief and complicate simple things.

  –That word Jesuit. Our founder Ignatius was a Spaniard and had a different name for the Order, but it was called Societas Jesu by command of the Holy Father Paul III. Originally the title Jesuit was one of hatred and contempt. What was intended as an insult we accepted as a compliment.

  –I suppose that’s what I mean—you are for ever double-thinking and double-talking. You slither everywhere like quicksilver. There’s no pinning a Jesuit down. Then we’re told it is a mendicant order. Sure there isn’t a better-got collection of men on the face of the earth, churches and palaces all over the world. I know a thing or two. I’ve read books. I’ll tell you something about 35 Lower Leeson Street, the poor cave you hid in yourself.

  –What?

  –The emaciated friars in that place have red wine with their dinners. That’s more than Saint Peter himself had. But Saint Peter got himself into a sort of a divarsion with a cock. The holy fathers below in Clongowes Wood know all about cocks, too. They have them roasted and they eat them at dinner. And they are great men for scoffing claret.

  –Such talk is most unworthy. We eat and drink according to our means. The suggestion that we are, well … sybarites and gluttons is nonsense. And offensive nonsense, Collopy. I do not like such talk.

  –Well, is that so? Mr Collopy said testily. Is criticizing the Jesuits a new sin? Would you give somebody five rosaries in the confessional for that? Faith then, if criticizing the Jesuits is a fall from grace, let us say a Hail Mary for the repose of the soul of Pope Paul IV, for he told Ignatius Loyola that there were a lot of things wrong with the Order that would have to be put right. Did you know that? And did Ignatius bend the knee in front of the Holy Father? Not on your life. Give me your damn glass.

  –Thanks. I do not say that Ignatius was without fault. Neither was Peter. But Ignatius was canonized in 1622 by Pope Gregory XV, only sixty-six years after his death. He is now in Paradise.

  –You know he died without the last rites?

  –I do. He was called suddenly. He was weak of body but his labours in this world were prodigious, and nobody can take from him credit for the great deed of founding the Order, which is now and ever has been the intellectual vanguard of the Catholic Church.

  –I wouldn’t say the story is quite so simple as that, Father Fahrt. By Dad, the same Order caused a lot of bad bloody ructions at one time.

  –The Fathers are all over the world, they speak and write in all languages, they have built a wonderful apparatus for the propagation of the faith.

  –Some people at one time thought they were trying to banjax and bewilder the One, Holy and Apostolic. Oh and there are good people who are alive today and think the Church had a very narrow escape from the boyos of yesteryear.

  –I know it is useless asking who those important people are.

  –In the days of my youth I met a Jesuit in Belfast and he said the Jesuits were the cause of the Franco-Prussian War and the Boer War, for ever meddling in politics, and keeping a sharp eye out for Number One—money.

  –Do you tell me so? A Jesuit?

  –Yes, a Jesuit. He was a married man, of course.

  –Some dreadful apostate, you mean?

  –He was a most religious man, and told me he hoped his daughter would become a nun.

  –You must have been talking to the ghost of Martin Luther.

  –I think the Jesuits are jealous of Luther. He also tried to destroy the Catholic Church. I often think he made a better attempt than you people did.

  –Dear me, Collopy, you are very irresponsible. If you talked like that among strangers, you would be in grave danger of giving scandal, of leading others on to sin. You should be more circumspect.

  –I am as fond of my altar and my home, Father Fahrt, as the next. But I revere truth. I love truth.

  –Well, that is good news.

  –I think you are fond of truth, too, provided it is the truth you like, the truth that suits your book.

  –Nonsense. Truth is truth.

  –There is a phrase in Irish—I’m sorry that through no fault of mine I am largely unacquainted with the old tongue. But the phrase says this: The truth does be bitter.’ I think you know how right that is.

  –Magna est Veritas et prevalebit.

  –You never said a truer word, Father.

  –Aren’t we the stupid and presumptuous pair to be talking in this loose way about the Order of men such as Ignatius and Francis Xavier?

  –Hold on a moment now.

  –Xavier was the evangelist of Japan. Jesuit evangelists preached the Gospel, often in face of persecution and martyrdom, to the Indians of North America, to the natives of the Philippines and the countries of South America, even to the English when the Catholic Church was proscribed there. They went everywhere. Nothing stopped them.

  –Hold on a moment now, Father. Whisht now for a minute and listen to me. It is true that the Jesuits were everywhere and had a finger in every pie. They were cute hawks. They were far too powerful, not only in the Church itself but in the world. They made all sorts of kings and queens and captains take to themselves a Jesuit chaplain. Can you imagine Parnell with a Jesuit chaplain?

  –Parnell was not a Catholic, and I don’t believe he was a real Irishman. It is an English name.

  –Those devout priests infested the courts of Europe and had the same courts in their pockets. They were sacerdotal politicians and that’s what they were. Those ignorant and drunken princes and emperors were no match for them. Sure they’d excommunicate you as soon as they’d look at you.

  –Nonsense. A priest has no power of excommunication.

  –Maybe so. But hadn’t they the bishop in their pockets as well. The bishop had to do as they ordered him.

  –You’re annoying me, Collopy. Here, play with this glass.

  –Certaintly. But there were two very great men in France, Pascal and Voltaire. That pair had no time for the Jesuits at all, and neither had the Jansenist crowd. Am I right?

  –Yes, reasonably so.

  –The Jesuits had rows with the Sorbonne, with the Franciscans and the Dominicans on questions of doctrine. A lot of pious and intelligent men thought the Jesuits were heretics or schismatics. Faith now and there was no smoke without fire—hell-fire, maybe. Onwards from 1760 or so, they were given their marching orders in Portugal, France and parts of Italy itself. Messengers and runners and wren-boys were dispatched wholesale by several states in Europe to Rome to try to bully the Pope into suppressing the Order. And fair enough, they weren’t wasting their time. The Pope of that fine day was Clemens XIV. Lo and behold, in 1773 he issued a Bull suppressing the Order because it could no longer carry out the work for which it was founded.

  –Yes, Father Fahrt said, Dominus ac Redemptor Noster.

  –Excuse me, I said.

  It was brazenly cheeky on my part to try to emulate the brother as interlocutor. But my labours at school on Schuster’s Church History were not to be denied.

  –Yes? Mr Collopy said rather grumpily.

  –Dominus ac Redemptor Noster was not a Bull. It was a Brief. There is a difference.

  –The boy is perfectly right, Father Fahrt said.

  Mr Collopy did not like the pedantic intrusion.

  –Call the thing what you like, he said crankily
, the fact remains that the Holy Father suppressed the Society. That was a matter of faith and morals and in doing that the Pope was infallible.

  –Collopy, Father Fahrt said sharply, that merely proves again that you do not know what you are talking about. It was not till 1870, when Pius IX was pontiff, that the Vatican Council proclaimed the dogma of papal infallibility. You are almost one hundred years out. Furthermore, the suppression of a religious order has nothing to do with faith and morals in the universal church.

  –You are being technical as usual, Father, Mr Collopy said in a bantering tone. Hand over your glass like a good man.

  –Thanks. Not much now.

  –One of the bitterest objections to the machinations of the Jesuits was this. Some of the priests mixed up their missionary work with trading and money-making and speculation. A French Jesuit named Father La Valette was up to his ears in buying and selling. Mendicant order my foot.

  –These were isolated cases.

  –They were not. The Order was some class of an East India Company. It was heavenly imperialism but with plenty of money in the bank.

  –Well, well. Speaking for myself I have nothing at all in the bank but I have my tramfare in my pocket, thank God.

  –And where do you get that tobacco you are smoking?

  –From the Society’s vast plantations in Panama. Father Fahrt said heavily. That suppression was a very serious blow and was the result of secret scheming by our agnostic enemies. Our missions in India, China and throughout Latin America collapsed. It was a victory for the Jansenists. It was a very sad episode.

  –Fair enough, Mr Collopy replied, but th’oul Jesuits weren’t bet yet. Trust them! They soon started their counter-scheming. Oh trust Wily Willie, S.J.!

  –It was their duty before God to try to salvage the Order. In Belgium some ex-Jesuits formed a new society named the ‘Fathers of the Faith’. Catherine of Russia would not allow that Brief to take effect, and the Jesuits tried to carry on in that country. After a time the two communities merged. You can take it, Collopy, that my Order was on the way back from then.

  –By damn but you are not telling me anything I don’t know. Mr Collopy said warmly. You couldn’t keep that crowd down. Too cute.

  –Is that what you think? Very good. This is a fresh drink. I am going to drink to the health, spiritual and physical, of my Society.

  –I’ll drink with you, Mr Collopy said, but with mental reservations.

  They had the toast between them in a preoccupied way.

  –And let us devoutly remember, Father Fahrt said after a long pause, the great Bull Sollicitudo Omnium Ecclesiarum, promulgated on August the 7th, 1814, by Pope Pius VII after he returned from France. You know what that meant, Collopy?

  –Well, I suppose your crowd got your way as usual.

  –That Bull restored the Society throughout the whole world. And we were welcomed back in the countries which before had driven us out. Ah, the ways of the Almighty are surely a mystery.

  –So are the ways of the Jesuits, Mr Collopy said. Did any money change hands? Or was he one of the Popes who made a fortune selling scapulars and indulgences?

  –Collopy, I think I have misjudged you. You are not serious. You are merely trying to annoy me. You don’t believe in what you say at all. As they say in Ireland, you are only trying to grig me. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. At the back of it all, you are a pious God-fearing man, may the Lord be good to you.

  –I never make jokes about religious matters, Mr Collopy said solemnly. If you want to praise me or compliment me, just give a thought to the important work I have been devoting my life to. The work that will not stop until this old heart stops.

  –Well, what we have been discussing is a sort of a headline for you. Cherish in your heart a recollection of the tenacity of the Jesuit Fathers. If your aim is praise-worthy, you will achieve it by undeviating faith in it and by never ceasing to invoke the blessing of God on it. Don’t you agree?

  –What else have I been doing for years? By the jappers, it’s a slow achievement I’m making of it. The divil himself is in the hearts of that Corporation ownshucks.

  –They are just thoughtless, misguided.

  –They are just a gang of ignorant, pot-bellied, sacrilegious, money-scooping robbers, very likely runners from the bogs, hop-off-my-thumbs from God-forsaken places like Carlow or the County Leitrim. The sons of pig-dealers and tinkers. In heaven’s name what would people the like of that know about the duties of a city councillor? I wouldn’t say they had a boot on their foot till they were eighteen.

  –But shouldn’t their clerks advise them? Surely they’re Dublin men?

  –That gurriers wouldn’t think of advising a man to take off his clothes before he took a bath. Are you fooling me, Father?

  –Indeed and I’m not.

  Heavy steps were heard on the gravel outside and the handle of the door was turned.

  It was the brother. One glance was enough for me. His face was flushed and he lurched slightly. In his hand was a small cigar, a bit the worse for the heavy rain outside.

  –Good evening all, he said pleasantly enough. Good evening, Father Fahrt.

  He sat down in the centre and spread his wet legs towards the range.

  –I see we have got to cigars, Mr Collopy said.

  His mood was genial enough, thanks to the crock and his sword-play with Father Fahrt.

  –Yes, we have got to cigars, the brother replied jauntily, just as Father Fahrt has progressed to the pipe. Degeneracy is contagious.

  –And what important mission were we on tonight? Mr Collopy asked.

  –Well, since you ask me, it was important. Important for this house, and indeed this city, too. I have very bad news for you, Mr Collopy. For all, in fact. This day week––

  –What rodomondario is this you are giving us?

  –This day week, I am leaving you. I am going to London to make my fortune.

  –Well now! Is that a fact? Well the dear knows.

  –London, my lad? Father Fahrt said. Well, well. It’s a great place and there is opportunity there, but the English look for hard work. From the Irish, anyhow. I must give you a letter to some of our men over there. You have heard of Farm Street? But sometimes work is not so easy to get. You are not thinking of the coalmining, are you?

  Here the brother laughed, as if in genuine amusement.

  –No, Father, he said, unless you mean buying a mine and putting enormous royalties into the bank.

  –Well, what are you going to do? Mr Collopy asked sharply.

  –Well, what I’ve done so far is to take the lease of two rooms or offices in Tooley Street.

  –And in God’s name where is that?

  –It is fairly central and very near the Thames. And there are several railway stations within easy distance. I mean, suppose the police were after me?

  –The what? The police?

  Mr Collopy was not sure he had heard aright. The brother laughed again.

  –Yes, the police. They’d hardly think of watching all the stations. Even if they did, there is a very good chance that I could escape by water. After I get settled down, I will have my private barge moored in the river. They will never suspect a move like that. We important men must think of everything.

  –I think you are going off your head and it’s not the first time I thought that. What about money for your passage and your lodgings beyond? If you expect me—

  –Mr Collopy, you mustn’t embarrass me with such talk.

  –So far as I remember, Father Fahrt interposed, our people still run a shelter. Lay brothers are in charge and I believe the cost per night is next to nothing. I could give you a letter, of course.

  –Have you got money? Mr Collopy demanded.

  –I have, or I will have during the week.

  –Is it honest money? If there is any damned nonsense about swindling anybody or robbing shops or besting unfortunate simple people, I can tell you plump and plain that you will not have to go
as far as London to make contact with the police. I would not think twice of calling them in myself, for if there is one thing that is abominable it is dishonesty. It is one of the worst inventions of Satan. I don’t want any curse brought on this house. You have heard of Mayor Lynch of Galway? Mark that. Mark that well.

  –You are uncharitable, Collopy, Father Fahrt said. Why assume bad things? Why meet the devil halfway?

  –I live in this house, Mr Collopy said irritably, and I have experience.

  –For all we know, this enterprising young man may yet bring great honour to this house.

  –Yes indeed.

  Mr Collopy’s tone had taken on a bitter edge.

  –I myself may also bring great honour to this house by achieving the great aim of my life. Then they’ll put a plaque on the wall outside and you will have women from all over the world coming on pilgrimages to see my humble house. By that time, of course, I’ll be above in Deans’s Grange having a good rest for myself.

  The brother yawned artificially.

  –Gentlemen, he said, I’m tired and I want to get a night’s sleep. We can talk more about my plans tomorrow.

  He rose and stumbled out towards the stairs. We who remained looked at each other, mutely.

  11

  WHEN I got to bed later the brother was asleep, no doubt in the anaesthesia of whiskey. In the morning I asked him whether he was serious about the project in Tooley Street.

  –Course I’m serious, he answered.

  –And what are you going to do there?

  –I am going to open the London University Academy. I’ll teach everything by correspondence, solve all problems, answer all questions. I might start a magazine first, and then a newspaper, but first I’ll have to build up slowly. I’ll teach the British how to learn French or cure chilblains. I’ll be a limited company, of course. Already I have a solicitor working on the papers. My branch office will be the British Museum. If you like, I’ll give you a job later on.