Chapter 2

in which Father Smith joins the Bishop in welcoming French nuns, which had been expelled from their homeland, and introduces them to their new home, and then is knocked unconscious by a hateful opponent's stone.

The Bishop liked a sausage for his lunch, and maintained that nobody in the whole diocese could cook one as well as he himself did, not even the Jesuits, who had a lay brother who was a real dab at the job. Father Smith explained this tactfully to his landlady on the day that his lordship was due to lunch at the priest's lodgings, prior to accompanying him to the station to meet the Sacred Heart nuns who had been expelled from France. At first Mrs. Walsh said that she had never heard of such an idea, a holy bishop, who could consecrate and ordain, cooking his own sausage; but she gave in when the Bishop himself arrived in his worn old overcoat with the top button almost off and smiled at her out of his clear twinkling eyes so blue beneath his thatch of white hair. She said that, faith, if his lordship would allow her sew the button on his overcoat, she would allow his lordship to cook the sausage, only it wasn't to be just one sausage, but three at the very least, because an important man like a bishop needed to eat a lot and be strong so that he carry out his great and wonderful work. So they all went into the kitchen together, and Mrs. Walsh sat down and sewed the button tight on his lordship's overcoat and the Bishop stood over the frying pan and explained to them both that the reason most people didn't cook sausages properly was that they forgot to keep turning them round.

The Bishop and Father Smith did not talk much during lunch because the sausages were so good and because they had not much time if they were to be at the station in time to meet the French nuns when they arrived at two-fifteen. The Bishop was forty-seven years old and he had been a bishop for the past three years, because the Pope liked having young bishops in that part of Scotland, where the parishes were scattered and separated by sea, mountain, and loch. The Bishop liked Father Smith and Father Smith liked the Bishop, but they did not often meet, because his lordship was always travelling about in trains and boats, preaching and administering confirmation in distant valleys and dells.

They had decided to take a tram to the station because the diocesan funds wouldn't run to cabs both ways, and anyway, it was a different matter ordering cabs for holy nuns, but our Lord was fully justified in expecting hale and hearty priests to travel less luxuriously, if not to walk on their legs. As they waited by the lamp-post which said 'CARS STOP BY REQUEST' and 'FIRE PLUG 50 YDs.' and 'PLEASE DO NOT SPIT ON THE PAVEMENT,' the Bishop asked Father Smith if he had heard the rumour that King Edward VII had been to Lourdes and knelt during the procession of the Blessed Sacrament. Father Smith said that he had heard all sorts of rumours about King Edward VII, but never one quite like that, and the Bishop said that he knew what Father Smith meant, but they must both remember that kings and princes were exposed to much severer temptations than ordinary men and that it would be very wonderful indeed if Almighty God were to convert King Edward to the Catholic religion, because it would certainly do a lot of good.

When their tram came swaying along, the Bishop stepped by mistake on a metal plug which the driver had forgotten to remove when he changed ends at the terminus and there was a lovely inconsequent sound, just like the sacring bell at Mass and really quite appropriate, Father Smith said. They went inside because it wasn't worth while going up on top for so short a distance. Father Smith was pleased to find that it was James Scott who was the conductor and he introduced him to the Bishop, explaining all about the new baby and about how Mr. Scott went to the dépôt every morning very early so that he might sprinkle his tram from end to end with holy water before the day's work began. Mr. Scott blushed a little when Father Smith said this and Father Smith supposed that this must be because there were Protestants listening who wouldn't understand, and thought, what with human respect and one thing and another, how very much more merit a layman like James Scott must gain for leading a good life than himself and the Bishop.

But Mr. Scott couldn't stand talking for long, because he had to be handing out his white and blue and red tickets. As he moved away down the aisle, punching and ping-ing, the Bishop began to talk about liturgical and formal prayer. Father Smith sat with his hat on his knees, because he did not think it polite to sit in front of a bishop with his head covered, even in a tram car.

People were wrong to condemn liturgical and formal prayer, the Bishop said, because it was only courteous to God to think about what you were going to say to Him before you said it. Whereupon Father Smith said that he thought the critics of liturgical prayer condemned it, because repetition tended to make it meaningless, with the result that sinners could murmur Hail Marys with their lips while planning further misdemeanours in their minds.

'I wonder, though, if they are quite right,' the Bishop said out above the booming and the zooming of the tram. 'It seems to me that even the hardiest sinner cannot utter the sheer poetry of the Church's prayers without having his soul in some way ennobled by their lovely sound. Moreover, the Pater and the Ave are earth's sweetest greeting to heaven, and only a vain man would imagine that he could frame a more beautiful. And whenever I look out on the hideousness and harshness of our industrial cities, I thank Almighty God deep down in my heart for having given His Church so many exquisite rites and ceremonies. For it is not bread and circuses which the people require, but poetry and prayer.'

" 'Poetry is the phrase which the young man murmurs in his heart; all the rest is only literature." I remember reading that in a magazine once,' Father Smith said.

'That's true as far as it goes, but it does not go far enough,' the Bishop said. 'When young men murmur poetry in their hearts, they are looking for God even although they may not know it. It is poetry which is a reflection of religion, not religion of poetry.'

Father Smith could see that people were beginning to stare at the Bishop and himself, popping at them hard glittering hating eyes, like the soda-water bottle stoppers you pressed down with your thumb. He knew, however, that they were staring only because they were so accustomed to hearing people say things which didn't matter that they were shocked when they heard people say things which did. If the Bishop and himself had been talking about steel shares or the price of jute, nobody would have looked at them at all, but because they were talking about the things which alone gave meaning to life, their words aroused hatred, anger, and contempt. The priest thought sadly about all the talking that there was in the world each day - about the wind and the rain and golf and Aunt Maggie's new dress - and he thought, too, about all the important things that never seemed to get said.

'Probably your lordship is right,' he said, more loudly than was necessary, because he wasn't going to be shamed out of talking about the things of God just because a tram-load of worldlings was staring at him. 'After all, our Lord and the saints have hammered out and chastened the holy phrases, so perhaps there is a grace to be found even in their echo.'

The Right Reverend Monsignor Canon O'Duffy, administrator of the pro-Cathedral, was already on the platform when they arrived at the station. He had been invited to meet the French nuns too, but because he was making a bee line for the gentlemen's lavatory, the Bishop and Father Smith pretended not to see him, but stood and examined the literature exposed on the bookstall, which seemed to be very very worldly, although the Bishop was pleased to remark that there were cheap editions of books by Robert Hugh Benson. There was also a new novel out by a young man called Hugh Walpole, and while the Bishop and Father Smith were wondering who he could be, Monsignor O'Duffy came back from the gentlemen's lavatory and joined them. Monsignor O'Duffy was a great ape of a priest with coarse hair and a great hunk of face like a miner's, who poured his tea into his saucer to cool it and blew his nose on a red handkerchief at chapter meetings.

'Having a wee free read at the books, I see?' the monsignore greeted as he joined the Bishop and Father Smith. 'Afternoon, your lordship.'

'Father Smith and I have just been having a most interesting discussion on poetry,' the Bishop said.

'Poetry's all blether,' the monsignore said. 'A lot of non­sense about "love" and "dove" and I don't know all what and often it's downright sinful. Give me football for the lads any day of the week. And as for the lassies, they can sit by the fireside and do a bit sewing and be very much better for not bothering their heads about all yon highfalutin' rubbish.'

The Bishop and Father Smith saw that it was no use pressing the subject of poetry any further with Monsignor Canon O'Duffy, so Father Smith said that he wondered whether any of the nuns spoke English and hoped that they did, because his French was beginning to get rather rusty, which wasn't quite true because he rather prided himself on his French. Monsignor O'Duffy said right out that it was no use counting on him for any of the parlez-voo business, but the Bishop said that he had spoken quite a lot of French in his day, because he had been at Saint Sulpice before he had been at Valladolid and had had to read aloud in the refectory. Father Smith was rather disappointed to hear this, because he wouldn't have minded being the only one able to do the talking, but he mastered his dissatisfaction quickly, because he knew that it was unchristian.

Far away out along the bend of the railway line, at the junction of the golf course and Sir Dugald Ippecacuanha's estate, a puff of smoke appeared above the trees, and a miniature worm of train rolled tinily along the embankment. Father Smith had often seen the puff of smoke at the same time and in the same place, and each time that he saw it he sent a spiral of thanks up to God, for having ruled even the world with the rhythm of liturgy and, for keeping all the other safe old trees on earth still in their same safe places. 'J'ai, tu as, il a,' ¹⁵ Monsignor O'Duffy began to recite with heavy humour. 'Avez-vous vu la plume de ma tante,' but the Bishop interrupted him by reminding him that it was the first-class carriages which always stopped in front of the book­stall, and that they had better move further along the platform, because the good and holy French nuns would be sure to be travelling third.

The Bishop was right. The nuns were travelling third-class and at the very end of the train, next the guard's van. Monsignor O'Duffy, as he grunted along to meet them, said that he had noticed that nuns always travelled in the back of trains, and Father Smith said that that was perhaps because they were so mindful of our Lord's saying that the last in this world should be the first in the next. The nuns smiled when they saw the three priests and the three priests smiled back. The Bishop took off his hat and uttered the little speech which he had been rehearsing since Septuagesima: 'Bon jour, ma Révérende Mère. Je suis enchanté de faire votre connaissance. Permettez-moi de vous souhaiter, ainsi qu'à toute votre communauté, la bienvenue sur la terre d'Ecosse.' Father Smith said, 'Je suppose que vos bagages se trouveront dans le fourgon' and Monsignor O'Duffy said, 'Oo là, là, oui, oui,' at which the Reverend Mother laughed.

There were eight nuns in all and they stood with the wind blowing pretty pillows of pattern into their habits while Reverend Mother introduced herself and them. Father Smith didn't catch all the names, because they were French and Reverend Mother said them so quickly, and because he was too busy admiring the nuns' sweet happy holy faces to pay much attention. Two or three of the nuns were young, with such lovely rosy cheeks and strong white teeth and bright blue eyes that Father Smith wondered why on earth the French had wanted to get rid of them, because they must have looked so lovely walking along old cobbled streets.

The nuns apologized for having brought so much luggage with them, but they said that they couldn't have borne to have left all their beautiful candlesticks and vestments behind, especially the red chasuble that had once been worn by the Curé d'Ars. The Bishop said that he quite understood this and that they had done quite rightly because Almighty God would be more honoured by beautiful things being used in His service in Scotland than by having them left behind in France, only he didn't say it very quickly, because he hadn't had since Septuagesima Sunday to practise it over in French. A bevy of large-striped stockbrokers in blown-out plus fours with brassies and cleeks glared at the nuns as they passed, but Monsignor O'Duffy glared back even harder, and the stockbrokers moved on, staunch Protestants who were willing to do anything for their religion except go to church.

While Monsignor O'Duffy and Father Smith were seeing about the luggage, the Bishop explained to the nuns that they must expect to find their religion hated just as much in Scotland as in France. although less accurately. The reason for this, he said, was that the enemies of the Church in France had had the Gospel preached to them, but had rejected it, whereas in Scotland men scoffed and reviled through prejudice and ignorance. Reverend Mother said that she quite understood this and that she was sure that the other nuns understood it, too, and that they would all pray a lot for Scotland, that God might give it back the blessing of Faith.

The Bishop and Father Smith had ordered only two cabs for the nuns, because they hadn't known that there was going to, be so much luggage, but Monsignor O'Duffy managed to collar a third, because the driver was a member of the pro-Cathedral parish, although he hadn't made his Easter duties for the last five years, at least so the monsignore said. Reverend Mother and the Bishop and Monsignor O'Duffy all got into the first cab and four of the nuns into the second and only three into the last, because they had to take the box containing the red chasuble which had once been worn by the Curé d'Ars inside with them, as they couldn't very well trust it up front with the cabman on top, especially when he hadn't been to holy communion for so long. As the cabs moved off, a gang of hooligans who had been standing watching in front of a railway poster for Devon, Glorious Devon, started to jeer; but the Bishop told Reverend Mother that she mustn't worry about that sort of thing, as the oafs and loungers who were yelling didn't really hate the doctrines of the Church about our Lord and the Blessed Sacrament, but only the garbled distortions which ignorant men had represented to them.

As they rolled down through the town, the Bishop asked Reverend Mother if she had ever been to Rome and Reverend Mother said that she had, but that she hadn't been as impressed as she had imagined and that she was sorry to say that some of the princes and high prelates of the Church hadn't seemed to have very spiritual faces and had hurried through even the holy mysteries of the Mass in a distraught and irreverent manner. The Bishop said that that was perhaps because the Saxon mind could think of only one thing at once, whereas the Latin mind could think of several so that it was possible that an Italian cardinal's eyes and face might reflect the worldly thoughts of half his mind, whereas the other half was really and truly thinking about our Lord and all that He had done for us. He said that he had noticed the same thing about British and continental soldiers: British soldiers looked as though they meant their drill, whereas continental soldiers slopped about in a most unmilitary manner, so that there was, curiously enough, a psychological connection between two such entirely dissimilar ceremonies as a High Mass in Westminster Cathedral and a full-dress parade of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. Reverend Mother said that there was perhaps some­thing in what the Bishop said, but that his lordship must not forget that she herself was a Latin and no Saxon and that in spite of that fact she had been considerably shocked by the scurried ceremonial and the slothful thought of some of the higher clergy in Rome. Monsignor O'Duffy said, 'Oo là, là, oui, oui', and everybody laughed a lot, although deep down within themselves they were all quite pained that the higher clergy in Rome didn't look more spiritual.

There were eight nuns in all and they stood with the wind blowing pretty pillows of pattern into their habits while Reverend Mother introduced herself and them. Father Smith didn't catch all the names, because they were French and Reverend Mother said them so quickly, and because he was too busy admiring the nuns' sweet happy holy faces to pay much attention. Two or three of the nuns were young, with such lovely rosy cheeks and strong white teeth and bright blue eyes that Father Smith wondered why on earth the French had wanted to get rid of them, because they must have looked so lovely walking along old cobbled streets.

The nuns apologized for having brought so much luggage with them, but they said that they couldn't have borne to have left all their beautiful candlesticks and vestments behind, especially the red chasuble that had once been worn by the Curé d'Ars. The Bishop said that he quite understood this and that they had done quite rightly because Almighty God would be more honoured by beautiful things being used in His service in Scotland than by having them left behind in France, only he didn't say it very quickly, because he hadn't had since Septuagesima Sunday to practise it over in French. A bevy of large-striped stockbrokers in blown-out plus fours with brassies and cleeks glared at the nuns as they passed, but Monsignor O'Duffy glared back even harder, and the stockbrokers moved on, staunch Protestants who were willing to do anything for their religion except go to church.

While Monsignor O'Duffy and Father Smith were seeing about the luggage, the Bishop explained to the nuns that they must expect to find their religion hated just as much in Scotland as in France. although less accurately. The reason for this, he said, was that the enemies of the Church in France had had the Gospel preached to them, but had rejected it, whereas in Scotland men scoffed and reviled through prejudice and ignorance. Reverend Mother said that she quite understood this and that she was sure that the other nuns understood it, too, and that they would all pray a lot for Scotland, that God might give it back the blessing of Faith.

The Bishop and Father Smith had ordered only two cabs for the nuns, because they hadn't known that there was going to, be so much luggage, but Monsignor O'Duffy managed to collar a third, because the driver was a member of the pro-Cathedral parish, although he hadn't made his Easter duties for the last five years, at least so the monsignore said. Reverend Mother and the Bishop and Monsignor O'Duffy all got into the first cab and four of the nuns into the second and only three into the last, because they had to take the box containing the red chasuble which had once been worn by the Curé d'Ars inside with them, as they couldn't very well trust it up front with the cabman on top, especially when he hadn't been to holy communion for so long. As the cabs moved off, a gang of hooligans who had been standing watching in front of a railway poster for Devon, Glorious Devon, started to jeer; but the Bishop told Reverend Mother that she mustn't worry about that sort of thing, as the oafs and loungers who were yelling didn't really hate the doctrines of the Church about our Lord and the Blessed Sacrament, but only the garbled distortions which ignorant men had represented to them.

As they rolled down through the town, the Bishop asked Reverend Mother if she had ever been to Rome and Reverend Mother said that she had, but that she hadn't been as impressed as she had imagined and that she was sorry to say that some of the princes and high prelates of the Church hadn't seemed to have very spiritual faces and had hurried through even the holy mysteries of the Mass in a distraught and irreverent manner. The Bishop said that that was perhaps because the Saxon mind could think of only one thing at once, whereas the Latin mind could think of several so that it was possible that an Italian cardinal's eyes and face might reflect the worldly thoughts of half his mind, whereas the other half was really and truly thinking about our Lord and all that He had done for us. He said that he had noticed the same thing about British and continental soldiers: British soldiers looked as though they meant their drill, whereas continental soldiers slopped about in a most unmilitary manner, so that there was, curiously enough, a psychological connection between two such entirely dissimilar ceremonies as a High Mass in Westminster Cathedral and a full-dress parade of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. Reverend Mother said that there was perhaps some­thing in what the Bishop said, but that his lordship must not forget that she herself was a Latin and no Saxon and that in spite of that fact she had been considerably shocked by the scurried ceremonial and the slothful thought of some of the higher clergy in Rome. Monsignor O'Duffy said, 'Oo là, là, oui, oui', and everybody laughed a lot, although deep down within themselves they were all quite pained that the higher clergy in Rome didn't look more spiritual.

Father Smith said that what they had just been talking about reminded him of a story about a Frenchman who had gone to confession and accused himself of not having been impressed by what he had seen in the holy city. 'Ah, mon enfant, his confessor had said, 'il vaut toujours mieux ne pas visiter la cuisine du Bon Dieu. The Bishop laughed so much at this story that Monsignor O'Duffy wondered if he was ever going to stop, and was rather irritated when his lordship went on for so long because he himself hadn't understood a word, although he had said, 'Oo là, là, oui, oui'.

But if Monsignor O'Duffy didn't know French, he knew Italian which he had learnt at the Scots College in Rome. For although he had an Irish name, the monsignore had been born at Tobermory. There was once, he said, when the Bishop had finished laughing, an Italian priest who had to preach a sermon on the feast of the patron saint of his native town, San Pietro di Buonarotti. 'San Pietro Damiano fu un buon' santo, he began, 'San Pietro di Roma fu un excellentissimo santo, ma San Pietro di Buonarotti, phew, che santo, amici miei!'

They were all still laughing at Monsignor O'Duffy's story when the cab drew up in front of the house which the nuns had had bought for them while they were still in France and which they were later going to convert into a school. Father Bonnyboat, of the Church of Our Lady, Mirror of Justice, Gormnevis, who had been entrusted by the Bishop with the purchase of the new convent, was on the doorstep to greet them. He held in his hand a parrot in a cage, which he presented to Reverend Mother with a stiff little bow, saying 'oiseau, oiseau,' and explaining that he had had the bird for five years and that it could say both 'Dominus vobiscum' and 'per omnia saecula saeculorum,' but that it was with the greatest pleasure in the world that he presented it to Reverend Mother. Reverend Mother seemed rather embarrassed by the gift, and for a moment or two Father Smith was afraid that she was going to say that the rule of her order forbade herself or her nuns to keep parrots however holy their cluckings, but in the end she thanked Father Bonnyboat prettily enough, and then they all went in to tea.

The nuns sat at a long table in the bare room which Father Bonnyboat had had prepared as a refectory. Reverend Mother did the pouring-out and the Bishop insisted on handing round the scones, even to the priests, because he knew that the highest title of the highest of bishops was Servus Servorum Dei, the Servant of the Servants of God. Father Bonnyboat had wanted to provide a little holy reading aloud during the meal, but the only French books he had been able to lay hands on were by Anatole France and Emile Zola. The Bishop had said that they weren't quite suitable and that Father Bonnyboat could make up for his lack of edification in his sermon in the chapel afterwards.'

'Aimez-vous les scones écossais?' Father Bonnyboat asked a young nun.

'Oui, ils sont délicieux, mais je crois qu'à l'avenir il va falloir nous contenter d'une alimentation plus austère.'

'Quelquefois en Ecosse on a des kippers à son thé,' Father Bonnyboat said.

'Oo là, là, oui, oui,' Monsignor O'Duffy said with his mouth full.

As soon as tea was over, they all went into the chapel, which Father Bonnyboat had installed in the old billiard room. A small wooden altar had been erected and the Blessed Sacrament was reserved, with a red lamp burning in front. The Bishop had previously blessed the billiard room quite thoroughly, saying that he thought this specially necessary, because the house had previously belonged to a chartered accountant. When they had all prayed a little, Monsignor O'Duffy sat down at the harmonium and wheezed out 'Je suis Chrétien,' which the nuns all sang with low clear voices and the priests didn't sing at all because the nuns sang so beautifully.

When Father Bonnyboat stood up to preach, the Bishop was afraid that the priest was going to yell out the customary rant which he kept for big occasions, 'My dear brethren in Jesus Christ, none of you will ever wake up in heaven wondering how on earth you've got there,' because such a sermon would not have been kind to nuns, who had every reason to hope for salvation. Instead, the priest preached a sensible little sermon on sanctity, and in English too, because he couldn't get his subjunctives right in French, so he said. The world was wrong to laugh at saints, Father Bonnyboat said, because the production of a saint was God's highest handiwork. To be a saint didn't mean being a weak namby-pamby creature who couldn't say boo to a goose; to be a saint meant loving God with one's whole heart and one's whole mind and doing, thinking, and saying all things to His greater glory. That was the only philosophy which could save the world, but it would never save the world because God Himself had said that His Kingdom was not of this world, but that did not mean that monks and nuns and priests were wrong in trying to be saints themselves and in encouraging others to try to be saints too. Our Lord Himself had said that many were called but that few were chosen, and that the vast supernatural machinery of the Church would have been worth while if in all time and space it had succeeded in producing only one saint. In the eyes of God it was the invisible victories in the human soul which mattered and not the great splashing news in the papers about politics and Sir Thomas Lipton's yachts. When Father Bonnyboat had finished, Monsignor O'Duffy began to play the organ again and the Bishop, Father Smith, and Father Bonnyboat went out to vest for Solemn Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament.

Father Smith always loved the service of Benediction, be­cause it was so beautiful with our Lord there all white in the centre of the monstrance, and he sometimes wondered why lay-people wanted to go to concerts and theatres at all, when they could have so much more pleasure praising and adoring God this way. It was beginning to get dark when, as deacon, he took the Host out of the tabernacle, and the only lights in the chapel were the candles on the altar which glowed like stars. In the tender smudge of darkness the nuns knelt and sang lovely words so that even Monsignor O'Duffy's chunk of face looked holy as it hung like a raw red moon above the keys of the harmonium. The nuns sang the O Salutaris and the Litany of Our Lady and Father Smith thought that he had never heard any sound more exquisite than the syllables of 'speculum justitiae' as they came clear and sweet from those invisible French lips. Then the nuns sang Salve Regina and the Tantum Ergo, and the Bishop raised the Blessed Sacrament in the monstrance and made the sign of the cross high up over the kneeling nuns, stretching his arms away out, as though he were trying to bless all the sinners that there were in the world as well. The nuns sang the Laudate Dominum at a pious little gallop while Father Smith put the Blessed Sacrament back in the tabernacle. Then they all sang over again, 'Adoremus in aeternum Sanctissimum Sacramentum' among the wreaths of incense, and the Bishop and Father Smith and Father Bonnyboat left the chapel in their rich white vestments.

Reverend Mother and the nuns all wanted to come to the door with the Bishop and the priests to see them off and to thank them for their kindness, but the Bishop pointed out that the climate of Scotland was much more rigorous than that of France and that their good-byes could be said just as well in the hall. Reverend Mother said that it was très, très gentil de la part de monseigneur l'évêque et de messieurs les curés de s'être donné tant de mal pour de pauvres religieuses refugiées, and the Bishop said that it had been no trouble at all and the nuns said, 'Mais si, mais si', and Monsignor O'Duffy said, 'Oo là, là, oui, oui', and everybody laughed a lot, including his lordship the Bishop.

Father Smith realized that there was trouble afoot as soon as the door of the convent had closed behind them, but he pretended not to see, as he walked with the Bishop and the other priests, the blobs of hating faces strung like bladders along the outer railing. He tried also not to hear the ugly things that they were shouting because he knew that our Lord wanted Catholics to be brave and to suffer for His Name's sake as well as to adore Him in beautiful chants and because he knew that he wasn't brave and didn't want to suffer the least little bit. Then he looked at the Bishop's serene face and Father Bonnyboat's surprised frown and Monsignor O'Duffy's jutting jowl, and he remembered all the saints, virgins, confessors, and martyrs who had endured so much for the love of Christ. 'Passio Domini Nostri Jesu Christi,' he murmured and knew no more as the sharp stone hit him on the temple and he fell, unconscious, to the ground.

¹⁵ I have, you have, he has.