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Authors: Josephine Hart
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mentioned … oh, I don’t remember how,” he smiles again, “but I managed to bring in Brother Gogarty’s first in mathematics: not normally our forte. He didn’t like that.” And the bishop relished the memory of his small triumph and continued, “Well that started Brother Enda! The Pearse quotations tumbled from his lips: ‘ “An heroic tale is more essentially a factor in education than a proposition from Euclid!” Tell that to Brother Gogarty, Bishop.’ ‘But sure you see him all the time Brother Enda, you tell him.’ ‘I will,’ he said, ‘and I’ll remind him of Pearse on the subject of Lady Aberdeen’s mathematical abilities.’ Do you know that quote, Thomas?”
“Alas no.”
“‘It is further known,’ wrote Pearse, and I like this one myself, ‘that a pound a week is sufficient to sustain a Dublin family in honest hunger—at least very rich men tell us so, and very rich men know all about everything, from art galleries to the domestic economy of the tenement room. I would ask those who know that a man can live and thrive, can house, feed, clothe and educate a large family on a pound a week to try the experiment themselves. Let them show how the thing is done … they will drink their black tea with gusto and masticate their dry bread scientifically (Lady Aberdeen will tell them the proper number of bites per slice); they will write books on “How to be Happy though Hungry;” when their children call out for more food they will smile.’ Brilliant, that bit of satire by Pearse. He’s a hero, no doubt about it. But to Brother Enda he’s more than that. It seemed essential to remind the good Brother of the sin of idolatry but nothing stopped him. Said he wasn’t worthy to kiss Pearse’s feet. I assured him no one was going to ask him to go that far. Is this boring you Thomas?”
“No. Not at all, Bishop. Does he teach any history other than Irish history?”
“Oh indeed. The Reformation—not a period to be celebrated in a Catholic country.”
“No doubt he has his own version.”
“Ah we must not mock Brother Enda.” And the bishop smiles that sly smile again. “He tells the boys English lust destroyed the Catholic faith in England.”
“Lust is not a specifically British characteristic.”
“Oh I agree Thomas, but English lust! It is Brother Enda’s opinion that you’d not find an Irishman destroying the Catholic faith for a woman.”
“Is it not true, Bishop, that the greatest woman in Ireland is Cathleen Ní Houlihan? Does she not become young and beautiful when she has lured the young groom away to fight for her—for Ireland—in Mr. Yeats’s play?”
“Ah, wouldn’t you charm the birds Thomas! We appreciate it when a newcomer—because you’re no longer a stranger here, you’ve moved up in the pantheon—pronounces our most beloved names correctly. I’ll give you another: Roisín Dubh—dark Irish rose—how about that for the name of a country?”
“Enchanting.”
“The poet, seventeenth century I believe, was originally talking about his love—I suppose we stole his pet name for her and gave it to Ireland. Isn’t it a lovely thing to name your country after a woman? We gave her all those women’s names so that when we sang our rebel songs, even at a time when we sang them in Gaelic, the English wouldn’t know what we were singing about. We know what love is. It’s deep and enduring and requires sacrifice. It’s not lust, which is just a surrender to our baser nature. That’s one of my most popular sermons. I’m talking too much. Forgive me, I suppose I’m talking the encounter out of me in order to understand it better … Shall we start?”
After a short, not wholly companionable, silence we commence our game. His defeat is swift.
“No! How did you do that? You win again! I sometimes feel I come here for the good of my soul. Yes, ritual humiliation is good for the soul. It teaches one humility, which I must then teach others.”
“A
“Alas no.”
“‘It is further known,’ wrote Pearse, and I like this one myself, ‘that a pound a week is sufficient to sustain a Dublin family in honest hunger—at least very rich men tell us so, and very rich men know all about everything, from art galleries to the domestic economy of the tenement room. I would ask those who know that a man can live and thrive, can house, feed, clothe and educate a large family on a pound a week to try the experiment themselves. Let them show how the thing is done … they will drink their black tea with gusto and masticate their dry bread scientifically (Lady Aberdeen will tell them the proper number of bites per slice); they will write books on “How to be Happy though Hungry;” when their children call out for more food they will smile.’ Brilliant, that bit of satire by Pearse. He’s a hero, no doubt about it. But to Brother Enda he’s more than that. It seemed essential to remind the good Brother of the sin of idolatry but nothing stopped him. Said he wasn’t worthy to kiss Pearse’s feet. I assured him no one was going to ask him to go that far. Is this boring you Thomas?”
“No. Not at all, Bishop. Does he teach any history other than Irish history?”
“Oh indeed. The Reformation—not a period to be celebrated in a Catholic country.”
“No doubt he has his own version.”
“Ah we must not mock Brother Enda.” And the bishop smiles that sly smile again. “He tells the boys English lust destroyed the Catholic faith in England.”
“Lust is not a specifically British characteristic.”
“Oh I agree Thomas, but English lust! It is Brother Enda’s opinion that you’d not find an Irishman destroying the Catholic faith for a woman.”
“Is it not true, Bishop, that the greatest woman in Ireland is Cathleen Ní Houlihan? Does she not become young and beautiful when she has lured the young groom away to fight for her—for Ireland—in Mr. Yeats’s play?”
“Ah, wouldn’t you charm the birds Thomas! We appreciate it when a newcomer—because you’re no longer a stranger here, you’ve moved up in the pantheon—pronounces our most beloved names correctly. I’ll give you another: Roisín Dubh—dark Irish rose—how about that for the name of a country?”
“Enchanting.”
“The poet, seventeenth century I believe, was originally talking about his love—I suppose we stole his pet name for her and gave it to Ireland. Isn’t it a lovely thing to name your country after a woman? We gave her all those women’s names so that when we sang our rebel songs, even at a time when we sang them in Gaelic, the English wouldn’t know what we were singing about. We know what love is. It’s deep and enduring and requires sacrifice. It’s not lust, which is just a surrender to our baser nature. That’s one of my most popular sermons. I’m talking too much. Forgive me, I suppose I’m talking the encounter out of me in order to understand it better … Shall we start?”
After a short, not wholly companionable, silence we commence our game. His defeat is swift.
“No! How did you do that? You win again! I sometimes feel I come here for the good of my soul. Yes, ritual humiliation is good for the soul. It teaches one humility, which I must then teach others.”
“A
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