argued, fumbling away, a losing debater, “and your son . . . Anthony . . . he will understand the truth.”
“He'll understand by then what poverty does to people,” she told him, her face wan, this confrontation costing her, Darragh was happy to see, all the resources of her spirit. “I'll raise him to understand. You speak of the sin against the Holy Spirit. Poverty is the sin against the Holy Spirit. It debases people to a state where they have no virtues because they're at an animal level. If they're put there by capital, then capital goes to Mass and communion, and the poor go to hell.”
“How can you believe this and still be a good Catholic woman?” asked Darragh unwisely, letting his confusion turn him into automaton priest.
“I think I might believe it because I am a good Catholic woman. Have you read ‘Rerum Novarum,' His Holiness Pope Leo XIII? My father said it was the Church's answer to Karl Marx.”
Ah! thought Darragh. An Aunt Madge woman after all. She came from a political household.
“‘Rerum Novarum' never told you to put yourself in the power of men.”
She performed a particularly authoritative and ironic shake of the head. “I think . . . in telling you all this . . . I'm putting myself under the power of a man now.”
Darragh was intoxicated at once with horror and hope.
“But I'm a priest.”
“Like Christ,” she suggested, shocked with the energy of her own argument. “Christ was a man, too. That was the whole point.”
He could imagine her family more particularly now. Lang Labor voters, for sure. The mother a believer in earthly justice from the Prince of Peace instead of Lenin and Stalin. The father a book reader. Passing on the daily bread of such ideas as the one she'd uttered: poverty debases people to a state where they have no virtues, because they have no soul.
Darragh urged, “Tell me what I can do for you, Mrs. Heggarty. I can speak discreet words to people who could help you. Please, let me do that much. Our charity may be kinder than that of this visitor.”
She frowned. “You've got good intentions,” she told him. “I hope you don't get spoiled in some way.”
“How could I be spoiled?” he asked. “You're the one about to go into danger.”
“Well, it strikes me the Church isn't always kind to its angelic brethren.”
“Angelic brethren?”
“Yes. You're sort of unspoiled. You don't get cranky with me, you don't rouse. You don't get outraged at my cheek. You tolerate everything and offer answers. You haven't got any of the normal airs. Except . . . your answers. Really, they're the usual little answers. They're simple answers. They'd be all right if the world was run by fellows like you, but . . .”
He didn't like his less than influential nature and future announced to him like this. It made him vengeful for a moment. “You may take this man's help and it could avail you nothing—the Japanese might come . . .”
“And bayonet all fallen women, I suppose. Or worse. You're right. People like my son and me . . . we have to survive for the week. We have to have our dignity in the hour and the day.”
“Who talked to you about this ridiculous dignity business?” he asked, nearly enraged. “Is it one of the lines your ‘kind man' tries out on you?”
She waved her hand to dismiss this. “I have my own ideas,” she assured him.
“The idea of redemption as an economic matter—it's one dear to the Marxists. It's the only redemption they have.”
“Would redemption on this earth be such a terrible thing?”
Ross Trumble lived in the Crescent that wasn't a crescent. So did Mrs. Heggarty, as the parish records showed. Had they talked? Surely Ross Trumble wasn't the so-called kind man? For a moment, though, before he decided not to, it seemed nearly a reasonable thing to ask her did she know Mrs. Flood's lodger.
Instead he told her, “Until Hitler invaded Russia, the Communists wanted no part of your husband's war. They went on strike
“He'll understand by then what poverty does to people,” she told him, her face wan, this confrontation costing her, Darragh was happy to see, all the resources of her spirit. “I'll raise him to understand. You speak of the sin against the Holy Spirit. Poverty is the sin against the Holy Spirit. It debases people to a state where they have no virtues because they're at an animal level. If they're put there by capital, then capital goes to Mass and communion, and the poor go to hell.”
“How can you believe this and still be a good Catholic woman?” asked Darragh unwisely, letting his confusion turn him into automaton priest.
“I think I might believe it because I am a good Catholic woman. Have you read ‘Rerum Novarum,' His Holiness Pope Leo XIII? My father said it was the Church's answer to Karl Marx.”
Ah! thought Darragh. An Aunt Madge woman after all. She came from a political household.
“‘Rerum Novarum' never told you to put yourself in the power of men.”
She performed a particularly authoritative and ironic shake of the head. “I think . . . in telling you all this . . . I'm putting myself under the power of a man now.”
Darragh was intoxicated at once with horror and hope.
“But I'm a priest.”
“Like Christ,” she suggested, shocked with the energy of her own argument. “Christ was a man, too. That was the whole point.”
He could imagine her family more particularly now. Lang Labor voters, for sure. The mother a believer in earthly justice from the Prince of Peace instead of Lenin and Stalin. The father a book reader. Passing on the daily bread of such ideas as the one she'd uttered: poverty debases people to a state where they have no virtues, because they have no soul.
Darragh urged, “Tell me what I can do for you, Mrs. Heggarty. I can speak discreet words to people who could help you. Please, let me do that much. Our charity may be kinder than that of this visitor.”
She frowned. “You've got good intentions,” she told him. “I hope you don't get spoiled in some way.”
“How could I be spoiled?” he asked. “You're the one about to go into danger.”
“Well, it strikes me the Church isn't always kind to its angelic brethren.”
“Angelic brethren?”
“Yes. You're sort of unspoiled. You don't get cranky with me, you don't rouse. You don't get outraged at my cheek. You tolerate everything and offer answers. You haven't got any of the normal airs. Except . . . your answers. Really, they're the usual little answers. They're simple answers. They'd be all right if the world was run by fellows like you, but . . .”
He didn't like his less than influential nature and future announced to him like this. It made him vengeful for a moment. “You may take this man's help and it could avail you nothing—the Japanese might come . . .”
“And bayonet all fallen women, I suppose. Or worse. You're right. People like my son and me . . . we have to survive for the week. We have to have our dignity in the hour and the day.”
“Who talked to you about this ridiculous dignity business?” he asked, nearly enraged. “Is it one of the lines your ‘kind man' tries out on you?”
She waved her hand to dismiss this. “I have my own ideas,” she assured him.
“The idea of redemption as an economic matter—it's one dear to the Marxists. It's the only redemption they have.”
“Would redemption on this earth be such a terrible thing?”
Ross Trumble lived in the Crescent that wasn't a crescent. So did Mrs. Heggarty, as the parish records showed. Had they talked? Surely Ross Trumble wasn't the so-called kind man? For a moment, though, before he decided not to, it seemed nearly a reasonable thing to ask her did she know Mrs. Flood's lodger.
Instead he told her, “Until Hitler invaded Russia, the Communists wanted no part of your husband's war. They went on strike
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