Raphael was holding was like the skeleton of a bird. She looked at Paschal and tried to say something. But she hadn’t the strength and just fell back onto the pillow. Her groans were
pitiful. In the end she just gave up and turned her face away. Paschal was not an overly sentimental man and had seen many harrowing things in his day, but on the way home that evening Raphael
could see that he was upset. And when he turned to him and wiped a tear from his eye, saying, ‘Sometimes this world – it’s a sad old place, Raphael – do you know
that?’, Raphael understood.
The Eucharistic Congress
1932
It was like the city had risen up out of the sea. As far as the eye could see – banners that would dazzle your eyes with their fluttering colours. Everywhere you looked
– a flag. The Papal Keys in yellow and white flying in the breeze. ‘Get your Congress badges here! Get your Congress badges here!’ the old women shouted. It was like the country
was about to burst with pride. Out of all the Catholic nations of Europe, Ireland had been chosen to host this, the thirty-first International Eucharistic Congress, when once again the Church of
Rome had chosen to summon the Catholic nations together to celebrate and proclaim their faith to the world.
Already, houses that hadn’t seen paint for over twenty years were every bit as bright-looking as Duffy’s circus. No matter where you went, the smell of flowers followed you. And
children. Little girls in flowing lace veils, little boys with starched white shirts and red ties. Hands joined, heads lowered, rosaries laced through fingers. Raphael overhead one woman say,
‘They’re walking saints’, and it was true. Nearly every child in Ireland was expected to turn up. The colonnade which had been erected in the Phoenix Park would take the sight
from your eyes.
But there was just so much to be done, and so little time to do it! Where would all the faithful stay? Would there be enough accommodation in the city for them all? Upwards of a million people
were going to attend for heaven’s sake!
The people of Ireland knew that the good Lord would not let them down however, and that all would be well in the end, as indeed it was, and more, a triumph perhaps, with thousands sleeping in
the open air, or in their cars along the quays, those who were fortunate enough to have cars, as out in the bay the lights of the pilgrim ships twinkled and powerful searchlights beamed their
sacred messages across the night sky through massive lettered screens: Laudamus! Glorificamus! Adoramus!
For Raphael and Paschal, the highpoint was the Children’s Mass, for in those eager eyes, so innocent and unblemished, they saw their whole lives reflected back at them. And as they sang
‘Jesus Thou Art Coming’ with one voice, there were many present who wept openly and saw no shame at all in doing so.
As Raphael did not when, on the final day, after the consecration at the High Mass, Count John McCormack, the world famous tenor, stood up and, as the host was elevated, began to sing, in a
voice that no angel could ever hope to emulate, Cesar Franck’s ‘Panis Angelicus’.
Raphael neither knew nor cared about the moistening of his eyes, for already his mind had been taken away by the sound of a military command which snapped out as the troops on the altar steps
whipped out their swords to present arms, followed almost immediately by the tinkle of the fifteen-hundred year-old bell of St Patrick, now sounding once again throughout the land, as the multitude
there gathered in the Phoenix Park, with a mesmeric hush, fell devoutly to its knees.
When, that night, exhausted, his eyelids at last closed over and he saw them again with their holy rosaries and white shirts and red ties, Raphael knew that he had indeed made the right decision
in coming to St Patrick’s so that he might serve them, and what he wanted to do more than anything else in the world was to put his arms around them,
pitiful. In the end she just gave up and turned her face away. Paschal was not an overly sentimental man and had seen many harrowing things in his day, but on the way home that evening Raphael
could see that he was upset. And when he turned to him and wiped a tear from his eye, saying, ‘Sometimes this world – it’s a sad old place, Raphael – do you know
that?’, Raphael understood.
The Eucharistic Congress
1932
It was like the city had risen up out of the sea. As far as the eye could see – banners that would dazzle your eyes with their fluttering colours. Everywhere you looked
– a flag. The Papal Keys in yellow and white flying in the breeze. ‘Get your Congress badges here! Get your Congress badges here!’ the old women shouted. It was like the country
was about to burst with pride. Out of all the Catholic nations of Europe, Ireland had been chosen to host this, the thirty-first International Eucharistic Congress, when once again the Church of
Rome had chosen to summon the Catholic nations together to celebrate and proclaim their faith to the world.
Already, houses that hadn’t seen paint for over twenty years were every bit as bright-looking as Duffy’s circus. No matter where you went, the smell of flowers followed you. And
children. Little girls in flowing lace veils, little boys with starched white shirts and red ties. Hands joined, heads lowered, rosaries laced through fingers. Raphael overhead one woman say,
‘They’re walking saints’, and it was true. Nearly every child in Ireland was expected to turn up. The colonnade which had been erected in the Phoenix Park would take the sight
from your eyes.
But there was just so much to be done, and so little time to do it! Where would all the faithful stay? Would there be enough accommodation in the city for them all? Upwards of a million people
were going to attend for heaven’s sake!
The people of Ireland knew that the good Lord would not let them down however, and that all would be well in the end, as indeed it was, and more, a triumph perhaps, with thousands sleeping in
the open air, or in their cars along the quays, those who were fortunate enough to have cars, as out in the bay the lights of the pilgrim ships twinkled and powerful searchlights beamed their
sacred messages across the night sky through massive lettered screens: Laudamus! Glorificamus! Adoramus!
For Raphael and Paschal, the highpoint was the Children’s Mass, for in those eager eyes, so innocent and unblemished, they saw their whole lives reflected back at them. And as they sang
‘Jesus Thou Art Coming’ with one voice, there were many present who wept openly and saw no shame at all in doing so.
As Raphael did not when, on the final day, after the consecration at the High Mass, Count John McCormack, the world famous tenor, stood up and, as the host was elevated, began to sing, in a
voice that no angel could ever hope to emulate, Cesar Franck’s ‘Panis Angelicus’.
Raphael neither knew nor cared about the moistening of his eyes, for already his mind had been taken away by the sound of a military command which snapped out as the troops on the altar steps
whipped out their swords to present arms, followed almost immediately by the tinkle of the fifteen-hundred year-old bell of St Patrick, now sounding once again throughout the land, as the multitude
there gathered in the Phoenix Park, with a mesmeric hush, fell devoutly to its knees.
When, that night, exhausted, his eyelids at last closed over and he saw them again with their holy rosaries and white shirts and red ties, Raphael knew that he had indeed made the right decision
in coming to St Patrick’s so that he might serve them, and what he wanted to do more than anything else in the world was to put his arms around them,
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