“Catholic farmers who can barely feed their children are forced to pay forProtestantclergymen!” Mr. Conley exclaimed. Clashes between tithe agents and Catholics had taken hundreds of lives.
“Please do not take my brother for a revolutionary,” Miss Conley interjected quietly. “My family holds with the Great Emancipator, O’Connell: we do not believe inviolentprotest.”
“No matter how much we are provoked,” Mr. Conley muttered.
Joseph gathered that Mr. Conley’s father had sent his youngest son to America for much the same reason the Church had sent Bishop England here: they had both been agitating their countrymen with their pens. What an Irishman called justice, the British Crown called treason.
Joseph’s mother had tried to disappear before their guests ever arrived, but his father had refused to allow it. The Conleys were very patient as they waited for translations. They even wanted to learn a few signs. Mr. Conley was genuinely interested in the legal barriers faced by the deaf in France and in America. The youngIrishman had found work as a copyist for a lawyer on Broad Street, and someday he hoped to practice law himself.
“I’d heard that the deaf could communicate with their hands,” Mr. Conley observed over dessert. “But it isn’t just your hands—you use your entire countenance!”
“We do,” Joseph’s father smiled.
“A year ago in Paris, I attended a banquet for the deaf,” Joseph added, signing as he spoke. “There were speeches without speech. Some of the men even recited poetry.” He waited for the Conleys’ gasps of astonishment. “Poetry composed in sign doesn’t rhyme, of course—it finds its rhythm in the shapes of the signs themselves: how they reflect one another and grow out of one another. It’s quite beautiful.”
Miss Conley ventured: “Do you remember any of the poems, Father?”
“Not well enough to do them justice. I’m sorry.”
“Have you composed any poems in sign yourself?”
Joseph chuckled. “I’m afraid not. Homilies are difficult enough.”
“The one you gave yesterday was excellent.”
“I am relieved to hear it.”
“I think the best parts of Joseph’s Mass were his chants,” Hélène declared. “Your voice is truly divine, brother. Which is why youmustsing for our guests!”
“What, now?”
“Dinner is finished—why not?” His sister stood, kissed their mother’s forehead, and said only in sign: ‘I apologize, Mama.’
‘It’s all right, sweetheart,’ she answered. ‘I’ll see if David and Sophie have finishedtheirdinner.’
Hélène flew to the piano. “I finally received the sheet music I’ve been waiting for, a ballad everybody else already has! It’s supposed to be a man singing, so it doesn’t sound right whenIdo it.”
Joseph frowned at the sheet music. “This looks like a love ballad.”
“Itis.” Hélène was already teasing the tune from the keys. “It’s about a man who renounces his love, so it’s perfect for you.”
“Whom have I renounced?”
“Everybody! Must I really explain celibacy to a Priest? Nowsing!”
Joseph sighed and capitulated:
“I’d offer thee this hand of mine,
If I could love thee less;
But hearts as warm and pure as thine,
Should never know distress.
My fortune is too hard for thee,
’Twould chill thy dearest joy:
