"Yeah. I guess it had to be somebody's idea. Everything is kind of built on the idea of some unknown guy. You seen the figures in this week's Variety? Sex and violence, always the answer. But the guy that wrote the book was not like the guy I played in the movie. No, sir. The original Father Hopkins was a fag."

"A priest a fag?" the bartender said. "You don't say."

"There are priests fags," O'Donnell said. "Known several. Have it off with the altar boys. But in the movie he's normal. Has it off with a nun." He nodded gravely at Enderby and said: "You British?"

"Listen," Enderby said, "Gerard Manley Hopkins was not a homosexual. At least not consciously. Certainly not actively. Sublimation into the love of Christ perhaps. A theory, no more. A possibility. Of no religious or literary interest, of course. A love of male beauty. The Bugler's First Communion and The Loss of the Eurydice and Hairy Ploughman. Admiration for it. 'Every inch a tar, of the best we boast our sailors are.' 'Hard as hurdle arms, with a broth of goldish flue.' What's wrong with that, for Christ's sake?"

"Broth of goldfish my ass," O'Donnell said. "Has that guy from the front office come yet?" he asked the bartender.

"He'll come in here, Mr. O'Donnell. He'll know where you are. If I was you, sir, I'd make that one the last. Until after the show, that is."

"Show?" Enderby said. "Are you by any chance on the-" He consulted the tear-off from his pocket. "Live Lancing Show?"

"Hey, that's good. Sperr would like that. Not that it's live, old boy, old boy. Nothing's live, not any more." And then: "You British?"

"I've said already that I-"

"You a fag? Okay okay. That's not what I was going to ask. What I was going to ask was-What was I going to ask?" he asked the bartender.

"Search me, Mr. O'Donnell."

"I know. Something about a bugle boy. What was that about a bugugle boy?"

"The Bugler's First Communion?"

"That's it, I guess. Now this proves that he was a fag. You British? Yeah yeah, asked that already. That means you know the town of Oxford, where the college is, right? It was my father."

"What?"

"Got that balled up, I guess. Big army barracks there. Cow cow cow something."

"Cowley?"

"Right, you'd know that, being British. Another scatch on the-"

"Sorry, Mr. O'Donnell. You yourself give me strict instructions when you started."

"Okay okay, gotta be with old Can Dix. Sending a limousine."

"Who? What?"

"Sending a car around. This talk show."

"I," Enderby said, "am on the other one, the Spurling one. What," he said with apprehension, "are you going to tell them?"

"Listen, old boy old boy, not finished, had I, right? Right. It was my mother's father. British, with an Irish mother. Sent him off to be good Catholic. Right? One hell of a row, father was Protestant."

"Yes," Enderby said. " 'Born, he tells me, of Irish / Mother to an English sire (he / Shares their best gifts surely, fall how things will).' "

"Not finished, had I, right?"

"Sorry."

"No need to be sorry. Never regret anything, my what the hell do you call it slogan, right? Went over to Ireland with my mother's father's mother, he was my mother's father, you see that?"

"Right."

"Married Irish, the British all got smothered up. Well, that was his story."

"What was his story?"

"Had him down there in what do you call it presbyt presbyt, his red pants off of him and gave him, you know, the stick. Met him again in Dublin when he was some sort of professor, reminded him of it. Made him very sick. Very sick already."

"Oh God," Enderby said.

O now well work that sealing sacred ointment!

O for now charms, arms, what bans off bad

And locks love ever in a lad!

Let me though see no more of him, and not disappointment

Those sweet hopes quell whose least me quickenings lift…

"I can't believe it," Enderby said. "I won't." He had intimations of a renewal of quasi-lethal pains ready to shoot from chest to clavicle to arm. No, he wouldn't have it. He frightened the promise away with a quick draught of gin. "So," he said. "You're going to tell them all about it?"

"Not that," O'Donnell said. "Crack a few gags about nuns. I was with this dame in a taxi and she was a nun. She'd have nun of this and nun of that."

"What a filthy unspeakable world," Enderby said. "What defilement, what horror."

"You can say that again. Ah, Josh. It is Josh? Sure it's Josh. How are things, Josh? How's the kids and the missus? The old trouble-and-strife, our British friend here would say." His Cockney was tolerable. "A cap of Sara Lee and dahn wiv yer rahnd the ahzes."

"Getting married next month," this Josh said unrelatedly. He looked Armenian to Enderby, hairy and with an ovine profile.

"Is that right, is that really right, well I sure am happy for you, Josh. Our friend here," O'Donnell said, "has been talking about our movie, Kraut Soup." He stood up and appeared not merely sober but actually as though he had just downed a gill of vinegar. He was, after all, an actor. Could you then believe anything he said or did? But how did he know about the barracks at Cowley? "What defilement, what horror," he said, in exactly Enderby's accent and intonation.

"Is that right?" Josh said. "We'd best be on our way, Mr. O'Donnell. There may be a fight with the autograph hounds."

"Say that story isn't true," Enderby begged. "It can't be true."

"My granddaddy swore it was true. He always remembered the name. We had a Mrs. Hopkins who cleaned for us. He had nothing against priests, he said. He was a real believer all his life."

Though this child's drift / Seems by a divine doom channelled, nor do I cry / Disaster there…

"The car's waiting, Mr. O'Donnell."

"And he saw it wasn't real sexual excitement. Not like he'd seen in the barracks. It was all tied up with-Well, his hands were shaking with the joy of it, you know." Low-latched in leaf-light housel his too huge godhead. Too huge, my dear. "Come on, Josh, let's go. He was only a kid but he saw that." He nodded very soberly. "So I had to do the part, I guess." O'Donnell waved extravagantly to the bartender and Guccied out, shepherded by Josh. Enderby had another pink gin, feeling pretty numb. What did it matter, anyway? It was the poetry that counted. I am gall, I am heartburn, God's most deep decree / Bitter would have me taste. And no bloody wonder.

The ways leading to the television place on 46th Street were warming up nicely with the threat of violence. Violence in itself is not bad, ladies and gentlemen. In a poem you would be entitled to exploit the fortuitous connotations-violins, viols, violets. We need violence sometimes. I feel very violent now. Beware of barbarism-violence for its own sake. It was a little old theatre encrusted with high-voltage light bulbs. There was a crowd lining up outside, waiting to be the studio audience. They would see themselves waving to themselves tomorrow night, the past waving to the future. The young toughs in control wore uniform blazers, rutilant with a monogram SL, and they would not at first let him in by the stage door: you line up with the rest, buster. But then his British accent convinced them that he must be one of the performers. Then they let him in.