The Hard Life Read Online Free

didn’t put the idea out of my head. Asked me to promise. I promised, of course. But I’ll find Corkey on my own and we’ll make a damn fine day of it, believe you me. Had I no respect for my family, ah? What family?
    –No Jesuit likes being mistaken for a Barnum, I pointed out.
    Rather bitterly he said: You’ll hear more about this.
    I felt sure I would.

5
    I T had become evident to me that one of the brother’s schemes was in operation, for a considerable stream of letters addressed to him began to arrive at the house, and he had become more secretive than ever. I refused to give him the satisfaction of asking him what he had been up to. I will tell all about that later but just now I wish to give an account of the sort of evening we had in our kitchen, not once but very many times, and the type of talk that went on. As usual, the subject under discussion was never named.
    The brother and myself were at the table, struggling through that wretched homework, cursing Wordsworth and Euclid and Christian Doctrine and all similar scourges of youth. Mr Collopy was slumped in his cane armchair, the steel-rimmed glasses far down his nose. In an easy chair opposite was Father Kurt Fahrt who was a very tall man, thin, ascetic, grey-haired, blue about the jaws with a neck so slender that there would be room, so to speak, for two of them inside his priestly collar. On the edge of the range, handy to the reach of those philosophers, was a glass. On the floor beside Mr Collopy’s chair was what was known as ‘the crock’. It was in fact a squat earthenware container, having an ear on each side, in which the Kilbeggan Distillery marketed its wares. The Irish words for whiskey— UisgeBeatha —were burnt into its face. This vessel was, of course, opaque and therefore mysterious; one could not tell how empty or full it was, nor how much Mr Collopy had been drinking. The door of Mrs Crotty’s bedroom was, as usual, very slightly ajar.
    –What the devil ails you, Father, Mr Collopy asked almost irritably.
    –Oh it’s nothing much, Collopy, Father Fahrt said.
    –But heavens above, this scrabbling and scratching—
    –Forgive me. I have a touch of psoriasis about the back and chest.
    –The sore what?
    –Psoriasis. A little skin ailment.
    –Lord save us, I thought you said you had sore eyes. Is there any question of scabs or that class of thing?
    –Oh not at all. I am taking treatment. An ointment containing stuff known as chrysarobin.
    –Well, this sore-whatever-it-is causes itching?
    Father Fahrt laughed softly.
    –Sometimes it feels more like etching, he smiled.
    –The man for that is sulphur. Sulphur is one of the great sovereign remedies of the world. Bedamn but a friend of mine uses a lot of sulphur even in his garden.
    Here Father Fahrt unconsciously scratched himself.
    –Let us forget about such trivial things, he said, and thank God it is not something serious. So you’re getting worked up again about your plan?
    –It’s a shame, Father, Mr Collopy said warmly. It’s a bloody shame and that’s what it is.
    –Well, Collopy, what are we for in this world? We are here to suffer. We must sanctify ourselves. That’s what suffering is for.
    –Do you know, Father, Mr Collopy said testily, I am getting a bit sick in my intesteens at all this talk of yours about suffering. You seem to be very fond of suffering when other people do it. What would you do if you had the same situation in your own house?
    –In my own house I would do what my Superior instructs me to do. My Order is really an army. We are under orders.
    –Give me your glass, Your Holiness.
    –Not much now, Collopy.
    There was a small silence here that seemed portentous, though I did not raise my head to look.
    –Father, said Mr Collopy at last, you would go off your bloody head if you had the same situation in your own house. You would make a show of yourself. You would tell Father Superior to go to hell, lep out the front door and bugger off down