DUBLINERS
By James Joyce
CONTENTS
The Sisters
An Encounter
Araby
Eveline
After the Race
Two Gallants
The Boarding House
A Little Cloud
Counterparts
Clay
A Painful Case
Ivy Day in the Committee Room
A Mother
Grace
The Dead
DUBLINERS
THE SISTERS
THERE was no hope for him this time: it was
the third stroke. Night
after night I had passed the house (it was
vacation time) and studied
the lighted square of window: and night after
night I had found it
lighted in the same way, faintly and evenly.
If he was dead, I thought,
I would see the reflection of candles on the
darkened blind for I knew
that two candles must be set at the head of
a corpse. He had often said
to me: "I am not long for this world," and
I had thought his words idle.
Now I knew they were true. Every night as
I gazed up at the window
I said softly to myself the word paralysis.
It had always sounded
strangely in my ears, like the word gnomon
in the Euclid and the word
simony in the Catechism. But now it sounded
to me like the name of some
maleficent and sinful being. It filled me
with fear, and yet I longed to
be nearer to it and to look upon its deadly
work.
Old Cotter was sitting at the fire, smoking,
when I came downstairs
to supper. While my aunt was ladling out my
stirabout he said, as if
returning to some former remark of his:
"No, I wouldn't say he was exactly... but
there was something queer...
there was something uncanny about him. I'll
tell you my opinion...."
He began to puff at his pipe, no doubt arranging
his opinion in his
mind. Tiresome old fool! When we knew him
first he used to be rather
interesting, talking of faints and worms;
but I soon grew tired of him
and his endless stories about the distillery.
"I have my own theory about it," he said.
"I think it was one of
those... peculiar cases.... But it's hard
to say...."
He began to puff again at his pipe without
giving us his theory. My
uncle saw me staring and said to me:
"Well, so your old friend is gone, you'll
be sorry to hear."
"Who?" said I.
"Father Flynn."
"Is he dead?"
"Mr. Cotter here has just told us. He was
passing by the house."
I knew that I was under observation so I continued
eating as if the news
had not interested me. My uncle explained
to old Cotter.
"The youngster and he were great friends.
The old chap taught him a
great deal, mind you; and they say he had
a great wish for him."
"God have mercy on his soul," said my aunt
piously.
Old Cotter looked at me for a while. I felt
that his little beady black
eyes were examining me but I would not satisfy
him by looking up from my
plate. He returned to his pipe and finally
spat rudely into the grate.
"I wouldn't like children of mine," he said,
"to have too much to say to
a man like that."
"How do you mean, Mr. Cotter?" asked my aunt.
"What I mean is," said old Cotter, "it's bad
for children. My idea is:
let a young lad run about and play with young
lads of his own age and
not be... Am I right, Jack?"
"That's my principle, too," said my uncle.
"Let him learn to box his
corner. That's what I'm always saying to that
Rosicrucian there: take
exercise. Why, when I was a nipper every morning
of my life I had a cold
bath, winter and summer. And that's what stands
to me now. Education
is all very fine and large.... Mr. Cotter
might take a pick of that leg
mutton," he added to my aunt.
"No, no, not for me," said old Cotter.
My aunt brought the dish from the safe and
put it on the table.
"But why do you think it's not good for children,
Mr. Cotter?" she
asked.
"It's bad for children," said old Cotter,
"because their minds are so
impressionable. When children see things like
that, you know, it has an
effect...."
I crammed my mouth with stirabout for fear
I might give utterance to my
anger. Tiresome old red-nosed imbecile!
It was late when I fell asleep. Though I was
angry with old Cotter for
alluding to me as a child, I puzzled my head
to extract meaning from his
unfinished sentences. In the dark of my room
I imagined that I saw again
the heavy grey face of the paralytic. I drew
the blankets over my head
and tried to think of Christmas. But the grey
face still followed me. It
murmured; and I understood that it desired
to confess something. I felt
my soul receding into some pleasant and vicious
region; and there again
I found it waiting for me. It began to confess
to me in a murmuring
voice and I wondered why it smiled continually
and why the lips were so
moist with spittle. But then I remembered
that it had died of paralysis
and I felt that I too was smiling feebly as
if to absolve the simoniac
of his sin.
The next morning after breakfast I went down
to look at the little house
in Great Britain Street. It was an unassuming
shop, registered under
the vague name of Drapery. The drapery consisted
mainly of children's
bootees and umbrellas; and on ordinary days
a notice used to hang in the
window, saying: Umbrellas Re-covered. No notice
was visible now for
the shutters were up. A crape bouquet was
tied to the doork-nocker with
ribbon. Two poor women and a telegram boy
were reading the card pinned
on the crape. I also approached and read:
July 1st, 1895
The Rev. James Flynn (formerly of
S. Catherine's Church, Meath Street),
aged sixty-five years.
R. I. P.
The reading of the card persuaded me that
he was dead and I was
disturbed to find myself at check. Had he
not been dead I would have
gone into the little dark room behind the
shop to find him sitting in
his arm-chair by the fire, nearly smothered
in his great-coat. Perhaps
my aunt would have given me a packet of High
Toast for him and this
present would have roused him from his stupefied
doze. It was always I
who emptied the packet into his black snuff-box
for his hands trembled
too much to allow him to do this without spilling
half the snuff about
the floor. Even as he raised his large trembling
hand to his nose little
clouds of smoke dribbled through his fingers
over the front of his coat.
It may have been these constant showers of
snuff which gave his ancient
priestly garments their green faded look for
the red handkerchief,
blackened, as it always was, with the snuff-stains
of a week, with which
he tried to brush away the fallen grains,
was quite inefficacious.
I wished to go in and look at him but I had
not the courage to knock. I
walked away slowly along the sunny side of
the street, reading all the
theatrical advertisements in the shopwindows
as I went. I found it
strange that neither I nor the day seemed
in a mourning mood and I felt
even annoyed at discovering in myself a sensation
of freedom as if I had
been freed from something by his death. I
wondered at this for, as my
uncle had said the night before, he had taught
me a great deal. He had
studied in the Irish college in Rome and he
had taught me to pronounce
Latin properly. He had told me stories about
the catacombs and about
Napoleon Bonaparte, and he had explained to
me the meaning of the
different ceremonies of the Mass and of the
different vestments worn
by the priest. Sometimes he had amused himself
by putting difficult
questions to me, asking me what one should
do in certain circumstances
or whether such and such sins were mortal
or venial or only
imperfections. His questions showed me how
complex and mysterious were
certain institutions of the Church which I
had always regarded as
the simplest acts. The duties of the priest
towards the Eucharist and
towards the secrecy of the confessional seemed
so grave to me that I
wondered how anybody had ever found in himself
the courage to undertake
them; and I was not surprised when he told
me that the fathers of the
Church had written books as thick as the Post
Office Directory and as
closely printed as the law notices in the
newspaper, elucidating all
these intricate questions. Often when I thought
of this I could make
no answer or only a very foolish and halting
one upon which he used
to smile and nod his head twice or thrice.
Sometimes he used to put me
through the responses of the Mass which he
had made me learn by heart;
and, as I pattered, he used to smile pensively
and nod his head, now and
then pushing huge pinches of snuff up each
nostril alternately. When he
smiled he used to uncover his big discoloured
teeth and let his tongue
lie upon his lower lip--a habit which had
made me feel uneasy in the
beginning of our acquaintance before I knew
him well.
As I walked along in the sun I remembered
old Cotter's words and tried
to remember what had happened afterwards in
the dream. I remembered
that I had noticed long velvet curtains and
a swinging lamp of antique
fashion. I felt that I had been very far away,
in some land where the
customs were strange--in Persia, I thought....
But I could not remember
the end of the dream.
In the evening my aunt took me with her to
visit the house of mourning.
It was after sunset; but the window-panes
of the houses that looked
to the west reflected the tawny gold of a
great bank of clouds. Nannie
received us in the hall; and, as it would
have been unseemly to have
shouted at her, my aunt shook hands with her
for all. The old woman
pointed upwards interrogatively and, on my
aunt's nodding, proceeded to
toil up the narrow staircase before us, her
bowed head being scarcely
above the level of the banister-rail. At the
first landing she stopped
and beckoned us forward encouragingly towards
the open door of the
dead-room. My aunt went in and the old woman,
seeing that I hesitated to
enter, began to beckon to me again repeatedly
with her hand.
I went in on tiptoe. The room through the
lace end of the blind was
suffused with dusky golden light amid which
the candles looked like pale
thin flames. He had been coffined. Nannie
gave the lead and we three
knelt down at the foot of the bed. I pretended
to pray but I could not
gather my thoughts because the old woman's
mutterings distracted me. I
noticed how clumsily her skirt was hooked
at the back and how the heels
of her cloth boots were trodden down all to
one side. The fancy came to
me that the old priest was smiling as he lay
there in his coffin.
But no. When we rose and went up to the head
of the bed I saw that he
was not smiling. There he lay, solemn and
copious, vested as for the
altar, his large hands loosely retaining a
chalice. His face was very
truculent, grey and massive, with black cavernous
nostrils and circled
by a scanty white fur. There was a heavy odour
in the room--the flowers.
We blessed ourselves and came away. In the
little room downstairs we
found Eliza seated in his arm-chair in state.
I groped my way towards my
usual chair in the corner while Nannie went
to the sideboard and brought
out a decanter of sherry and some wine-glasses.
She set these on the
table and invited us to take a little glass
of wine. Then, at her
sister's bidding, she filled out the sherry
into the glasses and passed
them to us. She pressed me to take some cream
crackers also but I
declined because I thought I would make too
much noise eating them. She
seemed to be somewhat disappointed at my refusal
and went over quietly
to the sofa where she sat down behind her
sister. No one spoke: we all
gazed at the empty fireplace.
My aunt waited until Eliza sighed and then
said:
"Ah, well, he's gone to a better world."
Eliza sighed again and bowed her head in assent.
My aunt fingered the
stem of her wine-glass before sipping a little.
"Did he... peacefully?" she asked.
"Oh, quite peacefully, ma'am," said Eliza.
"You couldn't tell when the
breath went out of him. He had a beautiful
death, God be praised."
"And everything...?"
"Father O'Rourke was in with him a Tuesday
and anointed him and prepared
him and all."
"He knew then?"
"He was quite resigned."
"He looks quite resigned," said my aunt.
"That's what the woman we had in to wash him
said. She said he just
looked as if he was asleep, he looked that
peaceful and resigned. No one
would think he'd make such a beautiful corpse."
"Yes, indeed," said my aunt.
She sipped a little more from her glass and
said:
"Well, Miss Flynn, at any rate it must be
a great comfort for you to
know that you did all you could for him. You
were both very kind to him,
I must say."
Eliza smoothed her dress over her knees.
"Ah, poor James!" she said. "God knows we
done all we could, as poor as
we are--we wouldn't see him want anything
while he was in it."
Nannie had leaned her head against the sofa-pillow
and seemed about to
fall asleep.
"There's poor Nannie," said Eliza, looking
at her, "she's wore out. All
the work we had, she and me, getting in the
woman to wash him and then
laying him out and then the coffin and then
arranging about the Mass in
the chapel. Only for Father O'Rourke I don't
know what we'd have done at all.
It was him brought us all them flowers and
them two candlesticks out of
the chapel and wrote out the notice for the
Freeman's General and took
charge of all the papers for the cemetery
and poor James's insurance."
"Wasn't that good of him?" said my aunt
Eliza closed her eyes and shook her head slowly.
"Ah, there's no friends like the old friends,"
she said, "when all is
said and done, no friends that a body can
trust."
"Indeed, that's true," said my aunt. "And
I'm sure now that he's gone to
his eternal reward he won't forget you and
all your kindness to him."
"Ah, poor James!" said Eliza. "He was no great
trouble to us. You
wouldn't hear him in the house any more than
now. Still, I know he's
gone and all to that...."
"It's when it's all over that you'll miss
him," said my aunt.
"I know that," said Eliza. "I won't be bringing
him in his cup of
beef-tea any more, nor you, ma'am, sending
him his snuff. Ah, poor James!"
She stopped, as if she were communing with
the past and then said
shrewdly:
"Mind you, I noticed there was something queer
coming over him latterly.
Whenever I'd bring in his soup to him there
I'd find him with his
breviary fallen to the floor, lying back in
the chair and his mouth
open."
She laid a finger against her nose and frowned:
then she continued:
"But still and all he kept on saying that
before the summer was over
he'd go out for a drive one fine day just
to see the old house again
where we were all born down in Irishtown and
take me and Nannie with
him. If we could only get one of them new-fangled
carriages that makes
no noise that Father O'Rourke told him about--them
with the rheumatic
wheels--for the day cheap--he said, at Johnny
Rush's over the way there
and drive out the three of us together of
a Sunday evening. He had his
mind set on that.... Poor James!"
"The Lord have mercy on his soul!" said my
aunt.
Eliza took out her handkerchief and wiped
her eyes with it. Then she put
it back again in her pocket and gazed into
the empty grate for some time
without speaking.
"He was too scrupulous always," she said.
"The duties of the priesthood
was too much for him. And then his life was,
you might say, crossed."
"Yes," said my aunt. "He was a disappointed
man. You could see that."
A silence took possession of the little room
and, under cover of it, I
approached the table and tasted my sherry
and then returned quietly to
my chair in the comer. Eliza seemed to have
fallen into a deep revery.
We waited respectfully for her to break the
silence: and after a long
pause she said slowly:
"It was that chalice he broke.... That was
the beginning of it. Of
course, they say it was all right, that it
contained nothing, I mean.
But still.... They say it was the boy's fault.
But poor James was so
nervous, God be merciful to him!"
"And was that it?" said my aunt. "I heard
something...."
Eliza nodded.
"That affected his mind," she said. "After
that he began to mope by
himself, talking to no one and wandering about
by himself. So one night
he was wanted for to go on a call and they
couldn't find him anywhere.
They looked high up and low down; and still
they couldn't see a sight
of him anywhere. So then the clerk suggested
to try the chapel. So
then they got the keys and opened the chapel
and the clerk and Father
O'Rourke and another priest that was there
brought in a light for to
look for him.... And what do you think but
there he was, sitting up by
himself in the dark in his confession-box,
wide-awake and laughing-like
softly to himself?"
She stopped suddenly as if to listen. I too
listened; but there was no
sound in the house: and I knew that the old
priest was lying still in
his coffin as we had seen him, solemn and
truculent in death, an idle
chalice on his breast.
Eliza resumed:
"Wide-awake and laughing-like to himself....
So then, of course, when
they saw that, that made them think that there
was something gone wrong
with him...."
AN ENCOUNTER
IT WAS Joe Dillon who introduced the Wild
West to us. He had a little
library made up of old numbers of The Union
Jack, Pluck and The
Halfpenny Marvel. Every evening after school
we met in his back garden
and arranged Indian battles. He and his fat
young brother Leo, the
idler, held the loft of the stable while we
tried to carry it by storm;
or we fought a pitched battle on the grass.
But, however well we fought,
we never won siege or battle and all our bouts
ended with Joe Dillon's
war dance of victory. His parents went to
eight-o'clock mass every
morning in Gardiner Street and the peaceful
odour of Mrs. Dillon was
prevalent in the hall of the house. But he
played too fiercely for us
who were younger and more timid. He looked
like some kind of an Indian
when he capered round the garden, an old tea-cosy
on his head, beating a
tin with his fist and yelling:
"Ya! yaka, yaka, yaka!"
Everyone was incredulous when it was reported
that he had a vocation for
the priesthood. Nevertheless it was true.
A spirit of unruliness diffused itself among
us and, under its
influence, differences of culture and constitution
were waived. We
banded ourselves together, some boldly, some
in jest and some almost in
fear: and of the number of these latter, the
reluctant Indians who
were afraid to seem studious or lacking in
robustness, I was one. The
adventures related in the literature of the
Wild West were remote from
my nature but, at least, they opened doors
of escape. I liked better
some American detective stories which were
traversed from time to time
by unkempt fierce and beautiful girls. Though
there was nothing wrong
in these stories and though their intention
was sometimes literary
they were circulated secretly at school. One
day when Father Butler was
hearing the four pages of Roman History clumsy
Leo Dillon was discovered
with a copy of The Halfpenny Marvel.
"This page or this page? This page Now, Dillon,
up! 'Hardly had the
day'... Go on! What day? 'Hardly had the day
dawned'... Have you studied
it? What have you there in your pocket?"
Everyone's heart palpitated as Leo Dillon
handed up the paper and
everyone assumed an innocent face. Father
Butler turned over the pages,
frowning.
"What is this rubbish?" he said. "The Apache
Chief! Is this what you
read instead of studying your Roman History?
Let me not find any more
of this wretched stuff in this college. The
man who wrote it, I suppose,
was some wretched fellow who writes these
things for a drink. I'm
surprised at boys like you, educated, reading
such stuff. I could
understand it if you were... National School
boys. Now, Dillon, I advise
you strongly, get at your work or..."
This rebuke during the sober hours of school
paled much of the glory of
the Wild West for me and the confused puffy
face of Leo Dillon awakened
one of my consciences. But when the restraining
influence of the school
was at a distance I began to hunger again
for wild sensations, for the
escape which those chronicles of disorder
alone seemed to offer me. The
mimic warfare of the evening became at last
as wearisome to me as the
routine of school in the morning because I
wanted real adventures to
happen to myself. But real adventures, I reflected,
do not happen to
people who remain at home: they must be sought
abroad.
The summer holidays were near at hand when
I made up my mind to break
out of the weariness of school-life for one
day at least. With Leo Dillon
and a boy named Mahony I planned a day's miching.
Each of us saved up
sixpence. We were to meet at ten in the morning
on the Canal Bridge.
Mahony's big sister was to write an excuse
for him and Leo Dillon was to
tell his brother to say he was sick. We arranged
to go along the Wharf
Road until we came to the ships, then to cross
in the ferryboat and walk
out to see the Pigeon House. Leo Dillon was
afraid we might meet Father
Butler or someone out of the college; but
Mahony asked, very sensibly,
what would Father Butler be doing out at the
Pigeon House. We were
reassured: and I brought the first stage of
the plot to an end by
collecting sixpence from the other two, at
the same time showing them
my own sixpence. When we were making the last
arrangements on the eve we
were all vaguely excited. We shook hands,
laughing, and Mahony said:
"Till tomorrow, mates!"
That night I slept badly. In the morning I
was first-comer to the bridge
as I lived nearest. I hid my books in the
long grass near the ashpit at
the end of the garden where nobody ever came
and hurried along the canal
bank. It was a mild sunny morning in the first
week of June. I sat up
on the coping of the bridge admiring my frail
canvas shoes which I had
diligently pipeclayed overnight and watching
the docile horses pulling
a tramload of business people up the hill.
All the branches of the tall
trees which lined the mall were gay with little
light green leaves and
the sunlight slanted through them on to the
water. The granite stone of
the bridge was beginning to be warm and I
began to pat it with my hands
in time to an air in my head. I was very happy.
When I had been sitting there for five or
ten minutes I saw Mahony's
grey suit approaching. He came up the hill,
smiling, and clambered
up beside me on the bridge. While we were
waiting he brought out
the catapult which bulged from his inner pocket
and explained some
improvements which he had made in it. I asked
him why he had brought it
and he told me he had brought it to have some
gas with the birds. Mahony
used slang freely, and spoke of Father Butler
as Old Bunser. We waited
on for a quarter of an hour more but still
there was no sign of Leo
Dillon. Mahony, at last, jumped down and said:
"Come along. I knew Fatty'd funk it."
"And his sixpence...?" I said.
"That's forfeit," said Mahony. "And so much
the better for us--a bob and
a tanner instead of a bob."
We walked along the North Strand Road till
we came to the Vitriol Works
and then turned to the right along the Wharf
Road. Mahony began to play
the Indian as soon as we were out of public
sight. He chased a crowd
of ragged girls, brandishing his unloaded
catapult and, when two ragged
boys began, out of chivalry, to fling stones
at us, he proposed that we
should charge them. I objected that the boys
were too small and so we
walked on, the ragged troop screaming after
us: "Swaddlers!
Swaddlers!" thinking that we were Protestants
because Mahony, who was
dark-complexioned, wore the silver badge of
a cricket club in his cap.
When we came to the Smoothing Iron we arranged
a siege; but it was a
failure because you must have at least three.
We revenged ourselves on
Leo Dillon by saying what a funk he was and
guessing how many he would
get at three o'clock from Mr. Ryan.
We came then near the river. We spent a long
time walking about the
noisy streets flanked by high stone walls,
watching the working of
cranes and engines and often being shouted
at for our immobility by the
drivers of groaning carts. It was noon when
we reached the quays and, as
all the labourers seemed to be eating their
lunches, we bought two big
currant buns and sat down to eat them on some
metal piping beside the
river. We pleased ourselves with the spectacle
of Dublin's commerce--the
barges signalled from far away by their curls
of woolly smoke, the brown
fishing fleet beyond Ringsend, the big white
sailing-vessel which was
being discharged on the opposite quay. Mahony
said it would be right
skit to run away to sea on one of those big
ships and even I, looking at
the high masts, saw, or imagined, the geography
which had been scantily
dosed to me at school gradually taking substance
under my eyes. School
and home seemed to recede from us and their
influences upon us seemed to
wane.
We crossed the Liffey in the ferryboat, paying
our toll to be
transported in the company of two labourers
and a little Jew with a bag.
We were serious to the point of solemnity,
but once during the short
voyage our eyes met and we laughed. When we
landed we watched the
discharging of the graceful threemaster which
we had observed from the
other quay. Some bystander said that she was
a Norwegian vessel. I went
to the stern and tried to decipher the legend
upon it but, failing to do
so, I came back and examined the foreign sailors
to see had any of them
green eyes for I had some confused notion....
The sailors' eyes were
blue and grey and even black. The only sailor
whose eyes could have been
called green was a tall man who amused the
crowd on the quay by calling
out cheerfully every time the planks fell:
"All right! All right!"
When we were tired of this sight we wandered
slowly into Ringsend. The
day had grown sultry, and in the windows of
the grocers' shops musty
biscuits lay bleaching. We bought some biscuits
and chocolate which
we ate sedulously as we wandered through the
squalid streets where the
families of the fishermen live. We could find
no dairy and so we went
into a huckster's shop and bought a bottle
of raspberry lemonade each.
Refreshed by this, Mahony chased a cat down
a lane, but the cat escaped
into a wide field. We both felt rather tired
and when we reached the
field we made at once for a sloping bank over
the ridge of which we
could see the Dodder.
It was too late and we were too tired to carry
out our project of
visiting the Pigeon House. We had to be home
before four o'clock lest
our adventure should be discovered. Mahony
looked regretfully at his
catapult and I had to suggest going home by
train before he regained
any cheerfulness. The sun went in behind some
clouds and left us to our
jaded thoughts and the crumbs of our provisions.
There was nobody but ourselves in the field.
When we had lain on the
bank for some time without speaking I saw
a man approaching from the far
end of the field. I watched him lazily as
I chewed one of those green
stems on which girls tell fortunes. He came
along by the bank slowly. He
walked with one hand upon his hip and in the
other hand he held a stick
with which he tapped the turf lightly. He
was shabbily dressed in a suit
of greenish-black and wore what we used to
call a jerry hat with a high
crown. He seemed to be fairly old for his
moustache was ashen-grey. When
he passed at our feet he glanced up at us
quickly and then continued his
way. We followed him with our eyes and saw
that when he had gone on for
perhaps fifty paces he turned about and began
to retrace his steps. He
walked towards us very slowly, always tapping
the ground with his stick,
so slowly that I thought he was looking for
something in the grass.
He stopped when he came level with us and
bade us good-day. We answered
him and he sat down beside us on the slope
slowly and with great care.
He began to talk of the weather, saying that
it would be a very hot
summer and adding that the seasons had changed
greatly since he was a
boy--a long time ago. He said that the happiest
time of one's life was
undoubtedly one's school-boy days and that
he would give anything to be
young again. While he expressed these sentiments
which bored us a little
we kept silent. Then he began to talk of school
and of books. He asked
us whether we had read the poetry of Thomas
Moore or the works of Sir
Walter Scott and Lord Lytton. I pretended
that I had read every book he
mentioned so that in the end he said:
"Ah, I can see you are a bookworm like myself.
Now," he added, pointing
to Mahony who was regarding us with open eyes,
"he is different; he goes
in for games."
He said he had all Sir Walter Scott's works
and all Lord Lytton's works
at home and never tired of reading them. "Of
course," he said, "there
were some of Lord Lytton's works which boys
couldn't read." Mahony asked
why couldn't boys read them--a question which
agitated and pained me
because I was afraid the man would think I
was as stupid as Mahony. The
man, however, only smiled. I saw that he had
great gaps in his mouth
between his yellow teeth. Then he asked us
which of us had the most
sweethearts. Mahony mentioned lightly that
he had three totties. The man
asked me how many had I. I answered that I
had none. He did not believe
me and said he was sure I must have one. I
was silent.
"Tell us," said Mahony pertly to the man,
"how many have you yourself?"
The man smiled as before and said that when
he was our age he had lots
of sweethearts.
"Every boy," he said, "has a little sweetheart."
His attitude on this point struck me as strangely
liberal in a man
of his age. In my heart I thought that what
he said about boys and
sweethearts was reasonable. But I disliked
the words in his mouth and I
wondered why he shivered once or twice as
if he feared something or felt
a sudden chill. As he proceeded I noticed
that his accent was good. He
began to speak to us about girls, saying what
nice soft hair they had
and how soft their hands were and how all
girls were not so good as they
seemed to be if one only knew. There was nothing
he liked, he said, so
much as looking at a nice young girl, at her
nice white hands and her
beautiful soft hair. He gave me the impression
that he was repeating
something which he had learned by heart or
that, magnetised by some
words of his own speech, his mind was slowly
circling round and round in
the same orbit. At times he spoke as if he
were simply alluding to some
fact that everybody knew, and at times he
lowered his voice and spoke
mysteriously as if he were telling us something
secret which he did not
wish others to overhear. He repeated his phrases
over and over again,
varying them and surrounding them with his
monotonous voice. I continued
to gaze towards the foot of the slope, listening
to him.
After a long while his monologue paused. He
stood up slowly, saying
that he had to leave us for a minute or so,
a few minutes, and, without
changing the direction of my gaze, I saw him
walking slowly away from us
towards the near end of the field. We remained
silent when he had gone.
After a silence of a few minutes I heard Mahony
exclaim:
"I say! Look what he's doing!"
As I neither answered nor raised my eyes Mahony
exclaimed again:
"I say... He's a queer old josser!"
"In case he asks us for our names," I said,
"let you be Murphy and I'll
be Smith."
We said nothing further to each other. I was
still considering whether
I would go away or not when the man came back
and sat down beside us
again. Hardly had he sat down when Mahony,
catching sight of the cat
which had escaped him, sprang up and pursued
her across the field. The
man and I watched the chase. The cat escaped
once more and Mahony began
to throw stones at the wall she had escaladed.
Desisting from this, he
began to wander about the far end of the field,
aimlessly.
After an interval the man spoke to me. He
said that my friend was a very
rough boy and asked did he get whipped often
at school. I was going to
reply indignantly that we were not National
School boys to be whipped,
as he called it; but I remained silent. He
began to speak on the subject
of chastising boys. His mind, as if magnetised
again by his speech,
seemed to circle slowly round and round its
new centre. He said that
when boys were that kind they ought to be
whipped and well whipped. When
a boy was rough and unruly there was nothing
would do him any good but a
good sound whipping. A slap on the hand or
a box on the ear was no good:
what he wanted was to get a nice warm whipping.
I was surprised at this
sentiment and involuntarily glanced up at
his face. As I did so I met
the gaze of a pair of bottle-green eyes peering
at me from under a
twitching forehead. I turned my eyes away
again.
The man continued his monologue. He seemed
to have forgotten his recent
liberalism. He said that if ever he found
a boy talking to girls or
having a girl for a sweetheart he would whip
him and whip him; and that
would teach him not to be talking to girls.
And if a boy had a girl
for a sweetheart and told lies about it then
he would give him such
a whipping as no boy ever got in this world.
He said that there was
nothing in this world he would like so well
as that. He described to
me how he would whip such a boy as if he were
unfolding some elaborate
mystery. He would love that, he said, better
than anything in this
world; and his voice, as he led me monotonously
through the mystery,
grew almost affectionate and seemed to plead
with me that I should
understand him.
I waited till his monologue paused again.
Then I stood up abruptly. Lest
I should betray my agitation I delayed a few
moments pretending to fix
my shoe properly and then, saying that I was
obliged to go, I bade him
good-day. I went up the slope calmly but my
heart was beating quickly
with fear that he would seize me by the ankles.
When I reached the top
of the slope I turned round and, without looking
at him, called loudly
across the field:
"Murphy!"
My voice had an accent of forced bravery in
it and I was ashamed of my
paltry stratagem. I had to call the name again
before Mahony saw me
and hallooed in answer. How my heart beat
as he came running across the
field to me! He ran as if to bring me aid.
And I was penitent; for in my
heart I had always despised him a little.
ARABY
NORTH RICHMOND STREET, being blind, was a
quiet street except at the hour
when the Christian Brothers' School set the
boys free. An uninhabited
house of two storeys stood at the blind end,
detached from its
neighbours in a square ground The other houses
of the street,
conscious of decent lives within them, gazed
at one another with brown
imperturbable faces.
The former tenant of our house, a priest,
had died in the back
drawing-room. Air, musty from having been
long enclosed, hung in all
the rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen
was littered with old
useless papers. Among these I found a few
paper-covered books, the pages
of which were curled and damp: The Abbot,
by Walter Scott, The Devout
Communicant and The Memoirs of Vidocq. I liked
the last best because
its leaves were yellow. The wild garden behind
the house contained a
central apple-tree and a few straggling bushes
under one of which
I found the late tenant's rusty bicycle-pump.
He had been a very
charitable priest; in his will he had left
all his money to institutions
and the furniture of his house to his sister.
When the short days of winter came dusk fell
before we had well eaten
our dinners. When we met in the street the
houses had grown sombre. The
space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing
violet and towards
it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble
lanterns. The cold air
stung us and we played till our bodies glowed.
Our shouts echoed in the
silent street. The career of our play brought
us through the dark muddy
lanes behind the houses where we ran the gauntlet
of the rough tribes
from the cottages, to the back doors of the
dark dripping gardens where
odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark
odorous stables where a
coachman smoothed and combed the horse or
shook music from the buckled
harness. When we returned to the street light
from the kitchen windows
had filled the areas. If my uncle was seen
turning the corner we hid in
the shadow until we had seen him safely housed.
Or if Mangan's sister
came out on the doorstep to call her brother
in to his tea we watched
her from our shadow peer up and down the street.
We waited to see
whether she would remain or go in and, if
she remained, we left our
shadow and walked up to Mangan's steps resignedly.
She was waiting
for us, her figure defined by the light from
the half-opened door. Her
brother always teased her before he obeyed
and I stood by the railings
looking at her. Her dress swung as she moved
her body and the soft rope
of her hair tossed from side to side.
Every morning I lay on the floor in the front
parlour watching her door.
The blind was pulled down to within an inch
of the sash so that I could
not be seen. When she came out on the doorstep
my heart leaped. I ran
to the hall, seized my books and followed
her. I kept her brown figure
always in my eye and, when we came near the
point at which our ways
diverged, I quickened my pace and passed her.
This happened morning
after morning. I had never spoken to her,
except for a few casual words,
and yet her name was like a summons to all
my foolish blood.
Her image accompanied me even in places the
most hostile to romance. On
Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing
I had to go to carry
some of the parcels. We walked through the
flaring streets, jostled
by drunken men and bargaining women, amid
the curses of labourers, the
shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on
guard by the barrels of pigs'
cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers,
who sang a come-all-you
about O'Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the
troubles in our native
land. These noises converged in a single sensation
of life for me: I
imagined that I bore my chalice safely through
a throng of foes. Her
name sprang to my lips at moments in strange
prayers and praises which I
myself did not understand. My eyes were often
full of tears (I could not
tell why) and at times a flood from my heart
seemed to pour itself out
into my bosom. I thought little of the future.
I did not know whether I
would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke
to her, how I could tell
her of my confused adoration. But my body
was like a harp and her words
and gestures were like fingers running upon
the wires.
One evening I went into the back drawing-room
in which the priest had
died. It was a dark rainy evening and there
was no sound in the house.
Through one of the broken panes I heard the
rain impinge upon the earth,
the fine incessant needles of water playing
in the sodden beds. Some
distant lamp or lighted window gleamed below
me. I was thankful that I
could see so little. All my senses seemed
to desire to veil themselves
and, feeling that I was about to slip from
them, I pressed the palms of
my hands together until they trembled, murmuring:
"O love! O love!" many
times.
At last she spoke to me. When she addressed
the first words to me I was
so confused that I did not know what to answer.
She asked me was I going
to Araby. I forgot whether I answered yes
or no. It would be a splendid
bazaar, she said;s she would love to go.
"And why can't you?" I asked.
While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet
round and round her wrist.
She could not go, she said, because there
would be a retreat that week
in her convent. Her brother and two other
boys were fighting for their
caps and I was alone at the railings. She
held one of the spikes, bowing
her head towards me. The light from the lamp
opposite our door caught
the white curve of her neck, lit up her hair
that rested there and,
falling, lit up the hand upon the railing.
It fell over one side of her
dress and caught the white border of a petticoat,
just visible as she
stood at ease.
"It's well for you," she said.
"If I go," I said, "I will bring you something."
What innumerable follies laid waste my waking
and sleeping thoughts
after that evening! I wished to annihilate
the tedious intervening days.
I chafed against the work of school. At night
in my bedroom and by day
in the classroom her image came between me
and the page I strove to
read. The syllables of the word Araby were
called to me through the
silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast
an Eastern enchantment over
me. I asked for leave to go to the bazaar
on Saturday night. My aunt
was surprised and hoped it was not some Freemason
affair. I answered few
questions in class. I watched my master's
face pass from amiability to
sternness; he hoped I was not beginning to
idle. I could not call my
wandering thoughts together. I had hardly
any patience with the serious
work of life which, now that it stood between
me and my desire, seemed
to me child's play, ugly monotonous child's
play.
On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that
I wished to go to the
bazaar in the evening. He was fussing at the
hallstand, looking for the
hat-brush, and answered me curtly:
"Yes, boy, I know."
As he was in the hall I could not go into
the front parlour and lie at
the window. I left the house in bad humour
and walked slowly towards the
school. The air was pitilessly raw and already
my heart misgave me.
When I came home to dinner my uncle had not
yet been home. Still it was
early. I sat staring at the clock for some
time and, when its ticking
began to irritate me, I left the room. I mounted
the staircase and
gained the upper part of the house. The high
cold empty gloomy rooms
liberated me and I went from room to room
singing. From the front window
I saw my companions playing below in the street.
Their cries reached me
weakened and indistinct and, leaning my forehead
against the cool glass,
I looked over at the dark house where she
lived. I may have stood
there for an hour, seeing nothing but the
brown-clad figure cast by my
imagination, touched discreetly by the lamplight
at the curved neck, at
the hand upon the railings and at the border
below the dress.
When I came downstairs again I found Mrs.
Mercer sitting at the fire.
She was an old garrulous woman, a pawnbroker's
widow, who collected
used stamps for some pious purpose. I had
to endure the gossip of the
tea-table. The meal was prolonged beyond an
hour and still my uncle did
not come. Mrs. Mercer stood up to go: she
was sorry she couldn't wait
any longer, but it was after eight o'clock
and she did not like to be
out late as the night air was bad for her.
When she had gone I began to
walk up and down the room, clenching my fists.
My aunt said:
"I'm afraid you may put off your bazaar for
this night of Our Lord."
At nine o'clock I heard my uncle's latchkey
in the halldoor. I heard him
talking to himself and heard the hallstand
rocking when it had received
the weight of his overcoat. I could interpret
these signs. When he was
midway through his dinner I asked him to give
me the money to go to the
bazaar. He had forgotten.
"The people are in bed and after their first
sleep now," he said.
I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically:
"Can't you give him the money and let him
go? You've kept him late
enough as it is."
My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten.
He said he believed in
the old saying: "All work and no play makes
Jack a dull boy." He asked
me where I was going and, when I had told
him a second time he asked me
did I know The Arab's Farewell to his Steed.
When I left the kitchen he
was about to recite the opening lines of the
piece to my aunt.
I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode
down Buckingham Street
towards the station. The sight of the streets
thronged with buyers and
glaring with gas recalled to me the purpose
of my journey. I took my
seat in a third-class carriage of a deserted
train. After an intolerable
delay the train moved out of the station slowly.
It crept onward among
ruinous houses and over the twinkling river.
At Westland Row Station a
crowd of people pressed to the carriage doors;
but the porters moved
them back, saying that it was a special train
for the bazaar. I remained
alone in the bare carriage. In a few minutes
the train drew up beside an
improvised wooden platform. I passed out on
to the road and saw by the
lighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutes
to ten. In front of me
was a large building which displayed the magical
name.
I could not find any sixpenny entrance and,
fearing that the bazaar
would be closed, I passed in quickly through
a turnstile, handing a
shilling to a weary-looking man. I found myself
in a big hall girdled at
half its height by a gallery. Nearly all the
stalls were closed and the
greater part of the hall was in darkness.
I recognised a silence like
that which pervades a church after a service.
I walked into the centre
of the bazaar timidly. A few people were gathered
about the stalls which
were still open. Before a curtain, over which
the words Cafe Chantant
were written in coloured lamps, two men were
counting money on a salver.
I listened to the fall of the coins.
Remembering with difficulty why I had come
I went over to one of the
stalls and examined porcelain vases and flowered
tea-sets. At the
door of the stall a young lady was talking
and laughing with two young
gentlemen. I remarked their English accents
and listened vaguely to
their conversation.
"O, I never said such a thing!"
"O, but you did!"
"O, but I didn't!"
"Didn't she say that?"
"Yes. I heard her."
"O, there's a... fib!"
Observing me the young lady came over and
asked me did I wish to buy
anything. The tone of her voice was not encouraging;
she seemed to have
spoken to me out of a sense of duty. I looked
humbly at the great jars
that stood like eastern guards at either side
of the dark entrance to
the stall and murmured:
"No, thank you."
The young lady changed the position of one
of the vases and went back to
the two young men. They began to talk of the
same subject. Once or twice
the young lady glanced at me over her shoulder.
I lingered before her stall, though I knew
my stay was useless, to make
my interest in her wares seem the more real.
Then I turned away slowly
and walked down the middle of the bazaar.
I allowed the two pennies to
fall against the sixpence in my pocket. I
heard a voice call from one
end of the gallery that the light was out.
The upper part of the hall
was now completely dark.
Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as
a creature driven and
derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with
anguish and anger.
EVELINE
SHE sat at the window watching the evening
invade the avenue. Her head
was leaned against the window curtains and
in her nostrils was the odour
of dusty cretonne. She was tired.
Few people passed. The man out of the last
house passed on his way
home; she heard his footsteps clacking along
the concrete pavement and
afterwards crunching on the cinder path before
the new red houses. One
time there used to be a field there in which
they used to play every
evening with other people's children. Then
a man from Belfast bought
the field and built houses in it--not like
their little brown houses but
bright brick houses with shining roofs. The
children of the avenue used
to play together in that field--the Devines,
the Waters, the Dunns,
little Keogh the cripple, she and her brothers
and sisters. Ernest,
however, never played: he was too grown up.
Her father used often to
hunt them in out of the field with his blackthorn
stick; but usually
little Keogh used to keep nix and call out
when he saw her father
coming. Still they seemed to have been rather
happy then. Her father was
not so bad then; and besides, her mother was
alive. That was a long time
ago; she and her brothers and sisters were
all grown up; her mother
was dead. Tizzie Dunn was dead, too, and the
Waters had gone back to
England. Everything changes. Now she was going
to go away like the
others, to leave her home.
Home! She looked round the room, reviewing
all its familiar objects
which she had dusted once a week for so many
years, wondering where on
earth all the dust came from. Perhaps she
would never see again those
familiar objects from which she had never
dreamed of being divided.
And yet during all those years she had never
found out the name of the
priest whose yellowing photograph hung on
the wall above the broken
harmonium beside the coloured print of the
promises made to Blessed
Margaret Mary Alacoque. He had been a school
friend of her father.
Whenever he showed the photograph to a visitor
her father used to pass
it with a casual word:
"He is in Melbourne now."
She had consented to go away, to leave her
home. Was that wise? She
tried to weigh each side of the question.
In her home anyway she had
shelter and food; she had those whom she had
known all her life about
her. Of course she had to work hard, both
in the house and at business.
What would they say of her in the Stores when
they found out that she
had run away with a fellow? Say she was a
fool, perhaps; and her place
would be filled up by advertisement. Miss
Gavan would be glad. She
had always had an edge on her, especially
whenever there were people
listening.
"Miss Hill, don't you see these ladies are
waiting?"
"Look lively, Miss Hill, please."
She would not cry many tears at leaving the
Stores.
But in her new home, in a distant unknown
country, it would not be like
that. Then she would be married--she, Eveline.
People would treat her
with respect then. She would not be treated
as her mother had been. Even
now, though she was over nineteen, she sometimes
felt herself in danger
of her father's violence. She knew it was
that that had given her the
palpitations. When they were growing up he
had never gone for her like
he used to go for Harry and Ernest, because
she was a girl; but latterly
he had begun to threaten her and say what
he would do to her only for
her dead mother's sake. And now she had nobody
to protect her. Ernest was
dead and Harry, who was in the church decorating
business, was nearly
always down somewhere in the country. Besides,
the invariable squabble
for money on Saturday nights had begun to
weary her unspeakably. She
always gave her entire wages--seven shillings--and
Harry always sent up
what he could but the trouble was to get any
money from her father.
He said she used to squander the money, that
she had no head, that
he wasn't going to give her his hard-earned
money to throw about the
streets, and much more, for he was usually
fairly bad of a Saturday night.
In the end he would give her the money and
ask her had she any intention
of buying Sunday's dinner. Then she had to
rush out as quickly as she
could and do her marketing, holding her black
leather purse tightly in
her hand as she elbowed her way through the
crowds and returning home
late under her load of provisions. She had
hard work to keep the house
together and to see that the two young children
who had been left to her
charge went to school regularly and got their
meals regularly. It was
hard work--a hard life--but now that she was
about to leave it she did
not find it a wholly undesirable life.
She was about to explore another life with
Frank. Frank was very kind,
manly, open-hearted. She was to go away with
him by the night-boat to
be his wife and to live with him in Buenos
Ayres where he had a home
waiting for her. How well she remembered the
first time she had seen
him; he was lodging in a house on the main
road where she used to visit.
It seemed a few weeks ago. He was standing
at the gate, his peaked cap
pushed back on his head and his hair tumbled
forward over a face of
bronze. Then they had come to know each other.
He used to meet her
outside the Stores every evening and see her
home. He took her to see
The Bohemian Girl and she felt elated as she
sat in an unaccustomed part
of the theatre with him. He was awfully fond
of music and sang a little.
People knew that they were courting and, when
he sang about the lass
that loves a sailor, she always felt pleasantly
confused. He used to
call her Poppens out of fun. First of all
it had been an excitement for
her to have a fellow and then she had begun
to like him. He had tales of
distant countries. He had started as a deck
boy at a pound a month on a
ship of the Allan Line going out to Canada.
He told her the names of
the ships he had been on and the names of
the different services. He had
sailed through the Straits of Magellan and
he told her stories of the
terrible Patagonians. He had fallen on his
feet in Buenos Ayres, he
said, and had come over to the old country
just for a holiday. Of
course, her father had found out the affair
and had forbidden her to
have anything to say to him.
"I know these sailor chaps," he said.
One day he had quarrelled with Frank and after
that she had to meet her
lover secretly.
The evening deepened in the avenue. The white
of two letters in her lap
grew indistinct. One was to Harry; the other
was to her father. Ernest
had been her favourite but she liked Harry
too. Her father was becoming
old lately, she noticed; he would miss her.
Sometimes he could be very
nice. Not long before, when she had been laid
up for a day, he had read
her out a ghost story and made toast for her
at the fire. Another day,
when their mother was alive, they had all
gone for a picnic to the Hill
of Howth. She remembered her father putting
on her mother's bonnet to
make the children laugh.
Her time was running out but she continued
to sit by the window,
leaning her head against the window curtain,
inhaling the odour of dusty
cretonne. Down far in the avenue she could
hear a street organ playing.
She knew the air. Strange that it should come
that very night to remind
her of the promise to her mother, her promise
to keep the home together
as long as she could. She remembered the last
night of her mother's
illness; she was again in the close dark room
at the other side of the
hall and outside she heard a melancholy air
of Italy. The organ-player
had been ordered to go away and given sixpence.
She remembered her
father strutting back into the sickroom saying:
"Damned Italians! coming over here!"
As she mused the pitiful vision of her mother's
life laid its spell on
the very quick of her being--that life of
commonplace sacrifices closing
in final craziness. She trembled as she heard
again her mother's voice
saying constantly with foolish insistence:
"Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!"
She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror.
Escape! She must escape!
Frank would save her. He would give her life,
perhaps love, too. But she
wanted to live. Why should she be unhappy?
She had a right to happiness.
Frank would take her in his arms, fold her
in his arms. He would save
her.
She stood among the swaying crowd in the station
at the North Wall. He
held her hand and she knew that he was speaking
to her, saying something
about the passage over and over again. The
station was full of soldiers
with brown baggages. Through the wide doors
of the sheds she caught a
glimpse of the black mass of the boat, lying
in beside the quay wall,
with illumined portholes. She answered nothing.
She felt her cheek pale
and cold and, out of a maze of distress, she
prayed to God to direct
her, to show her what was her duty. The boat
blew a long mournful
whistle into the mist. If she went, tomorrow
she would be on the sea
with Frank, steaming towards Buenos Ayres.
Their passage had been
booked. Could she still draw back after all
he had done for her? Her
distress awoke a nausea in her body and she
kept moving her lips in
silent fervent prayer.
A bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him
seize her hand:
"Come!"
All the seas of the world tumbled about her
heart. He was drawing her
into them: he would drown her. She gripped
with both hands at the iron
railing.
"Come!"
No! No! No! It was impossible. Her hands clutched
the iron in frenzy.
Amid the seas she sent a cry of anguish!
"Eveline! Evvy!"
He rushed beyond the barrier and called to
her to follow. He was shouted
at to go on but he still called to her. She
set her white face to him,
passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes
gave him no sign of love or
farewell or recognition.
AFTER THE RACE
THE cars came scudding in towards Dublin,
running evenly like pellets
in the groove of the Naas Road. At the crest
of the hill at Inchicore
sightseers had gathered in clumps to watch
the cars careering homeward
and through this channel of poverty and inaction
the Continent sped its
wealth and industry. Now and again the clumps
of people raised the cheer
of the gratefully oppressed. Their sympathy,
however, was for the blue
cars--the cars of their friends, the French.
The French, moreover, were virtual victors.
Their team had finished
solidly; they had been placed second and third
and the driver of the
winning German car was reported a Belgian.
Each blue car, therefore,
received a double measure of welcome as it
topped the crest of the hill
and each cheer of welcome was acknowledged
with smiles and nods by those
in the car. In one of these trimly built cars
was a party of four
young men whose spirits seemed to be at present
well above the level
of successful Gallicism: in fact, these four
young men were almost
hilarious. They were Charles Segouin, the
owner of the car; Andre
Riviere, a young electrician of Canadian birth;
a huge Hungarian named
Villona and a neatly groomed young man named
Doyle. Segouin was in good
humour because he had unexpectedly received
some orders in advance (he
was about to start a motor establishment in
Paris) and Riviere was in
good humour because he was to be appointed
manager of the establishment;
these two young men (who were cousins) were
also in good humour because
of the success of the French cars. Villona
was in good humour because he
had had a very satisfactory luncheon; and
besides he was an optimist by
nature. The fourth member of the party, however,
was too excited to be
genuinely happy.
He was about twenty-six years of age, with
a soft, light brown moustache
and rather innocent-looking grey eyes. His
father, who had begun life as
an advanced Nationalist, had modified his
views early. He had made his
money as a butcher in Kingstown and by opening
shops in Dublin and in
the suburbs he had made his money many times
over. He had also been
fortunate enough to secure some of the police
contracts and in the end
he had become rich enough to be alluded to
in the Dublin newspapers as a
merchant prince. He had sent his son to England
to be educated in a big
Catholic college and had afterwards sent him
to Dublin University to
study law. Jimmy did not study very earnestly
and took to bad courses
for a while. He had money and he was popular;
and he divided his time
curiously between musical and motoring circles.
Then he had been sent
for a term to Cambridge to see a little life.
His father, remonstrative,
but covertly proud of the excess, had paid
his bills and brought him
home. It was at Cambridge that he had met
Segouin. They were not much
more than acquaintances as yet but Jimmy found
great pleasure in the
society of one who had seen so much of the
world and was reputed to
own some of the biggest hotels in France.
Such a person (as his father
agreed) was well worth knowing, even if he
had not been the charming
companion he was. Villona was entertaining
also--a brilliant
pianist--but, unfortunately, very poor.
The car ran on merrily with its cargo of hilarious
youth. The two
cousins sat on the front seat; Jimmy and his
Hungarian friend sat
behind. Decidedly Villona was in excellent
spirits; he kept up a deep
bass hum of melody for miles of the road.
The Frenchmen flung their
laughter and light words over their shoulders
and often Jimmy had
to strain forward to catch the quick phrase.
This was not altogether
pleasant for him, as he had nearly always
to make a deft guess at the
meaning and shout back a suitable answer in
the face of a high wind.
Besides Villona's humming would confuse anybody;
the noise of the car,
too.
Rapid motion through space elates one; so
does notoriety; so does
the possession of money. These were three
good reasons for Jimmy's
excitement. He had been seen by many of his
friends that day in the
company of these Continentals. At the control
Segouin had presented him
to one of the French competitors and, in answer
to his confused murmur
of compliment, the swarthy face of the driver
had disclosed a line of
shining white teeth. It was pleasant after
that honour to return to the
profane world of spectators amid nudges and
significant looks. Then as
to money--he really had a great sum under
his control. Segouin, perhaps,
would not think it a great sum but Jimmy who,
in spite of temporary
errors, was at heart the inheritor of solid
instincts knew well with
what difficulty it had been got together.
This knowledge had previously
kept his bills within the limits of reasonable
recklessness, and, if he
had been so conscious of the labour latent
in money when there had been
question merely of some freak of the higher
intelligence, how much more
so now when he was about to stake the greater
part of his substance! It
was a serious thing for him.
Of course, the investment was a good one and
Segouin had managed to give
the impression that it was by a favour of
friendship the mite of Irish
money was to be included in the capital of
the concern. Jimmy had a
respect for his father's shrewdness in business
matters and in this case
it had been his father who had first suggested
the investment; money to
be made in the motor business, pots of money.
Moreover Segouin had the
unmistakable air of wealth. Jimmy set out
to translate into days' work
that lordly car in which he sat. How smoothly
it ran. In what style they
had come careering along the country roads!
The journey laid a magical
finger on the genuine pulse of life and gallantly
the machinery of human
nerves strove to answer the bounding courses
of the swift blue animal.
They drove down Dame Street. The street was
busy with unusual
traffic, loud with the horns of motorists
and the gongs of impatient
tram-drivers. Near the Bank Segouin drew up
and Jimmy and his friend
alighted. A little knot of people collected
on the footpath to pay
homage to the snorting motor. The party was
to dine together that
evening in Segouin's hotel and, meanwhile,
Jimmy and his friend, who was
staying with him, were to go home to dress.
The car steered out slowly
for Grafton Street while the two young men
pushed their way through
the knot of gazers. They walked northward
with a curious feeling of
disappointment in the exercise, while the
city hung its pale globes of
light above them in a haze of summer evening.
In Jimmy's house this dinner had been pronounced
an occasion. A certain
pride mingled with his parents' trepidation,
a certain eagerness, also,
to play fast and loose for the names of great
foreign cities have at
least this virtue. Jimmy, too, looked very
well when he was dressed and,
as he stood in the hall giving a last equation
to the bows of his dress
tie, his father may have felt even commercially
satisfied at having
secured for his son qualities often unpurchaseable.
His father,
therefore, was unusually friendly with Villona
and his manner expressed
a real respect for foreign accomplishments;
but this subtlety of his
host was probably lost upon the Hungarian,
who was beginning to have a
sharp desire for his dinner.
The dinner was excellent, exquisite. Segouin,
Jimmy decided, had a very
refined taste. The party was increased by
a young Englishman named Routh
whom Jimmy had seen with Segouin at Cambridge.
The young men supped in
a snug room lit by electric candle-lamps.
They talked volubly and with
little reserve. Jimmy, whose imagination was
kindling, conceived the
lively youth of the Frenchmen twined elegantly
upon the firm framework
of the Englishman's manner. A graceful image
of his, he thought, and a
just one. He admired the dexterity with which
their host directed the
conversation. The five young men had various
tastes and their tongues
had been loosened. Villona, with immense respect,
began to discover to
the mildly surprised Englishman the beauties
of the English madrigal,
deploring the loss of old instruments. Riviere,
not wholly ingenuously,
undertook to explain to Jimmy the triumph
of the French mechanicians.
The resonant voice of the Hungarian was about
to prevail in ridicule of
the spurious lutes of the romantic painters
when Segouin shepherded his
party into politics. Here was congenial ground
for all. Jimmy, under
generous influences, felt the buried zeal
of his father wake to life
within him: he aroused the torpid Routh at
last. The room grew doubly
hot and Segouin's task grew harder each moment:
there was even danger
of personal spite. The alert host at an opportunity
lifted his glass
to Humanity and, when the toast had been drunk,
he threw open a window
significantly.
That night the city wore the mask of a capital.
The five young men
strolled along Stephen's Green in a faint
cloud of aromatic smoke. They
talked loudly and gaily and their cloaks dangled
from their shoulders.
The people made way for them. At the corner
of Grafton Street a short
fat man was putting two handsome ladies on
a car in charge of another
fat man. The car drove off and the short fat
man caught sight of the
party.
"Andre."
"It's Farley!"
A torrent of talk followed. Farley was an
American. No one knew very
well what the talk was about. Villona and
Riviere were the noisiest,
but all the men were excited. They got up
on a car, squeezing themselves
together amid much laughter. They drove by
the crowd, blended now into
soft colours, to a music of merry bells. They
took the train at Westland
Row and in a few seconds, as it seemed to
Jimmy, they were walking out
of Kingstown Station. The ticket-collector
saluted Jimmy; he was an old
man:
"Fine night, sir!"
It was a serene summer night; the harbour
lay like a darkened mirror at
their feet. They proceeded towards it with
linked arms, singing Cadet
Roussel in chorus, stamping their feet at
every:
"Ho! Ho! Hohe, vraiment!"
They got into a rowboat at the slip and made
out for the American's
yacht. There was to be supper, music, cards.
Villona said with
conviction:
"It is delightful!"
There was a yacht piano in the cabin. Villona
played a waltz for Farley
and Riviere, Farley acting as cavalier and
Riviere as lady. Then
an impromptu square dance, the men devising
original figures. What
merriment! Jimmy took his part with a will;
this was seeing life, at
least. Then Farley got out of breath and cried
"Stop!" A man brought in
a light supper, and the young men sat down
to it for form's sake. They
drank, however: it was Bohemian. They drank
Ireland, England, France,
Hungary, the United States of America. Jimmy
made a speech, a long
speech, Villona saying: "Hear! hear!" whenever
there was a pause. There
was a great clapping of hands when he sat
down. It must have been a good
speech. Farley clapped him on the back and
laughed loudly. What jovial
fellows! What good company they were!
Cards! cards! The table was cleared. Villona
returned quietly to his
piano and played voluntaries for them. The
other men played game after
game, flinging themselves boldly into the
adventure. They drank the
health of the Queen of Hearts and of the Queen
of Diamonds. Jimmy felt
obscurely the lack of an audience: the wit
was flashing. Play ran very
high and paper began to pass. Jimmy did not
know exactly who was
winning but he knew that he was losing. But
it was his own fault for
he frequently mistook his cards and the other
men had to calculate his
I.O.U.'s for him. They were devils of fellows
but he wished they would
stop: it was getting late. Someone gave the
toast of the yacht The Belle
of Newport and then someone proposed one great
game for a finish.
The piano had stopped; Villona must have gone
up on deck. It was a
terrible game. They stopped just before the
end of it to drink for
luck. Jimmy understood that the game lay between
Routh and Segouin. What
excitement! Jimmy was excited too; he would
lose, of course. How much
had he written away? The men rose to their
feet to play the last tricks.
talking and gesticulating. Routh won. The
cabin shook with the young
men's cheering and the cards were bundled
together. They began then to
gather in what they had won. Farley and Jimmy
were the heaviest losers.
He knew that he would regret in the morning
but at present he was glad
of the rest, glad of the dark stupor that
would cover up his folly. He
leaned his elbows on the table and rested
his head between his hands,
counting the beats of his temples. The cabin
door opened and he saw the
Hungarian standing in a shaft of grey light:
"Daybreak, gentlemen!"
TWO GALLANTS
THE grey warm evening of August had descended
upon the city and a mild
warm air, a memory of summer, circulated in
the streets. The streets,
shuttered for the repose of Sunday, swarmed
with a gaily coloured crowd.
Like illumined pearls the lamps shone from
the summits of their tall
poles upon the living texture below which,
changing shape and hue
unceasingly, sent up into the warm grey evening
air an unchanging
unceasing murmur.
Two young men came down the hill of Rutland
Square. One of them was just
bringing a long monologue to a close. The
other, who walked on the verge
of the path and was at times obliged to step
on to the road, owing to
his companion's rudeness, wore an amused listening
face. He was squat
and ruddy. A yachting cap was shoved far back
from his forehead and the
narrative to which he listened made constant
waves of expression break
forth over his face from the corners of his
nose and eyes and mouth.
Little jets of wheezing laughter followed
one another out of his
convulsed body. His eyes, twinkling with cunning
enjoyment, glanced at
every moment towards his companion's face.
Once or twice he rearranged
the light waterproof which he had slung over
one shoulder in toreador
fashion. His breeches, his white rubber shoes
and his jauntily slung
waterproof expressed youth. But his figure
fell into rotundity at the
waist, his hair was scant and grey and his
face, when the waves of
expression had passed over it, had a ravaged
look.
When he was quite sure that the narrative
had ended he laughed
noiselessly for fully half a minute. Then
he said:
"Well!... That takes the biscuit!"
His voice seemed winnowed of vigour; and to
enforce his words he added
with humour:
"That takes the solitary, unique, and, if
I may so call it, recherche
biscuit!"
He became serious and silent when he had said
this. His tongue was tired
for he had been talking all the afternoon
in a public-house in Dorset
Street. Most people considered Lenehan a leech
but, in spite of this
reputation, his adroitness and eloquence had
always prevented his
friends from forming any general policy against
him. He had a brave
manner of coming up to a party of them in
a bar and of holding himself
nimbly at the borders of the company until
he was included in a round.
He was a sporting vagrant armed with a vast
stock of stories, limericks
and riddles. He was insensitive to all kinds
of discourtesy. No one
knew how he achieved the stern task of living,
but his name was vaguely
associated with racing tissues.
"And where did you pick her up, Corley?" he
asked.
Corley ran his tongue swiftly along his upper
lip.
"One night, man," he said, "I was going along
Dame Street and I spotted
a fine tart under Waterhouse's clock and said
good-night, you know. So
we went for a walk round by the canal and
she told me she was a slavey
in a house in Baggot Street. I put my arm
round her and squeezed her a
bit that night. Then next Sunday, man, I met
her by appointment. We went
out to Donnybrook and I brought her into a
field there. She told me she
used to go with a dairyman.... It was fine,
man. Cigarettes every night
she'd bring me and paying the tram out and
back. And one night she
brought me two bloody fine cigars--O, the
real cheese, you know, that
the old fellow used to smoke.... I was afraid,
man, she'd get in the
family way. But she's up to the dodge."
"Maybe she thinks you'll marry her," said
Lenehan.
"I told her I was out of a job," said Corley.
"I told her I was in
Pim's. She doesn't know my name. I was too
hairy to tell her that. But
she thinks I'm a bit of class, you know."
Lenehan laughed again, noiselessly.
"Of all the good ones ever I heard," he said,
"that emphatically takes
the biscuit."
Corley's stride acknowledged the compliment.
The swing of his burly body
made his friend execute a few light skips
from the path to the roadway
and back again. Corley was the son of an inspector
of police and he had
inherited his father's frame and gait. He
walked with his hands by his
sides, holding himself erect and swaying his
head from side to side. His
head was large, globular and oily; it sweated
in all weathers; and his
large round hat, set upon it sideways, looked
like a bulb which had
grown out of another. He always stared straight
before him as if he were
on parade and, when he wished to gaze after
someone in the street, it
was necessary for him to move his body from
the hips. At present he was
about town. Whenever any job was vacant a
friend was always ready to
give him the hard word. He was often to be
seen walking with policemen
in plain clothes, talking earnestly. He knew
the inner side of all
affairs and was fond of delivering final judgments.
He spoke without
listening to the speech of his companions.
His conversation was mainly
about himself: what he had said to such a
person and what such a person
had said to him and what he had said to settle
the matter. When he
reported these dialogues he aspirated the
first letter of his name after
the manner of Florentines.
Lenehan offered his friend a cigarette. As
the two young men walked on
through the crowd Corley occasionally turned
to smile at some of the
passing girls but Lenehan's gaze was fixed
on the large faint moon
circled with a double halo. He watched earnestly
the passing of the grey
web of twilight across its face. At length
he said:
"Well... tell me, Corley, I suppose you'll
be able to pull it off all
right, eh?"
Corley closed one eye expressively as an answer.
"Is she game for that?" asked Lenehan dubiously.
"You can never know
women."
"She's all right," said Corley. "I know the
way to get around her, man.
She's a bit gone on me."
"You're what I call a gay Lothario," said
Lenehan. "And the proper kind
of a Lothario, too!"
A shade of mockery relieved the servility
of his manner. To save himself
he had the habit of leaving his flattery open
to the interpretation of
raillery. But Corley had not a subtle mind.
"There's nothing to touch a good slavey,"
he affirmed. "Take my tip for
it."
"By one who has tried them all," said Lenehan.
"First I used to go with girls, you know,"
said Corley, unbosoming;
"girls off the South Circular. I used to take
them out, man, on the
tram somewhere and pay the tram or take them
to a band or a play at the
theatre or buy them chocolate and sweets or
something that way. I used
to spend money on them right enough," he added,
in a convincing tone, as
if he was conscious of being disbelieved.
But Lenehan could well believe it; he nodded
gravely.
"I know that game," he said, "and it's a mug's
game."
"And damn the thing I ever got out of it,"
said Corley.
"Ditto here," said Lenehan.
"Only off of one of them," said Corley.
He moistened his upper lip by running his
tongue along it. The
recollection brightened his eyes. He too gazed
at the pale disc of the
moon, now nearly veiled, and seemed to meditate.
"She was... a bit of all right," he said regretfully.
He was silent again. Then he added:
"She's on the turf now. I saw her driving
down Earl Street one night
with two fellows with her on a car."
"I suppose that's your doing," said Lenehan.
"There was others at her before me," said
Corley philosophically.
This time Lenehan was inclined to disbelieve.
He shook his head to and
fro and smiled.
"You know you can't kid me, Corley," he said.
"Honest to God!" said Corley. "Didn't she
tell me herself?"
Lenehan made a tragic gesture.
"Base betrayer!" he said.
As they passed along the railings of Trinity
College, Lenehan skipped
out into the road and peered up at the clock.
"Twenty after," he said.
"Time enough," said Corley. "She'll be there
all right. I always let her
wait a bit."
Lenehan laughed quietly.
"Ecod! Corley, you know how to take them,"
he said.
"I'm up to all their little tricks," Corley
confessed.
"But tell me," said Lenehan again, "are you
sure you can bring it off
all right? You know it's a ticklish job. They're
damn close on that
point. Eh?... What?"
His bright, small eyes searched his companion's
face for reassurance.
Corley swung his head to and fro as if to
toss aside an insistent
insect, and his brows gathered.
"I'll pull it off," he said. "Leave it to
me, can't you?"
Lenehan said no more. He did not wish to ruffle
his friend's temper, to
be sent to the devil and told that his advice
was not wanted. A little
tact was necessary. But Corley's brow was
soon smooth again. His
thoughts were running another way.
"She's a fine decent tart," he said, with
appreciation; "that's what she
is."
They walked along Nassau Street and then turned
into Kildare Street. Not
far from the porch of the club a harpist stood
in the roadway, playing
to a little ring of listeners. He plucked
at the wires heedlessly,
glancing quickly from time to time at the
face of each new-comer and
from time to time, wearily also, at the sky.
His harp, too, heedless
that her coverings had fallen about her knees,
seemed weary alike of the
eyes of strangers and of her master's hands.
One hand played in the
bass the melody of Silent, O Moyle, while
the other hand careered in the
treble after each group of notes. The notes
of the air sounded deep and
full.
The two young men walked up the street without
speaking, the mournful
music following them. When they reached Stephen's
Green they crossed the
road. Here the noise of trams, the lights
and the crowd released them
from their silence.
"There she is!" said Corley.
At the corner of Hume Street a young woman
was standing. She wore a blue
dress and a white sailor hat. She stood on
the curbstone, swinging a
sunshade in one hand. Lenehan grew lively.
"Let's have a look at her, Corley," he said.
Corley glanced sideways at his friend and
an unpleasant grin appeared on
his face.
"Are you trying to get inside me?" he asked.
"Damn it!" said Lenehan boldly, "I don't want
an introduction. All I
want is to have a look at her. I'm not going
to eat her."
"O... A look at her?" said Corley, more amiably.
"Well... I'll tell you
what. I'll go over and talk to her and you
can pass by."
"Right!" said Lenehan.
Corley had already thrown one leg over the
chains when Lenehan called
out:
"And after? Where will we meet?"
"Half ten," answered Corley, bringing over
his other leg.
"Where?"
"Corner of Merrion Street. We'll be coming
back."
"Work it all right now," said Lenehan in farewell.
Corley did not answer. He sauntered across
the road swaying his head
from side to side. His bulk, his easy pace,
and the solid sound of his
boots had something of the conqueror in them.
He approached the young
woman and, without saluting, began at once
to converse with her. She
swung her umbrella more quickly and executed
half turns on her heels.
Once or twice when he spoke to her at close
quarters she laughed and
bent her head.
Lenehan observed them for a few minutes. Then
he walked rapidly along
beside the chains at some distance and crossed
the road obliquely. As he
approached Hume Street corner he found the
air heavily scented and his
eyes made a swift anxious scrutiny of the
young woman's appearance. She
had her Sunday finery on. Her blue serge skirt
was held at the waist by
a belt of black leather. The great silver
buckle of her belt seemed to
depress the centre of her body, catching the
light stuff of her white
blouse like a clip. She wore a short black
jacket with mother-of-pearl
buttons and a ragged black boa. The ends of
her tulle collarette had
been carefully disordered and a big bunch
of red flowers was pinned
in her bosomm stems upwards. Lenehan's eyes
noted approvingly her stout
short muscular body. Frank rude health glowed
in her face, on her fat red
cheeks and in her unabashed blue eyes. Her
features were blunt. She had
broad nostrils, a straggling mouth which lay
open in a contented leer,
and two projecting front teeth. As he passed
Lenehan took off his cap
and, after about ten seconds, Corley returned
a salute to the air. This
he did by raising his hand vaguely and pensively
changing the angle of
position of his hat.
Lenehan walked as far as the Shelbourne Hotel
where he halted and
waited. After waiting for a little time he
saw them coming towards him
and, when they turned to the right, he followed
them, stepping lightly
in his white shoes, down one side of Merrion
Square. As he walked on
slowly, timing his pace to theirs, he watched
Corley's head which turned
at every moment towards the young woman's
face like a big ball revolving
on a pivot. He kept the pair in view until
he had seen them climbing the
stairs of the Donnybrook tram; then he turned
about and went back the
way he had come.
Now that he was alone his face looked older.
His gaiety seemed to
forsake him and, as he came by the railings
of the Duke's Lawn, he
allowed his hand to run along them. The air
which the harpist had played
began to control his movements. His softly
padded feet played the melody
while his fingers swept a scale of variations
idly along the railings
after each group of notes.
He walked listlessly round Stephen's Green
and then down Grafton Street.
Though his eyes took note of many elements
of the crowd through which
he passed they did so morosely. He found trivial
all that was meant to
charm him and did not answer the glances which
invited him to be bold.
He knew that he would have to speak a great
deal, to invent and to amuse,
and his brain and throat were too dry for
such a task. The problem of
how he could pass the hours till he met Corley
again troubled him a
little. He could think of no way of passing
them but to keep on walking.
He turned to the left when he came to the
corner of Rutland Square and
felt more at ease in the dark quiet street,
the sombre look of which
suited his mood. He paused at last before
the window of a poor-looking
shop over which the words Refreshment Bar
were printed in white letters.
On the glass of the window were two flying
inscriptions: Ginger Beer and
Ginger Ale. A cut ham was exposed on a great
blue dish while near it
on a plate lay a segment of very light plum-pudding.
He eyed this food
earnestly for some time and then, after glancing
warily up and down the
street, went into the shop quickly.
He was hungry for, except some biscuits which
he had asked two grudging
curates to bring him, he had eaten nothing
since breakfast-time. He
sat down at an uncovered wooden table opposite
two work-girls and a
mechanic. A slatternly girl waited on him.
"How much is a plate of peas?" he asked.
"Three halfpence, sir," said the girl.
"Bring me a plate of peas," he said, "and
a bottle of ginger beer."
He spoke roughly in order to belie his air
of gentility for his entry
had been followed by a pause of talk. His
face was heated. To appear
natural he pushed his cap back on his head
and planted his elbows on the
table. The mechanic and the two work-girls
examined him point by point
before resuming their conversation in a subdued
voice. The girl brought
him a plate of grocer's hot peas, seasoned
with pepper and vinegar, a
fork and his ginger beer. He ate his food
greedily and found it so good
that he made a note of the shop mentally.
When he had eaten all the peas
he sipped his ginger beer and sat for some
time thinking of Corley's
adventure. In his imagination he beheld the
pair of lovers walking along
some dark road; he heard Corley's voice in
deep energetic gallantries
and saw again the leer of the young woman's
mouth. This vision made
him feel keenly his own poverty of purse and
spirit. He was tired
of knocking about, of pulling the devil by
the tail, of shifts and
intrigues. He would be thirty-one in November.
Would he never get a good
job? Would he never have a home of his own?
He thought how pleasant it
would be to have a warm fire to sit by and
a good dinner to sit down to.
He had walked the streets long enough with
friends and with girls. He
knew what those friends were worth: he knew
the girls too. Experience
had embittered his heart against the world.
But all hope had not left
him. He felt better after having eaten than
he had felt before, less
weary of his life, less vanquished in spirit.
He might yet be able to
settle down in some snug corner and live happily
if he could only come
across some good simple-minded girl with a
little of the ready.
He paid twopence halfpenny to the slatternly
girl and went out of the
shop to begin his wandering again. He went
into Capel Street and walked
along towards the City Hall. Then he turned
into Dame Street. At the
corner of George's Street he met two friends
of his and stopped to
converse with them. He was glad that he could
rest from all his walking.
His friends asked him had he seen Corley and
what was the latest. He
replied that he had spent the day with Corley.
His friends talked
very little. They looked vacantly after some
figures in the crowd and
sometimes made a critical remark. One said
that he had seen Mac an hour
before in Westmoreland Street. At this Lenehan
said that he had been
with Mac the night before in Egan's. The young
man who had seen Mac
in Westmoreland Street asked was it true that
Mac had won a bit over
a billiard match. Lenehan did not know: he
said that Holohan had stood
them drinks in Egan's.
He left his friends at a quarter to ten and
went up George's Street.
He turned to the left at the City Markets
and walked on into Grafton
Street. The crowd of girls and young men had
thinned and on his way
up the street he heard many groups and couples
bidding one another
good-night. He went as far as the clock of
the College of Surgeons: it
was on the stroke of ten. He set off briskly
along the northern side
of the Green hurrying for fear Corley should
return too soon. When he
reached the corner of Merrion Street he took
his stand in the shadow of
a lamp and brought out one of the cigarettes
which he had reserved and
lit it. He leaned against the lamp-post and
kept his gaze fixed on the
part from which he expected to see Corley
and the young woman return.
His mind became active again. He wondered
had Corley managed it
successfully. He wondered if he had asked
her yet or if he would leave
it to the last. He suffered all the pangs
and thrills of his friend's
situation as well as those of his own. But
the memory of Corley's slowly
revolving head calmed him somewhat: he was
sure Corley would pull it off
all right. All at once the idea struck him
that perhaps Corley had seen
her home by another way and given him the
slip. His eyes searched the
street: there was no sign of them. Yet it
was surely half-an-hour since
he had seen the clock of the College of Surgeons.
Would Corley do
a thing like that? He lit his last cigarette
and began to smoke it
nervously. He strained his eyes as each tram
stopped at the far corner
of the square. They must have gone home by
another way. The paper of his
cigarette broke and he flung it into the road
with a curse.
Suddenly he saw them coming towards him. He
started with delight and,
keeping close to his lamp-post, tried to read
the result in their walk.
They were walking quickly, the young woman
taking quick short steps,
while Corley kept beside her with his long
stride. They did not seem to
be speaking. An intimation of the result pricked
him like the point of a
sharp instrument. He knew Corley would fail;
he knew it was no go.
They turned down Baggot Street and he followed
them at once, taking the
other footpath. When they stopped he stopped
too. They talked for a few
moments and then the young woman went down
the steps into the area of
a house. Corley remained standing at the edge
of the path, a little
distance from the front steps. Some minutes
passed. Then the hall-door
was opened slowly and cautiously. A woman
came running down the front
steps and coughed. Corley turned and went
towards her. His broad figure
hid hers from view for a few seconds and then
she reappeared running
up the steps. The door closed on her and Corley
began to walk swiftly
towards Stephen's Green.
Lenehan hurried on in the same direction.
Some drops of light rain fell.
He took them as a warning and, glancing back
towards the house which the
young woman had entered to see that he was
not observed, he ran eagerly
across the road. Anxiety and his swift run
made him pant. He called out:
"Hallo, Corley!"
Corley turned his head to see who had called
him, and then continued
walking as before. Lenehan ran after him,
settling the waterproof on his
shoulders with one hand.
"Hallo, Corley!" he cried again.
He came level with his friend and looked keenly
in his face. He could
see nothing there.
"Well?" he said. "Did it come off?"
They had reached the corner of Ely Place.
Still without answering,
Corley swerved to the left and went up the
side street. His features
were composed in stern calm. Lenehan kept
up with his friend, breathing
uneasily. He was baffled and a note of menace
pierced through his voice.
"Can't you tell us?" he said. "Did you try
her?"
Corley halted at the first lamp and stared
grimly before him. Then
with a grave gesture he extended a hand towards
the light and, smiling,
opened it slowly to the gaze of his disciple.
A small gold coin shone 
in
the palm.
THE BOARDING HOUSE
MRS. MOONEY was a butcher's daughter. She
was a woman who was quite
able to keep things to herself: a determined
woman. She had married her
father's foreman and opened a butcher's shop
near Spring Gardens. But as
soon as his father-in-law was dead Mr. Mooney
began to go to the devil.
He drank, plundered the till, ran headlong
into debt. It was no use
making him take the pledge: he was sure to
break out again a few days
after. By fighting his wife in the presence
of customers and by buying
bad meat he ruined his business. One night
he went for his wife with the
cleaver and she had to sleep in a neighbour's
house.
After that they lived apart. She went to the
priest and got a separation
from him with care of the children. She would
give him neither money
nor food nor house-room; and so he was obliged
to enlist himself as a
sheriff's man. He was a shabby stooped little
drunkard with a white face
and a white moustache and white eyebrows,
pencilled above his little eyes,
which were pink-veined and raw; and all day
long he sat in the bailiff's
room, waiting to be put on a job. Mrs. Mooney,
who had taken what
remained of her money out of the butcher business
and set up a boarding
house in Hardwicke Street, was a big imposing
woman. Her house had a
floating population made up of tourists from
Liverpool and the Isle
of Man and, occasionally, artistes from the
music halls. Its resident
population was made up of clerks from the
city. She governed her house
cunningly and firmly, knew when to give credit,
when to be stern and
when to let things pass. All the resident
young men spoke of her as The
Madam.
Mrs. Mooney's young men paid fifteen shillings
a week for board and
lodgings (beer or stout at dinner excluded).
They shared in common
tastes and occupations and for this reason
they were very chummy with
one another. They discussed with one another
the chances of favourites
and outsiders. Jack Mooney, the Madam's son,
who was clerk to a
commission agent in Fleet Street, had the
reputation of being a hard
case. He was fond of using soldiers' obscenities:
usually he came home
in the small hours. When he met his friends
he had always a good one
to tell them and he was always sure to be
on to a good thing--that is to
say, a likely horse or a likely artiste. He
was also handy with the mits
and sang comic songs. On Sunday nights there
would often be a reunion in
Mrs. Mooney's front drawing-room. The music-hall
artistes would oblige;
and Sheridan played waltzes and polkas and
vamped accompaniments. Polly
Mooney, the Madam's daughter, would also sing.
She sang:
I'm a... naughty girl.
You needn't sham:
You know I am.
Polly was a slim girl of nineteen; she had
light soft hair and a small
full mouth. Her eyes, which were grey with
a shade of green through
them, had a habit of glancing upwards when
she spoke with anyone, which
made her look like a little perverse madonna.
Mrs. Mooney had first
sent her daughter to be a typist in a corn-factor's
office but, as a
disreputable sheriff's man used to come every
other day to the office,
asking to be allowed to say a word to his
daughter, she had taken her
daughter home again and set her to do housework.
As Polly was very
lively the intention was to give her the run
of the young men. Besides,
young men like to feel that there is a young
woman not very far away.
Polly, of course, flirted with the young men
but Mrs. Mooney, who was a
shrewd judge, knew that the young men were
only passing the time away:
none of them meant business. Things went on
so for a long time and Mrs.
Mooney began to think of sending Polly back
to typewriting when she
noticed that something was going on between
Polly and one of the young
men. She watched the pair and kept her own
counsel.
Polly knew that she was being watched, but
still her mother's persistent
silence could not be misunderstood. There
had been no open complicity
between mother and daughter, no open understanding
but, though people
in the house began to talk of the affair,
still Mrs. Mooney did not
intervene. Polly began to grow a little strange
in her manner and the
young man was evidently perturbed. At last,
when she judged it to be the
right moment, Mrs. Mooney intervened. She
dealt with moral problems as a
cleaver deals with meat: and in this case
she had made up her mind.
It was a bright Sunday morning of early summer,
promising heat, but with
a fresh breeze blowing. All the windows of
the boarding house were open
and the lace curtains ballooned gently towards
the street beneath the
raised sashes. The belfry of George's Church
sent out constant peals and
worshippers, singly or in groups, traversed
the little circus before
the church, revealing their purpose by their
self-contained demeanour
no less than by the little volumes in their
gloved hands. Breakfast
was over in the boarding house and the table
of the breakfast-room was
covered with plates on which lay yellow streaks
of eggs with morsels
of bacon-fat and bacon-rind. Mrs. Mooney sat
in the straw arm-chair
and watched the servant Mary remove the breakfast
things. She made Mary
collect the crusts and pieces of broken bread
to help to make Tuesday's
bread-pudding. When the table was cleared,
the broken bread collected,
the sugar and butter safe under lock and key,
she began to reconstruct
the interview which she had had the night
before with Polly. Things were
as she had suspected: she had been frank in
her questions and Polly had
been frank in her answers. Both had been somewhat
awkward, of course.
She had been made awkward by her not wishing
to receive the news in too
cavalier a fashion or to seem to have connived
and Polly had been
made awkward not merely because allusions
of that kind always made her
awkward but also because she did not wish
it to be thought that in
her wise innocence she had divined the intention
behind her mother's
tolerance.
Mrs. Mooney glanced instinctively at the little
gilt clock on the
mantelpiece as soon as she had become aware
through her revery that the
bells of George's Church had stopped ringing.
It was seventeen minutes
past eleven: she would have lots of time to
have the matter out with Mr.
Doran and then catch short twelve at Marlborough
Street. She was sure
she would win. To begin with she had all the
weight of social opinion
on her side: she was an outraged mother. She
had allowed him to live
beneath her roof, assuming that he was a man
of honour, and he had simply
abused her hospitality. He was thirty-four
or thirty-five years of age,
so that youth could not be pleaded as his
excuse; nor could ignorance
be his excuse since he was a man who had seen
something of the world. He
had simply taken advantage of Polly's youth
and inexperience: that was
evident. The question was: What reparation
would he make?
There must be reparation made in such cases.
It is all very well for
the man: he can go his ways as if nothing
had happened, having had his
moment of pleasure, but the girl has to bear
the brunt. Some mothers
would be content to patch up such an affair
for a sum of money; she had
known cases of it. But she would not do so.
For her only one reparation
could make up for the loss of her daughter's
honour: marriage.
She counted all her cards again before sending
Mary up to Mr. Doran's room
to say that she wished to speak with him.
She felt sure she would win.
He was a serious young man, not rakish or
loud-voiced like the others.
If it had been Mr. Sheridan or Mr. Meade or
Bantam Lyons her task would
have been much harder. She did not think he
would face publicity. All
the lodgers in the house knew something of
the affair; details had been
invented by some. Besides, he had been employed
for thirteen years in a
great Catholic wine-merchant's office and
publicity would mean for him,
perhaps, the loss of his job. Whereas if he
agreed all might be well.
She knew he had a good screw for one thing
and she suspected he had a
bit of stuff put by.
Nearly the half-hour! She stood up and surveyed
herself in the
pier-glass. The decisive expression of her
great florid face satisfied
her and she thought of some mothers she knew
who could not get their
daughters off their hands.
Mr. Doran was very anxious indeed this Sunday
morning. He had made two
attempts to shave but his hand had been so
unsteady that he had been
obliged to desist. Three days' reddish beard
fringed his jaws and every
two or three minutes a mist gathered on his
glasses so that he had
to take them off and polish them with his
pocket-handkerchief. The
recollection of his confession of the night
before was a cause of acute
pain to him; the priest had drawn out every
ridiculous detail of the
affair and in the end had so magnified his
sin that he was almost
thankful at being afforded a loophole of reparation.
The harm was done.
What could he do now but marry her or run
away? He could not brazen it
out. The affair would be sure to be talked
of and his employer would
be certain to hear of it. Dublin is such a
small city: everyone knows
everyone else's business. He felt his heart
leap warmly in his throat as
he heard in his excited imagination old Mr.
Leonard calling out in his
rasping voice: "Send Mr. Doran here, please."
All his long years of service gone for nothing!
All his industry and
diligence thrown away! As a young man he had
sown his wild oats, of
course; he had boasted of his free-thinking
and denied the existence of
God to his companions in public-houses. But
that was all passed and done
with... nearly. He still bought a copy of
Reynolds's Newspaper every
week but he attended to his religious duties
and for nine-tenths of the
year lived a regular life. He had money enough
to settle down on; it was
not that. But the family would look down on
her. First of all there
was her disreputable father and then her mother's
boarding house was
beginning to get a certain fame. He had a
notion that he was being had.
He could imagine his friends talking of the
affair and laughing. She was
a little vulgar; some times she said "I seen"
and "If I had've known."
But what would grammar matter if he really
loved her? He could not make
up his mind whether to like her or despise
her for what she had done. Of
course he had done it too. His instinct urged
him to remain free, not to
marry. Once you are married you are done for,
it said.
While he was sitting helplessly on the side
of the bed in shirt and
trousers she tapped lightly at his door and
entered. She told him all,
that she had made a clean breast of it to
her mother and that her mother
would speak with him that morning. She cried
and threw her arms round
his neck, saying:
"O Bob! Bob! What am I to do? What am I to
do at all?"
She would put an end to herself, she said.
He comforted her feebly, telling her not to
cry, that it would be all
right, never fear. He felt against his shirt
the agitation of her bosom.
It was not altogether his fault that it had
happened. He remembered
well, with the curious patient memory of the
celibate, the first casual
caresses her dress, her breath, her fingers
had given him. Then late one
night as he was undressing for bed she had
tapped at his door, timidly. She
wanted to relight her candle at his for hers
had been blown out by a
gust. It was her bath night. She wore a loose
open combing-jacket of
printed flannel. Her white instep shone in
the opening of her furry
slippers and the blood glowed warmly behind
her perfumed skin. From her
hands and wrists too as she lit and steadied
her candle a faint perfume
arose.
On nights when he came in very late it was
she who warmed up his dinner.
He scarcely knew what he was eating, feeling
her beside him alone, at
night, in the sleeping house. And her thoughtfulness!
If the night was
anyway cold or wet or windy there was sure
to be a little tumbler of
punch ready for him. Perhaps they could be
happy together....
They used to go upstairs together on tiptoe,
each with a candle, and on
the third landing exchange reluctant good-nights.
They used to kiss. He
remembered well her eyes, the touch of her
hand and his delirium....
But delirium passes. He echoed her phrase,
applying it to himself: "What
am I to do?" The instinct of the celibate
warned him to hold back. But
the sin was there; even his sense of honour
told him that reparation
must be made for such a sin.
While he was sitting with her on the side
of the bed Mary came to the
door and said that the missus wanted to see
him in the parlour. He stood
up to put on his coat and waistcoat, more
helpless than ever. When he
was dressed he went over to her to comfort
her. It would be all right,
never fear. He left her crying on the bed
and moaning softly: "O my
God!"
Going down the stairs his glasses became so
dimmed with moisture that
he had to take them off and polish them. He
longed to ascend through the
roof and fly away to another country where
he would never hear again
of his trouble, and yet a force pushed him
downstairs step by step.
The implacable faces of his employer and of
the Madam stared upon his
discomfiture. On the last flight of stairs
he passed Jack Mooney who
was coming up from the pantry nursing two
bottles of Bass. They saluted
coldly; and the lover's eyes rested for a
second or two on a thick
bulldog face and a pair of thick short arms.
When he reached the foot of
the staircase he glanced up and saw Jack regarding
him from the door of
the return-room.
Suddenly he remembered the night when one
of the music-hall artistes,
a little blond Londoner, had made a rather
free allusion to Polly.
The reunion had been almost broken up on account
of Jack's violence.
Everyone tried to quiet him. The music-hall
artiste, a little paler than
usual, kept smiling and saying that there
was no harm meant: but Jack
kept shouting at him that if any fellow tried
that sort of a game on
with his sister he'd bloody well put his teeth
down his throat, so he
would.
Polly sat for a little time on the side of
the bed, crying. Then she
dried her eyes and went over to the looking-glass.
She dipped the end of
the towel in the water-jug and refreshed her
eyes with the cool water.
She looked at herself in profile and readjusted
a hairpin above her ear.
Then she went back to the bed again and sat
at the foot. She regarded
the pillows for a long time and the sight
of them awakened in her mind
secret, amiable memories. She rested the nape
of her neck against the
cool iron bed-rail and fell into a reverie.
There was no longer any
perturbation visible on her face.
She waited on patiently, almost cheerfully,
without alarm, her memories
gradually giving place to hopes and visions
of the future. Her hopes and
visions were so intricate that she no longer
saw the white pillows
on which her gaze was fixed or remembered
that she was waiting for
anything.
At last she heard her mother calling. She
started to her feet and ran to
the banisters.
"Polly! Polly!"
"Yes, mamma?"
"Come down, dear. Mr. Doran wants to speak
to you."
Then she remembered what she had been waiting
for.
A LITTLE CLOUD
EIGHT years before he had seen his friend
off at the North Wall and
wished him godspeed. Gallaher had got on.
You could tell that at once
by his travelled air, his well-cut tweed suit,
and fearless accent. Few
fellows had talents like his and fewer still
could remain unspoiled
by such success. Gallaher's heart was in the
right place and he had
deserved to win. It was something to have
a friend like that.
Little Chandler's thoughts ever since lunch-time
had been of his meeting
with Gallaher, of Gallaher's invitation and
of the great city London
where Gallaher lived. He was called Little
Chandler because, though
he was but slightly under the average stature,
he gave one the idea
of being a little man. His hands were white
and small, his frame was
fragile, his voice was quiet and his manners
were refined. He took the
greatest care of his fair silken hair and
moustache and used perfume
discreetly on his handkerchief. The half-moons
of his nails were perfect
and when he smiled you caught a glimpse of
a row of childish white
teeth.
As he sat at his desk in the King's Inns he
thought what changes those
eight years had brought. The friend whom he
had known under a shabby and
necessitous guise had become a brilliant figure
on the London Press. He
turned often from his tiresome writing to
gaze out of the office window.
The glow of a late autumn sunset covered the
grass plots and walks. It
cast a shower of kindly golden dust on the
untidy nurses and decrepit
old men who drowsed on the benches; it flickered
upon all the moving
figures--on the children who ran screaming
along the gravel paths and
on everyone who passed through the gardens.
He watched the scene and
thought of life; and (as always happened when
he thought of life) he
became sad. A gentle melancholy took possession
of him. He felt how
useless it was to struggle against fortune,
this being the burden of
wisdom which the ages had bequeathed to him.
He remembered the books of poetry upon his
shelves at home. He had
bought them in his bachelor days and many
an evening, as he sat in the
little room off the hall, he had been tempted
to take one down from the
bookshelf and read out something to his wife.
But shyness had always
held him back; and so the books had remained
on their shelves. At times
he repeated lines to himself and this consoled
him.
When his hour had struck he stood up and took
leave of his desk and of
his fellow-clerks punctiliously. He emerged
from under the feudal
arch of the King's Inns, a neat modest figure,
and walked swiftly down
Henrietta Street. The golden sunset was waning
and the air had grown
sharp. A horde of grimy children populated
the street. They stood or
ran in the roadway or crawled up the steps
before the gaping doors or
squatted like mice upon the thresholds. Little
Chandler gave them no
thought. He picked his way deftly through
all that minute vermin-like
life and under the shadow of the gaunt spectral
mansions in which the
old nobility of Dublin had roystered. No memory
of the past touched him,
for his mind was full of a present joy.
He had never been in Corless's but he knew
the value of the name. He
knew that people went there after the theatre
to eat oysters and drink
liqueurs; and he had heard that the waiters
there spoke French and
German. Walking swiftly by at night he had
seen cabs drawn up before the
door and richly dressed ladies, escorted by
cavaliers, alight and
enter quickly. They wore noisy dresses and
many wraps. Their faces were
powdered and they caught up their dresses,
when they touched earth,
like alarmed Atalantas. He had always passed
without turning his head
to look. It was his habit to walk swiftly
in the street even by day and
whenever he found himself in the city late
at night he hurried on his
way apprehensively and excitedly. Sometimes,
however, he courted the
causes of his fear. He chose the darkest and
narrowest streets and,
as he walked boldly forward, the silence that
was spread about his
footsteps troubled him, the wandering, silent
figures troubled him; and
at times a sound of low fugitive laughter
made him tremble like a leaf.
He turned to the right towards Capel Street.
Ignatius Gallaher on the
London Press! Who would have thought it possible
eight years before?
Still, now that he reviewed the past, Little
Chandler could remember
many signs of future greatness in his friend.
People used to say that
Ignatius Gallaher was wild. Of course, he
did mix with a rakish set of
fellows at that time, drank freely and borrowed
money on all sides.
In the end he had got mixed up in some shady
affair, some money
transaction: at least, that was one version
of his flight. But nobody
denied him talent. There was always a certain...
something in Ignatius
Gallaher that impressed you in spite of yourself.
Even when he was out
at elbows and at his wits' end for money he
kept up a bold face. Little
Chandler remembered (and the remembrance brought
a slight flush of pride
to his cheek) one of Ignatius Gallaher's sayings
when he was in a tight
corner:
"Half time now, boys," he used to say light-heartedly.
"Where's my
considering cap?"
That was Ignatius Gallaher all out; and, damn
it, you couldn't but
admire him for it.
Little Chandler quickened his pace. For the
first time in his life he
felt himself superior to the people he passed.
For the first time his
soul revolted against the dull inelegance
of Capel Street. There was no
doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you
had to go away. You could
do nothing in Dublin. As he crossed Grattan
Bridge he looked down the
river towards the lower quays and pitied the
poor stunted houses. They
seemed to him a band of tramps, huddled together
along the riverbanks,
their old coats covered with dust and soot,
stupefied by the panorama
of sunset and waiting for the first chill
of night bid them arise, shake
themselves and begone. He wondered whether
he could write a poem to
express his idea. Perhaps Gallaher might be
able to get it into some
London paper for him. Could he write something
original? He was not sure
what idea he wished to express but the thought
that a poetic moment had
touched him took life within him like an infant
hope. He stepped onward
bravely.
Every step brought him nearer to London, farther
from his own sober
inartistic life. A light began to tremble
on the horizon of his mind. He
was not so old--thirty-two. His temperament
might be said to be just
at the point of maturity. There were so many
different moods and
impressions that he wished to express in verse.
He felt them within him.
He tried weigh to his soul to see if it was
a poet's soul. Melancholy
was the dominant note of his temperament,
he thought, but it was a
melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith
and resignation and simple
joy. If he could give expression to it in
a book of poems perhaps men
would listen. He would never be popular: he
saw that. He could not sway
the crowd but he might appeal to a little
circle of kindred minds.
The English critics, perhaps, would recognise
him as one of the Celtic
school by reason of the melancholy tone of
his poems; besides that, he
would put in allusions. He began to invent
sentences and phrases from
the notice which his book would get. "Mr.
Chandler has the gift of easy
and graceful verse."... "wistful sadness pervades
these poems."... "The
Celtic note." It was a pity his name was not
more Irish-looking. Perhaps
it would be better to insert his mother's
name before the surname:
Thomas Malone Chandler, or better still: T.
Malone Chandler. He would
speak to Gallaher about it.
He pursued his revery so ardently that he
passed his street and had
to turn back. As he came near Corless's his
former agitation began to
overmaster him and he halted before the door
in indecision. Finally he
opened the door and entered.
The light and noise of the bar held him at
the doorways for a few
moments. He looked about him, but his sight
was confused by the shining
of many red and green wine-glasses The bar
seemed to him to be full
of people and he felt that the people were
observing him curiously. He
glanced quickly to right and left (frowning
slightly to make his errand
appear serious), but when his sight cleared
a little he saw that nobody
had turned to look at him: and there, sure
enough, was Ignatius Gallaher
leaning with his back against the counter
and his feet planted far
apart.
"Hallo, Tommy, old hero, here you are! What
is it to be? What will you
have? I'm taking whisky: better stuff than
we get across the water.
Soda? Lithia? No mineral? I'm the same. Spoils
the flavour.... Here,
garcon, bring us two halves of malt whisky,
like a good fellow.... Well,
and how have you been pulling along since
I saw you last? Dear God,
how old we're getting! Do you see any signs
of aging in me--eh, what? A
little grey and thin on the top--what?"
Ignatius Gallaher took off his hat and displayed
a large closely cropped
head. His face was heavy, pale and cleanshaven.
His eyes, which were of
bluish slate-colour, relieved his unhealthy
pallor and shone out plainly
above the vivid orange tie he wore. Between
these rival features the
lips appeared very long and shapeless and
colourless. He bent his head
and felt with two sympathetic fingers the
thin hair at the crown. Little
Chandler shook his head as a denial. Ignatius
Galaher put on his hat
again.
"It pulls you down," he said. "Press life.
Always hurry and scurry,
looking for copy and sometimes not finding
it: and then, always to have
something new in your stuff. Damn proofs and
printers, I say, for a few
days. I'm deuced glad, I can tell you, to
get back to the old country.
Does a fellow good, a bit of a holiday. I
feel a ton better since I
landed again in dear dirty Dublin.... Here
you are, Tommy. Water? Say
when."
Little Chandler allowed his whisky to be very
much diluted.
"You don't know what's good for you, my boy,"
said Ignatius Gallaher. "I
drink mine neat."
"I drink very little as a rule," said Little
Chandler modestly. "An odd
half-one or so when I meet any of the old
crowd: that's all."
"Ah well," said Ignatius Gallaher, cheerfully,
"here's to us and to old
times and old acquaintance."
They clinked glasses and drank the toast.
"I met some of the old gang today," said Ignatius
Gallaher. "O'Hara
seems to be in a bad way. What's he doing?"
"Nothing," said Little Chandler. "He's gone
to the dogs."
"But Hogan has a good sit, hasn't he?"
"Yes; he's in the Land Commission."
"I met him one night in London and he seemed
to be very flush.... Poor
O'Hara! Boose, I suppose?"
"Other things, too," said Little Chandler
shortly.
Ignatius Gallaher laughed.
"Tommy," he said, "I see you haven't changed
an atom. You're the very
same serious person that used to lecture me
on Sunday mornings when I
had a sore head and a fur on my tongue. You'd
want to knock about a bit
in the world. Have you never been anywhere
even for a trip?"
"I've been to the Isle of Man," said Little
Chandler.
Ignatius Gallaher laughed.
"The Isle of Man!" he said. "Go to London
or Paris: Paris, for choice.
That'd do you good."
"Have you seen Paris?"
"I should think I have! I've knocked about
there a little."
"And is it really so beautiful as they say?"
asked Little Chandler.
He sipped a little of his drink while Ignatius
Gallaher finished his
boldly.
"Beautiful?" said Ignatius Gallaher, pausing
on the word and on the
flavour of his drink. "It's not so beautiful,
you know. Of course, it is
beautiful.... But it's the life of Paris;
that's the thing. Ah, there's
no city like Paris for gaiety, movement, excitement...."
Little Chandler finished his whisky and, after
some trouble, succeeded
in catching the barman's eye. He ordered the
same again.
"I've been to the Moulin Rouge," Ignatius
Gallaher continued when the
barman had removed their glasses, "and I've
been to all the Bohemian
cafes. Hot stuff! Not for a pious chap like
you, Tommy."
Little Chandler said nothing until the barman
returned with two glasses:
then he touched his friend's glass lightly
and reciprocated the former
toast. He was beginning to feel somewhat disillusioned.
Gallaher's
accent and way of expressing himself did not
please him. There was
something vulgar in his friend which he had
not observed before. But
perhaps it was only the result of living in
London amid the bustle and
competition of the Press. The old personal
charm was still there under
this new gaudy manner. And, after all, Gallaher
had lived, he had seen
the world. Little Chandler looked at his friend
enviously.
"Everything in Paris is gay," said Ignatius
Gallaher. "They believe in
enjoying life--and don't you think they're
right? If you want to enjoy
yourself properly you must go to Paris. And,
mind you, they've a great
feeling for the Irish there. When they heard
I was from Ireland they
were ready to eat me, man."
Little Chandler took four or five sips from
his glass.
"Tell me," he said, "is it true that Paris
is so... immoral as they
say?"
Ignatius Gallaher made a catholic gesture
with his right arm.
"Every place is immoral," he said. "Of course
you do find spicy bits in
Paris. Go to one of the students' balls, for
instance. That's lively, if
you like, when the cocottes begin to let themselves
loose. You know what
they are, I suppose?"
"I've heard of them," said Little Chandler.
Ignatius Gallaher drank off his whisky and
shook his head.
"Ah," he said, "you may say what you like.
There's no woman like the
Parisienne--for style, for go."
"Then it is an immoral city," said Little
Chandler, with timid
insistence--"I mean, compared with London
or Dublin?"
"London!" said Ignatius Gallaher. "It's six
of one and half-a-dozen of
the other. You ask Hogan, my boy. I showed
him a bit about London when
he was over there. He'd open your eye....
I say, Tommy, don't make punch
of that whisky: liquor up."
"No, really...."
"O, come on, another one won't do you any
harm. What is it? The same
again, I suppose?"
"Well... all right."
"Francois, the same again.... Will you smoke,
Tommy?"
Ignatius Gallaher produced his cigar-case.
The two friends lit their
cigars and puffed at them in silence until
their drinks were served.
"I'll tell you my opinion," said Ignatius
Gallaher, emerging after some
time from the clouds of smoke in which he
had taken refuge, "it's a rum
world. Talk of immorality! I've heard of cases--what
am I saying?--I've
known them: cases of... immorality...."
Ignatius Gallaher puffed thoughtfully at his
cigar and then, in a calm
historian's tone, he proceeded to sketch for
his friend some pictures
of the corruption which was rife abroad. He
summarised the vices of many
capitals and seemed inclined to award the
palm to Berlin. Some things he
could not vouch for (his friends had told
him), but of others he had had
personal experience. He spared neither rank
nor caste. He revealed many
of the secrets of religious houses on the
Continent and described some
of the practices which were fashionable in
high society and ended by
telling, with details, a story about an English
duchess--a story which
he knew to be true. Little Chandler was astonished.
"Ah, well," said Ignatius Gallaher, "here
we are in old jog-along Dublin
where nothing is known of such things."
"How dull you must find it," said Little Chandler,
"after all the other
places you've seen!"
"Well," said Ignatius Gallaher, "it's a relaxation
to come over here,
you know. And, after all, it's the old country,
as they say, isn't it?
You can't help having a certain feeling for
it. That's human nature....
But tell me something about yourself. Hogan
told me you had... tasted
the joys of connubial bliss. Two years ago,
wasn't it?"
Little Chandler blushed and smiled.
"Yes," he said. "I was married last May twelve
months."
"I hope it's not too late in the day to offer
my best wishes," said
Ignatius Gallaher. "I didn't know your address
or I'd have done so at
the time."
He extended his hand, which Little Chandler
took.
"Well, Tommy," he said, "I wish you and yours
every joy in life, old
chap, and tons of money, and may you never
die till I shoot you. And
that's the wish of a sincere friend, an old
friend. You know that?"
"I know that," said Little Chandler.
"Any youngsters?" said Ignatius Gallaher.
Little Chandler blushed again.
"We have one child," he said.
"Son or daughter?"
"A little boy."
Ignatius Gallaher slapped his friend sonorously
on the back.
"Bravo," he said, "I wouldn't doubt you, Tommy."
Little Chandler smiled, looked confusedly
at his glass and bit his lower
lip with three childishly white front teeth.
"I hope you'll spend an evening with us,"
he said, "before you go
back. My wife will be delighted to meet you.
We can have a little music
and----"
"Thanks awfully, old chap," said Ignatius
Gallaher, "I'm sorry we didn't
meet earlier. But I must leave tomorrow night."
"Tonight, perhaps...?"
"I'm awfully sorry, old man. You see I'm over
here with another
fellow, clever young chap he is too, and we
arranged to go to a little
card-party. Only for that..."
"O, in that case..."
"But who knows?" said Ignatius Gallaher considerately.
"Next year I may
take a little skip over here now that I've
broken the ice. It's only a
pleasure deferred."
"Very well," said Little Chandler, "the next
time you come we must have
an evening together. That's agreed now, isn't
it?"
"Yes, that's agreed," said Ignatius Gallaher.
"Next year if I come,
parole d'honneur."
"And to clinch the bargain," said Little Chandler,
"we'll just have one
more now."
Ignatius Gallaher took out a large gold watch
and looked at it.
"Is it to be the last?" he said. "Because
you know, I have an a.p."
"O, yes, positively," said Little Chandler.
"Very well, then," said Ignatius Gallaher,
"let us have another one as a
deoc an doruis--that's good vernacular for
a small whisky, I believe."
Little Chandler ordered the drinks. The blush
which had risen to his
face a few moments before was establishing
itself. A trifle made
him blush at any time: and now he felt warm
and excited. Three small
whiskies had gone to his head and Gallaher's
strong cigar had confused
his mind, for he was a delicate and abstinent
person. The adventure of
meeting Gallaher after eight years, of finding
himself with Gallaher
in Corless's surrounded by lights and noise,
of listening to Gallaher's
stories and of sharing for a brief space Gallaher's
vagrant and
triumphant life, upset the equipoise of his
sensitive nature. He felt
acutely the contrast between his own life
and his friend's and it seemed
to him unjust. Gallaher was his inferior in
birth and education. He was
sure that he could do something better than
his friend had ever done, or
could ever do, something higher than mere
tawdry journalism if he only
got the chance. What was it that stood in
his way? His unfortunate
timidity! He wished to vindicate himself in
some way, to assert his
manhood. He saw behind Gallaher's refusal
of his invitation. Gallaher
was only patronising him by his friendliness
just as he was patronising
Ireland by his visit.
The barman brought their drinks. Little Chandler
pushed one glass
towards his friend and took up the other boldly.
"Who knows?" he said, as they lifted their
glasses. "When you come next
year I may have the pleasure of wishing long
life and happiness to Mr.
and Mrs. Ignatius Gallaher."
Ignatius Gallaher in the act of drinking closed
one eye expressively
over the rim of his glass. When he had drunk
he smacked his lips
decisively, set down his glass and said:
"No blooming fear of that, my boy. I'm going
to have my fling first and
see a bit of life and the world before I put
my head in the sack--if I
ever do."
"Some day you will," said Little Chandler
calmly.
Ignatius Gallaher turned his orange tie and
slate-blue eyes full upon
his friend.
"You think so?" he said.
"You'll put your head in the sack," repeated
Little Chandler stoutly,
"like everyone else if you can find the girl."
He had slightly emphasised his tone and he
was aware that he had
betrayed himself; but, though the colour had
heightened in his cheek, he
did not flinch from his friend's gaze. Ignatius
Gallaher watched him for
a few moments and then said:
"If ever it occurs, you may bet your bottom
dollar there'll be no
mooning and spooning about it. I mean to marry
money. She'll have a good
fat account at the bank or she won't do for
me."
Little Chandler shook his head.
"Why, man alive," said Ignatius Gallaher,
vehemently, "do you know what
it is? I've only to say the word and tomorrow
I can have the woman
and the cash. You don't believe it? Well,
I know it. There are
hundreds--what am I saying?--thousands of
rich Germans and Jews, rotten
with money, that'd only be too glad.... You
wait a while my boy. See if
I don't play my cards properly. When I go
about a thing I mean business,
I tell you. You just wait."
He tossed his glass to his mouth, finished
his drink and laughed loudly.
Then he looked thoughtfully before him and
said in a calmer tone:
"But I'm in no hurry. They can wait. I don't
fancy tying myself up to
one woman, you know."
He imitated with his mouth the act of tasting
and made a wry face.
"Must get a bit stale, I should think," he
said.
* * * * *
Little Chandler sat in the room off the hall,
holding a child in his
arms. To save money they kept no servant but
Annie's young sister Monica
came for an hour or so in the morning and
an hour or so in the evening
to help. But Monica had gone home long ago.
It was a quarter to nine.
Little Chandler had come home late for tea
and, moreover, he had
forgotten to bring Annie home the parcel of
coffee from Bewley's. Of
course she was in a bad humour and gave him
short answers. She said she
would do without any tea but when it came
near the time at which the
shop at the corner closed she decided to go
out herself for a quarter
of a pound of tea and two pounds of sugar.
She put the sleeping child
deftly in his arms and said:
"Here. Don't waken him."
A little lamp with a white china shade stood
upon the table and its
light fell over a photograph which was enclosed
in a frame of crumpled
horn. It was Annie's photograph. Little Chandler
looked at it, pausing
at the thin tight lips. She wore the pale
blue summer blouse which he
had brought her home as a present one Saturday.
It had cost him ten and
elevenpence; but what an agony of nervousness
it had cost him! How
he had suffered that day, waiting at the shop
door until the shop was
empty, standing at the counter and trying
to appear at his ease while
the girl piled ladies' blouses before him,
paying at the desk and
forgetting to take up the odd penny of his
change, being called back by
the cashier, and finally, striving to hide
his blushes as he left the
shop by examining the parcel to see if it
was securely tied. When he
brought the blouse home Annie kissed him and
said it was very pretty and
stylish; but when she heard the price she
threw the blouse on the table
and said it was a regular swindle to charge
ten and elevenpence for it.
At first she wanted to take it back but when
she tried it on she was
delighted with it, especially with the make
of the sleeves, and kissed
him and said he was very good to think of
her.
Hm!...
He looked coldly into the eyes of the photograph
and they answered
coldly. Certainly they were pretty and the
face itself was pretty. But
he found something mean in it. Why was it
so unconscious and ladylike?
The composure of the eyes irritated him. They
repelled him and defied
him: there was no passion in them, no rapture.
He thought of what
Gallaher had said about rich Jewesses. Those
dark Oriental eyes, he
thought, how full they are of passion, of
voluptuous longing!... Why had
he married the eyes in the photograph?
He caught himself up at the question and glanced
nervously round the
room. He found something mean in the pretty
furniture which he had
bought for his house on the hire system. Annie
had chosen it herself
and it reminded him of her. It too was prim
and pretty. A dull resentment
against his life awoke within him. Could he
not escape from his little
house? Was it too late for him to try to live
bravely like Gallaher?
Could he go to London? There was the furniture
still to be paid for. If
he could only write a book and get it published,
that might open the way
for him.
A volume of Byron's poems lay before him on
the table. He opened it
cautiously with his left hand lest he should
waken the child and began
to read the first poem in the book:
Hushed are the winds and still the evening
gloom,
Not e'en a Zephyr wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb
And scatter flowers on the dust I love.
He paused. He felt the rhythm of the verse
about him in the room.
How melancholy it was! Could he, too, write
like that, express the
melancholy of his soul in verse? There were
so many things he wanted
to describe: his sensation of a few hours
before on Grattan Bridge, for
example. If he could get back again into that
mood....
The child awoke and began to cry. He turned
from the page and tried to
hush it: but it would not be hushed. He began
to rock it to and fro in
his arms but its wailing cry grew keener.
He rocked it faster while his
eyes began to read the second stanza:
Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,
That clay where once...
It was useless. He couldn't read. He couldn't
do anything. The wailing
of the child pierced the drum of his ear.
It was useless, useless!
He was a prisoner for life. His arms trembled
with anger and suddenly
bending to the child's face he shouted:
"Stop!"
The child stopped for an instant, had a spasm
of fright and began to
scream. He jumped up from his chair and walked
hastily up and down the
room with the child in his arms. It began
to sob piteously, losing its
breath for four or five seconds, and then
bursting out anew. The thin
walls of the room echoed the sound. He tried
to soothe it but it sobbed
more convulsively. He looked at the contracted
and quivering face of
the child and began to be alarmed. He counted
seven sobs without a
break between them and caught the child to
his breast in fright. If it
died!...
The door was burst open and a young woman
ran in, panting.
"What is it? What is it?" she cried.
The child, hearing its mother's voice, broke
out into a paroxysm of
sobbing.
"It's nothing, Annie... it's nothing.... He
began to cry..."
She flung her parcels on the floor and snatched
the child from him.
"What have you done to him?" she cried, glaring
into his face.
Little Chandler sustained for one moment the
gaze of her eyes and his
heart closed together as he met the hatred
in them. He began to stammer:
"It's nothing.... He... he began to cry....
I couldn't... I didn't do
anything.... What?"
Giving no heed to him she began to walk up
and down the room, clasping
the child tightly in her arms and murmuring:
"My little man! My little mannie! Was 'ou
frightened, love?... There
now, love! There now!... Lambabaun! Mamma's
little lamb of the world!...
There now!"
Little Chandler felt his cheeks suffused with
shame and he stood back
out of the lamplight. He listened while the
paroxysm of the child's
sobbing grew less and less; and tears of remorse
started to his eyes.
COUNTERPARTS
THE bell rang furiously and, when Miss Parker
went to the tube, a
furious voice called out in a piercing North
of Ireland accent:
"Send Farrington here!"
Miss Parker returned to her machine, saying
to a man who was writing at
a desk:
"Mr. Alleyne wants you upstairs."
The man muttered "Blast him!" under his breath
and pushed back his chair
to stand up. When he stood up he was tall
and of great bulk. He had a
hanging face, dark wine-coloured, with fair
eyebrows and moustache:
his eyes bulged forward slightly and the whites
of them were dirty.
He lifted up the counter and, passing by the
clients, went out of the
office with a heavy step.
He went heavily upstairs until he came to
the second landing, where
a door bore a brass plate with the inscription
Mr. Alleyne. Here he
halted, puffing with labour and vexation,
and knocked. The shrill voice
cried:
"Come in!"
The man entered Mr. Alleyne's room. Simultaneously
Mr. Alleyne, a little
man wearing gold-rimmed glasses on a cleanshaven
face, shot his head up
over a pile of documents. The head itself
was so pink and hairless it
seemed like a large egg reposing on the papers.
Mr. Alleyne did not lose
a moment:
"Farrington? What is the meaning of this?
Why have I always to complain
of you? May I ask you why you haven't made
a copy of that contract
between Bodley and Kirwan? I told you it must
be ready by four o'clock."
"But Mr. Shelley said, sir----"
"Mr. Shelley said, sir.... Kindly attend to
what I say and not to
what Mr. Shelley says, sir. You have always
some excuse or another for
shirking work. Let me tell you that if the
contract is not copied before
this evening I'll lay the matter before Mr.
Crosbie.... Do you hear me
now?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you hear me now?... Ay and another little
matter! I might as well be
talking to the wall as talking to you. Understand
once for all that you
get a half an hour for your lunch and not
an hour and a half. How many
courses do you want, I'd like to know....
Do you mind me now?"
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Alleyne bent his head again upon his pile
of papers. The man stared
fixedly at the polished skull which directed
the affairs of Crosbie &
Alleyne, gauging its fragility. A spasm of
rage gripped his throat for
a few moments and then passed, leaving after
it a sharp sensation of
thirst. The man recognised the sensation and
felt that he must have a
good night's drinking. The middle of the month
was passed and, if he
could get the copy done in time, Mr. Alleyne
might give him an order on
the cashier. He stood still, gazing fixedly
at the head upon the pile
of papers. Suddenly Mr. Alleyne began to upset
all the papers, searching
for something. Then, as if he had been unaware
of the man's presence
till that moment, he shot up his head again,
saying:
"Eh? Are you going to stand there all day?
Upon my word, Farrington, you
take things easy!"
"I was waiting to see..."
"Very good, you needn't wait to see. Go downstairs
and do your work."
The man walked heavily towards the door and,
as he went out of the room,
he heard Mr. Alleyne cry after him that if
the contract was not copied
by evening Mr. Crosbie would hear of the matter.
He returned to his desk in the lower office
and counted the sheets which
remained to be copied. He took up his pen
and dipped it in the ink but
he continued to stare stupidly at the last
words he had written: In no
case shall the said Bernard Bodley be... The
evening was falling and in
a few minutes they would be lighting the gas:
then he could write. He
felt that he must slake the thirst in his
throat. He stood up from his
desk and, lifting the counter as before, passed
out of the office. As he
was passing out the chief clerk looked at
him inquiringly.
"It's all right, Mr. Shelley," said the man,
pointing with his finger to
indicate the objective of his journey.
The chief clerk glanced at the hat-rack, but,
seeing the row complete,
offered no remark. As soon as he was on the
landing the man pulled
a shepherd's plaid cap out of his pocket,
put it on his head and ran
quickly down the rickety stairs. From the
street door he walked on
furtively on the inner side of the path towards
the corner and all at
once dived into a doorway. He was now safe
in the dark snug of O'Neill's
shop, and filling up the little window that
looked into the bar with his
inflamed face, the colour of dark wine or
dark meat, he called out:
"Here, Pat, give us a g.p., like a good fellow."
The curate brought him a glass of plain porter.
The man drank it at a
gulp and asked for a caraway seed. He put
his penny on the counter and,
leaving the curate to grope for it in the
gloom, retreated out of the
snug as furtively as he had entered it.
Darkness, accompanied by a thick fog, was
gaining upon the dusk of
February and the lamps in Eustace Street had
been lit. The man went up
by the houses until he reached the door of
the office, wondering whether
he could finish his copy in time. On the stairs
a moist pungent odour of
perfumes saluted his nose: evidently Miss
Delacour had come while he
was out in O'Neill's. He crammed his cap back
again into his pocket and
re-entered the office, assuming an air of
absentmindedness.
"Mr. Alleyne has been calling for you," said
the chief clerk severely.
"Where were you?"
The man glanced at the two clients who were
standing at the counter as
if to intimate that their presence prevented
him from answering. As the
clients were both male the chief clerk allowed
himself a laugh.
"I know that game," he said. "Five times in
one day is a little bit...
Well, you better look sharp and get a copy
of our correspondence in the
Delacour case for Mr. Alleyne."
This address in the presence of the public,
his run upstairs and the
porter he had gulped down so hastily confused
the man and, as he sat
down at his desk to get what was required,
he realised how hopeless was
the task of finishing his copy of the contract
before half past five.
The dark damp night was coming and he longed
to spend it in the bars,
drinking with his friends amid the glare of
gas and the clatter of
glasses. He got out the Delacour correspondence
and passed out of
the office. He hoped Mr. Alleyne would not
discover that the last two
letters were missing.
The moist pungent perfume lay all the way
up to Mr. Alleyne's room. Miss
Delacour was a middle-aged woman of Jewish
appearance. Mr. Alleyne was
said to be sweet on her or on her money. She
came to the office often
and stayed a long time when she came. She
was sitting beside his desk
now in an aroma of perfumes, smoothing the
handle of her umbrella and
nodding the great black feather in her hat.
Mr. Alleyne had swivelled
his chair round to face her and thrown his
right foot jauntily upon
his left knee. The man put the correspondence
on the desk and bowed
respectfully but neither Mr. Alleyne nor Miss
Delacour took any notice
of his bow. Mr. Alleyne tapped a finger on
the correspondence and then
flicked it towards him as if to say: "That's
all right: you can go."
The man returned to the lower office and sat
down again at his desk.
He stared intently at the incomplete phrase:
In no case shall the said
Bernard Bodley be... and thought how strange
it was that the last three
words began with the same letter. The chief
clerk began to hurry Miss
Parker, saying she would never have the letters
typed in time for post.
The man listened to the clicking of the machine
for a few minutes and
then set to work to finish his copy. But his
head was not clear and his
mind wandered away to the glare and rattle
of the public-house. It was a
night for hot punches. He struggled on with
his copy, but when the clock
struck five he had still fourteen pages to
write. Blast it! He couldn't
finish it in time. He longed to execrate aloud,
to bring his fist down
on something violently. He was so enraged
that he wrote Bernard Bernard
instead of Bernard Bodley and had to begin
again on a clean sheet.
He felt strong enough to clear out the whole
office singlehanded. His
body ached to do something, to rush out and
revel in violence. All
the indignities of his life enraged him....
Could he ask the cashier
privately for an advance? No, the cashier
was no good, no damn good:
he wouldn't give an advance.... He knew where
he would meet the boys:
Leonard and O'Halloran and Nosey Flynn. The
barometer of his emotional
nature was set for a spell of riot.
His imagination had so abstracted him that
his name was called twice
before he answered. Mr. Alleyne and Miss Delacour
were standing outside
the counter and all the clerks had turn round
in anticipation of
something. The man got up from his desk. Mr.
Alleyne began a tirade of
abuse, saying that two letters were missing.
The man answered that he
knew nothing about them, that he had made
a faithful copy. The tirade
continued: it was so bitter and violent that
the man could hardly
restrain his fist from descending upon the
head of the manikin before
him.
"I know nothing about any other two letters,"
he said stupidly.
"You--know--nothing. Of course you know nothing,"
said Mr. Alleyne.
"Tell me," he added, glancing first for approval
to the lady beside him,
"do you take me for a fool? Do you think me
an utter fool?"
The man glanced from the lady's face to the
little egg-shaped head and
back again; and, almost before he was aware
of it, his tongue had found
a felicitous moment:
"I don't think, sir," he said, "that that's
a fair question to put to
me."
There was a pause in the very breathing of
the clerks. Everyone was
astounded (the author of the witticism no
less than his neighbours) and
Miss Delacour, who was a stout amiable person,
began to smile broadly.
Mr. Alleyne flushed to the hue of a wild rose
and his mouth twitched
with a dwarf's passion. He shook his fist
in the man's face till it
seemed to vibrate like the knob of some electric
machine:
"You impertinent ruffian! You impertinent
ruffian! I'll make short work
of you! Wait till you see! You'll apologise
to me for your impertinence
or you'll quit the office instanter! You'll
quit this, I'm telling you,
or you'll apologise to me!"
* * * * *
He stood in a doorway opposite the office
watching to see if the cashier
would come out alone. All the clerks passed
out and finally the cashier
came out with the chief clerk. It was no use
trying to say a word to him
when he was with the chief clerk. The man
felt that his position was bad
enough. He had been obliged to offer an abject
apology to Mr. Alleyne
for his impertinence but he knew what a hornet's
nest the office would
be for him. He could remember the way in which
Mr. Alleyne had hounded
little Peake out of the office in order to
make room for his own nephew.
He felt savage and thirsty and revengeful,
annoyed with himself and with
everyone else. Mr. Alleyne would never give
him an hour's rest; his life
would be a hell to him. He had made a proper
fool of himself this time.
Could he not keep his tongue in his cheek?
But they had never pulled
together from the first, he and Mr. Alleyne,
ever since the day Mr.
Alleyne had overheard him mimicking his North
of Ireland accent to amuse
Higgins and Miss Parker: that had been the
beginning of it. He might
have tried Higgins for the money, but sure
Higgins never had anything
for himself. A man with two establishments
to keep up, of course he
couldn't....
He felt his great body again aching for the
comfort of the public-house.
The fog had begun to chill him and he wondered
could he touch Pat in
O'Neill's. He could not touch him for more
than a bob--and a bob was
no use. Yet he must get money somewhere or
other: he had spent his
last penny for the g.p. and soon it would
be too late for getting money
anywhere. Suddenly, as he was fingering his
watch-chain, he thought of
Terry Kelly's pawn-office in Fleet Street.
That was the dart! Why didn't
he think of it sooner?
He went through the narrow alley of Temple
Bar quickly, muttering to
himself that they could all go to hell because
he was going to have
a good night of it. The clerk in Terry Kelly's
said A crown! but the
consignor held out for six shillings; and
in the end the six shillings
was allowed him literally. He came out of
the pawn-office joyfully,
making a little cylinder, of the coins between
his thumb and fingers. In
Westmoreland Street the footpaths were crowded
with young men and women
returning from business and ragged urchins
ran here and there yelling
out the names of the evening editions. The
man passed through the crowd,
looking on the spectacle generally with proud
satisfaction and staring
masterfully at the office-girls. His head
was full of the noises of
tram-gongs and swishing trolleys and his nose
already sniffed the
curling fumes of punch. As he walked on he
preconsidered the terms in which
he would narrate the incident to the boys:
"So, I just looked at him--coolly, you know,
and looked at her. Then I
looked back at him again--taking my time,
you know. 'I don't think that
that's a fair question to put to me,' says
I."
Nosey Flynn was sitting up in his usual corner
of Davy Byrne's and, when
he heard the story, he stood Farrington a
half-one, saying it was as
smart a thing as ever he heard. Farrington
stood a drink in his turn.
After a while O'Halloran and Paddy Leonard
came in and the story was
repeated to them. O'Halloran stood tailors
of malt, hot, all round and
told the story of the retort he had made to
the chief clerk when he was
in Callan's of Fownes's Street; but, as the
retort was after the manner
of the liberal shepherds in the eclogues,
he had to admit that it was
not as clever as Farrington's retort. At this
Farrington told the boys
to polish off that and have another.
Just as they were naming their poisons who
should come in but Higgins!
Of course he had to join in with the others.
The men asked him to give
his version of it, and he did so with great
vivacity for the sight of
five small hot whiskies was very exhilarating.
Everyone roared
laughing when he showed the way in which Mr.
Alleyne shook his fist in
Farrington's face. Then he imitated Farrington,
saying, "And here was my
nabs, as cool as you please," while Farrington
looked at the company out
of his heavy dirty eyes, smiling and at times
drawing forth stray drops
of liquor from his moustache with the aid
of his lower lip.
When that round was over there was a pause.
O'Halloran had money but
neither of the other two seemed to have any;
so the whole party left
the shop somewhat regretfully. At the corner
of Duke Street Higgins and
Nosey Flynn bevelled off to the left while
the other three turned back
towards the city. Rain was drizzling down
on the cold streets and, when
they reached the Ballast Office, Farrington
suggested the Scotch House.
The bar was full of men and loud with the
noise of tongues and glasses.
The three men pushed past the whining match-sellers
at the door and
formed a little party at the corner of the
counter. They began to
exchange stories. Leonard introduced them
to a young fellow named
Weathers who was performing at the Tivoli
as an acrobat and knockabout
artiste. Farrington stood a drink all round.
Weathers said he would take
a small Irish and Apollinaris. Farrington,
who had definite notions of
what was what, asked the boys would they have
an Apollinaris too;
but the boys told Tim to make theirs hot.
The talk became theatrical.
O'Halloran stood a round and then Farrington
stood another round,
Weathers protesting that the hospitality was
too Irish. He promised to
get them in behind the scenes and introduce
them to some nice girls.
O'Halloran said that he and Leonard would
go, but that Farrington
wouldn't go because he was a married man;
and Farrington's heavy dirty
eyes leered at the company in token that he
understood he was being
chaffed. Weathers made them all have just
one little tincture at his
expense and promised to meet them later on
at Mulligan's in Poolbeg
Street.
When the Scotch House closed they went round
to Mulligan's. They went
into the parlour at the back and O'Halloran
ordered small hot specials
all round. They were all beginning to feel
mellow. Farrington was just
standing another round when Weathers came
back. Much to Farrington's
relief he drank a glass of bitter this time.
Funds were getting low but
they had enough to keep them going. Presently
two young women with big
hats and a young man in a check suit came
in and sat at a table close
by. Weathers saluted them and told the company
that they were out of the
Tivoli. Farrington's eyes wandered at every
moment in the direction of
one of the young women. There was something
striking in her appearance.
An immense scarf of peacock-blue muslin was
wound round her hat and
knotted in a great bow under her chin; and
she wore bright yellow
gloves, reaching to the elbow. Farrington
gazed admiringly at the plump
arm which she moved very often and with much
grace; and when, after a
little time, she answered his gaze he admired
still more her large dark
brown eyes. The oblique staring expression
in them fascinated him. She
glanced at him once or twice and, when the
party was leaving the room,
she brushed against his chair and said "O,
pardon!" in a London accent.
He watched her leave the room in the hope
that she would look back at
him, but he was disappointed. He cursed his
want of money and cursed all
the rounds he had stood, particularly all
the whiskies and Apolinaris
which he had stood to Weathers. If there was
one thing that he hated it
was a sponge. He was so angry that he lost
count of the conversation of
his friends.
When Paddy Leonard called him he found that
they were talking about
feats of strength. Weathers was showing his
biceps muscle to the company
and boasting so much that the other two had
called on Farrington to
uphold the national honour. Farrington pulled
up his sleeve accordingly
and showed his biceps muscle to the company.
The two arms were examined
and compared and finally it was agreed to
have a trial of strength. The
table was cleared and the two men rested their
elbows on it, clasping
hands. When Paddy Leonard said "Go!" each
was to try to bring down
the other's hand on to the table. Farrington
looked very serious and
determined.
The trial began. After about thirty seconds
Weathers brought his
opponent's hand slowly down on to the table.
Farrington's dark
wine-coloured face flushed darker still with
anger and humiliation at
having been defeated by such a stripling.
"You're not to put the weight of your body
behind it. Play fair," he
said.
"Who's not playing fair?" said the other.
"Come on again. The two best out of three."
The trial began again. The veins stood out
on Farrington's forehead,
and the pallor of Weathers' complexion changed
to peony. Their hands
and arms trembled under the stress. After
a long struggle Weathers again
brought his opponent's hand slowly on to the
table. There was a murmur
of applause from the spectators. The curate,
who was standing beside
the table, nodded his red head towards the
victor and said with stupid
familiarity:
"Ah! that's the knack!"
"What the hell do you know about it?" said
Farrington fiercely, turning
on the man. "What do you put in your gab for?"
"Sh, sh!" said O'Halloran, observing the violent
expression of
Farrington's face. "Pony up, boys. We'll have
just one little smahan
more and then we'll be off."
A very sullen-faced man stood at the corner
of O'Connell Bridge
waiting for the little Sandymount tram to
take him home. He was full
of smouldering anger and revengefulness. He
felt humiliated and
discontented; he did not even feel drunk;
and he had only twopence in
his pocket. He cursed everything. He had done
for himself in the office,
pawned his watch, spent all his money; and
he had not even got drunk.
He began to feel thirsty again and he longed
to be back again in the hot
reeking public-house. He had lost his reputation
as a strong man, having
been defeated twice by a mere boy. His heart
swelled with fury and, when
he thought of the woman in the big hat who
had brushed against him and
said Pardon! his fury nearly choked him.
His tram let him down at Shelbourne Road and
he steered his great body
along in the shadow of the wall of the barracks.
He loathed returning
to his home. When he went in by the side-door
he found the kitchen empty
and the kitchen fire nearly out. He bawled
upstairs:
"Ada! Ada!"
His wife was a little sharp-faced woman who
bullied her husband when
he was sober and was bullied by him when he
was drunk. They had five
children. A little boy came running down the
stairs.
"Who is that?" said the man, peering through
the darkness.
"Me, pa."
"Who are you? Charlie?"
"No, pa. Tom."
"Where's your mother?"
"She's out at the chapel."
"That's right.... Did she think of leaving
any dinner for me?"
"Yes, pa. I--"
"Light the lamp. What do you mean by having
the place in darkness? Are
the other children in bed?"
The man sat down heavily on one of the chairs
while the little boy
lit the lamp. He began to mimic his son's
flat accent, saying half to
himself: "At the chapel. At the chapel, if
you please!" When the lamp
was lit he banged his fist on the table and
shouted:
"What's for my dinner?"
"I'm going... to cook it, pa," said the little
boy.
The man jumped up furiously and pointed to
the fire.
"On that fire! You let the fire out! By God,
I'll teach you to do that
again!"
He took a step to the door and seized the
walking-stick which was
standing behind it.
"I'll teach you to let the fire out!" he said,
rolling up his sleeve in
order to give his arm free play.
The little boy cried "O, pa!" and ran whimpering
round the table, but
the man followed him and caught him by the
coat. The little boy looked
about him wildly but, seeing no way of escape,
fell upon his knees.
"Now, you'll let the fire out the next time!"
said the man striking at
him vigorously with the stick. "Take that,
you little whelp!"
The boy uttered a squeal of pain as the stick
cut his thigh. He clasped
his hands together in the air and his voice
shook with fright.
"O, pa!" he cried. "Don't beat me, pa! And
I'll... I'll say a Hail Mary
for you.... I'll say a Hail Mary for you,
pa, if you don't beat me....
I'll say a Hail Mary...."
CLAY
THE matron had given her leave to go out as
soon as the women's tea was
over and Maria looked forward to her evening
out. The kitchen was
spick and span: the cook said you could see
yourself in the big copper
boilers. The fire was nice and bright and
on one of the side-tables were
four very big barmbracks. These barmbracks
seemed uncut; but if you went
closer you would see that they had been cut
into long thick even slices
and were ready to be handed round at tea.
Maria had cut them herself.
Maria was a very, very small person indeed
but she had a very long
nose and a very long chin. She talked a little
through her nose, always
soothingly: "Yes, my dear," and "No, my dear."
She was always sent for
when the women quarrelled over their tubs
and always succeeded in making
peace. One day the matron had said to her:
"Maria, you are a veritable peace-maker!"
And the sub-matron and two of the Board ladies
had heard the compliment.
And Ginger Mooney was always saying what she
wouldn't do to the dummy
who had charge of the irons if it wasn't for
Maria. Everyone was so fond
of Maria.
The women would have their tea at six o'clock
and she would be able to
get away before seven. From Ballsbridge to
the Pillar, twenty minutes;
from the Pillar to Drumcondra, twenty minutes;
and twenty minutes to buy
the things. She would be there before eight.
She took out her purse with
the silver clasps and read again the words
A Present from Belfast. She
was very fond of that purse because Joe had
brought it to her five years
before when he and Alphy had gone to Belfast
on a Whit-Monday trip. In
the purse were two half-crowns and some coppers.
She would have five
shillings clear after paying tram fare. What
a nice evening they would
have, all the children singing! Only she hoped
that Joe wouldn't come in
drunk. He was so different when he took any
drink.
Often he had wanted her to go and live with
them; but she would have
felt herself in the way (though Joe's wife
was ever so nice with her)
and she had become accustomed to the life
of the laundry. Joe was a good
fellow. She had nursed him and Alphy too;
and Joe used often say:
"Mamma is mamma but Maria is my proper mother."
After the break-up at home the boys had got
her that position in the
Dublin by Lamplight laundry, and she liked
it. She used to have such
a bad opinion of Protestants but now she thought
they were very nice
people, a little quiet and serious, but still
very nice people to live
with. Then she had her plants in the conservatory
and she liked looking
after them. She had lovely ferns and wax-plants
and, whenever anyone
came to visit her, she always gave the visitor
one or two slips from
her conservatory. There was one thing she
didn't like and that was the
tracts on the walks; but the matron was such
a nice person to deal with,
so genteel.
When the cook told her everything was ready
she went into the women's
room and began to pull the big bell. In a
few minutes the women began
to come in by twos and threes, wiping their
steaming hands in their
petticoats and pulling down the sleeves of
their blouses over their red
steaming arms. They settled down before their
huge mugs which the cook
and the dummy filled up with hot tea, already
mixed with milk and sugar
in huge tin cans. Maria superintended the
distribution of the barmbrack
and saw that every woman got her four slices.
There was a great deal of
laughing and joking during the meal. Lizzie
Fleming said Maria was sure
to get the ring and, though Fleming had said
that for so many Hallow
Eves, Maria had to laugh and say she didn't
want any ring or man either;
and when she laughed her grey-green eyes sparkled
with disappointed
shyness and the tip of her nose nearly met
the tip of her chin. Then
Ginger Mooney lifted her mug of tea and proposed
Maria's health while
all the other women clattered with their mugs
on the table, and said she
was sorry she hadn't a sup of porter to drink
it in. And Maria laughed
again till the tip of her nose nearly met
the tip of her chin and till
her minute body nearly shook itself asunder
because she knew that Mooney
meant well though, of course, she had the
notions of a common woman.
But wasn't Maria glad when the women had finished
their tea and the cook
and the dummy had begun to clear away the
tea-things! She went into
her little bedroom and, remembering that the
next morning was a mass
morning, changed the hand of the alarm from
seven to six. Then she took
off her working skirt and her house-boots
and laid her best skirt out on
the bed and her tiny dress-boots beside the
foot of the bed. She changed
her blouse too and, as she stood before the
mirror, she thought of how
she used to dress for mass on Sunday morning
when she was a young girl;
and she looked with quaint affection at the
diminutive body which she
had so often adorned. In spite of its years
she found it a nice tidy
little body.
When she got outside the streets were shining
with rain and she was glad
of her old brown waterproof. The tram was
full and she had to sit on the
little stool at the end of the car, facing
all the people, with her toes
barely touching the floor. She arranged in
her mind all she was going to
do and thought how much better it was to be
independent and to have your
own money in your pocket. She hoped they would
have a nice evening. She
was sure they would but she could not help
thinking what a pity it was
Alphy and Joe were not speaking. They were
always falling out now but
when they were boys together they used to
be the best of friends: but
such was life.
She got out of her tram at the Pillar and
ferreted her way quickly among
the crowds. She went into Downes's cake-shop
but the shop was so full of
people that it was a long time before she
could get herself attended
to. She bought a dozen of mixed penny cakes,
and at last came out of the
shop laden with a big bag. Then she thought
what else would she buy: she
wanted to buy something really nice. They
would be sure to have plenty
of apples and nuts. It was hard to know what
to buy and all she could
think of was cake. She decided to buy some
plumcake but Downes's
plumcake had not enough almond icing on top
of it so she went over to
a shop in Henry Street. Here she was a long
time in suiting herself and
the stylish young lady behind the counter,
who was evidently a little
annoyed by her, asked her was it wedding-cake
she wanted to buy. That
made Maria blush and smile at the young lady;
but the young lady took it
all very seriously and finally cut a thick
slice of plumcake, parcelled
it up and said:
"Two-and-four, please."
She thought she would have to stand in the
Drumcondra tram because none
of the young men seemed to notice her but
an elderly gentleman made room
for her. He was a stout gentleman and he wore
a brown hard hat; he had
a square red face and a greyish moustache.
Maria thought he was a
colonel-looking gentleman and she reflected
how much more polite he was
than the young men who simply stared straight
before them. The gentleman
began to chat with her about Hallow Eve and
the rainy weather. He
supposed the bag was full of good things for
the little ones and said
it was only right that the youngsters should
enjoy themselves while they
were young. Maria agreed with him and favoured
him with demure nods and
hems. He was very nice with her, and when
she was getting out at the
Canal Bridge she thanked him and bowed, and
he bowed to her and raised
his hat and smiled agreeably, and while she
was going up along the
terrace, bending her tiny head under the rain,
she thought how easy it
was to know a gentleman even when he has a
drop taken.
Everybody said: "O, here's Maria!" when she
came to Joe's house. Joe was
there, having come home from business, and
all the children had their
Sunday dresses on. There were two big girls
in from next door and games
were going on. Maria gave the bag of cakes
to the eldest boy, Alphy, to
divide and Mrs. Donnelly said it was too good
of her to bring such a big
bag of cakes and made all the children say:
"Thanks, Maria."
But Maria said she had brought something special
for papa and mamma,
something they would be sure to like, and
she began to look for her
plumcake. She tried in Downes's bag and then
in the pockets of her
waterproof and then on the hallstand but nowhere
could she find it.
Then she asked all the children had any of
them eaten it--by mistake, of
course--but the children all said no and looked
as if they did not like
to eat cakes if they were to be accused of
stealing. Everybody had a
solution for the mystery and Mrs. Donnelly
said it was plain that Maria
had left it behind her in the tram. Maria,
remembering how confused the
gentleman with the greyish moustache had made
her, coloured with shame
and vexation and disappointment. At the thought
of the failure of her
little surprise and of the two and fourpence
she had thrown away for
nothing she nearly cried outright.
But Joe said it didn't matter and made her
sit down by the fire. He
was very nice with her. He told her all that
went on in his office,
repeating for her a smart answer which he
had made to the manager. Maria
did not understand why Joe laughed so much
over the answer he had made
but she said that the manager must have been
a very overbearing person
to deal with. Joe said he wasn't so bad when
you knew how to take him,
that he was a decent sort so long as you didn't
rub him the wrong way.
Mrs. Donnelly played the piano for the children
and they danced and
sang. Then the two next-door girls handed
round the nuts. Nobody could
find the nutcrackers and Joe was nearly getting
cross over it and asked
how did they expect Maria to crack nuts without
a nutcracker. But Maria
said she didn't like nuts and that they weren't
to bother about her.
Then Joe asked would she take a bottle of
stout and Mrs. Donnelly said
there was port wine too in the house if she
would prefer that. Maria
said she would rather they didn't ask her
to take anything: but Joe
insisted.
So Maria let him have his way and they sat
by the fire talking over old
times and Maria thought she would put in a
good word for Alphy. But Joe
cried that God might strike him stone dead
if ever he spoke a word to
his brother again and Maria said she was sorry
she had mentioned the
matter. Mrs. Donnelly told her husband it
was a great shame for him to
speak that way of his own flesh and blood
but Joe said that Alphy was no
brother of his and there was nearly being
a row on the head of it. But
Joe said he would not lose his temper on account
of the night it was
and asked his wife to open some more stout.
The two next-door girls
had arranged some Hallow Eve games and soon
everything was merry again.
Maria was delighted to see the children so
merry and Joe and his wife in
such good spirits. The next-door girls put
some saucers on the table
and then led the children up to the table,
blindfold. One got the
prayer-book and the other three got the water;
and when one of the
next-door girls got the ring Mrs. Donnelly
shook her finger at the
blushing girl as much as to say: O, I know
all about it! They insisted
then on blindfolding Maria and leading her
up to the table to see
what she would get; and, while they were putting
on the bandage, Maria
laughed and laughed again till the tip of
her nose nearly met the tip of
her chin.
They led her up to the table amid laughing
and joking and she put her
hand out in the air as she was told to do.
She moved her hand about here
and there in the air and descended on one
of the saucers. She felt a
soft wet substance with her fingers and was
surprised that nobody spoke
or took off her bandage. There was a pause
for a few seconds; and then
a great deal of scuffling and whispering.
Somebody said something about
the garden, and at last Mrs. Donnelly said
something very cross to one
of the next-door girls and told her to throw
it out at once: that was no
play. Maria understood that it was wrong that
time and so she had to do
it over again: and this time she got the prayer-book.
After that Mrs. Donnelly played Miss McCloud's
Reel for the children
and Joe made Maria take a glass of wine. Soon
they were all quite merry
again and Mrs. Donnelly said Maria would enter
a convent before the year
was out because she had got the prayer-book.
Maria had never seen Joe
so nice to her as he was that night, so full
of pleasant talk and
reminiscences. She said they were all very
good to her.
At last the children grew tired and sleepy
and Joe asked Maria would she
not sing some little song before she went,
one of the old songs. Mrs.
Donnelly said "Do, please, Maria!" and so
Maria had to get up and stand
beside the piano. Mrs. Donnelly bade the children
be quiet and listen
to Maria's song. Then she played the prelude
and said "Now, Maria!" and
Maria, blushing very much began to sing in
a tiny quavering voice. She
sang I Dreamt that I Dwelt, and when she came
to the second verse she
sang again:
I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls
With vassals and serfs at my side,
And of all who assembled within those walls
That I was the hope and the pride.
I had riches too great to count; could boast
Of a high ancestral name,
But I also dreamt, which pleased me most,
That you loved me still the same.
But no one tried to show her her mistake;
and when she had ended her
song Joe was very much moved. He said that
there was no time like the
long ago and no music for him like poor old
Balfe, whatever other people
might say; and his eyes filled up so much
with tears that he could not
find what he was looking for and in the end
he had to ask his wife to
tell him where the corkscrew was.
A 
PAINFUL CASE
MR. JAMES DUFFY lived in Chapelizod because
he wished to live as far as
possible from the city of which he was a citizen
and because he found
all the other suburbs of Dublin mean, modern
and pretentious. He lived
in an old sombre house and from his windows
he could look into the
disused distillery or upwards along the shallow
river on which Dublin is
built. The lofty walls of his uncarpeted room
were free from pictures.
He had himself bought every article of furniture
in the room: a black
iron bedstead, an iron washstand, four cane
chairs, a clothes-rack,
a coal-scuttle, a fender and irons and a square
table on which lay a
double desk. A bookcase had been made in an
alcove by means of shelves
of white wood. The bed was clothed with white
bedclothes and a black
and scarlet rug covered the foot. A little
hand-mirror hung above the
washstand and during the day a white-shaded
lamp stood as the sole
ornament of the mantelpiece. The books on
the white wooden shelves were
arranged from below upwards according to bulk.
A complete Wordsworth
stood at one end of the lowest shelf and a
copy of the Maynooth
Catechism, sewn into the cloth cover of a
notebook, stood at one end of
the top shelf. Writing materials were always
on the desk. In the desk
lay a manuscript translation of Hauptmann's
Michael Kramer, the stage
directions of which were written in purple
ink, and a little sheaf of
papers held together by a brass pin. In these
sheets a sentence was
inscribed from time to time and, in an ironical
moment, the headline of
an advertisement for Bile Beans had been pasted
on to the first sheet.
On lifting the lid of the desk a faint fragrance
escaped--the fragrance
of new cedarwood pencils or of a bottle of
gum or of an overripe apple
which might have been left there and forgotten.
Mr. Duffy abhorred anything which betokened
physical or mental disorder.
A mediaeval doctor would have called him saturnine.
His face, which
carried the entire tale of his years, was
of the brown tint of Dublin
streets. On his long and rather large head
grew dry black hair and a
tawny moustache did not quite cover an unamiable
mouth. His cheekbones
also gave his face a harsh character; but
there was no harshness in the
eyes which, looking at the world from under
their tawny eyebrows, gave
the impression of a man ever alert to greet
a redeeming instinct in
others but often disappointed. He lived at
a little distance from his
body, regarding his own acts with doubtful
side-glances. He had an odd
autobiographical habit which led him to compose
in his mind from time
to time a short sentence about himself containing
a subject in the third
person and a predicate in the past tense.
He never gave alms to beggars
and walked firmly, carrying a stout hazel.
He had been for many years cashier of a private
bank in Baggot Street.
Every morning he came in from Chapelizod by
tram. At midday he went
to Dan Burke's and took his lunch--a bottle
of lager beer and a small
trayful of arrowroot biscuits. At four o'clock
he was set free. He dined
in an eating-house in George's Street where
he felt himself safe from
the society of Dublin's gilded youth and where
there was a certain plain
honesty in the bill of fare. His evenings
were spent either before his
landlady's piano or roaming about the outskirts
of the city. His liking
for Mozart's music brought him sometimes to
an opera or a concert: these
were the only dissipations of his life.
He had neither companions nor friends, church
nor creed. He lived his
spiritual life without any communion with
others, visiting his relatives
at Christmas and escorting them to the cemetery
when they died. He
performed these two social duties for old
dignity's sake but conceded
nothing further to the conventions which regulate
the civic life. He
allowed himself to think that in certain circumstances
he would rob
his hank but, as these circumstances never
arose, his life rolled out
evenly--an adventureless tale.
One evening he found himself sitting beside
two ladies in the Rotunda.
The house, thinly peopled and silent, gave
distressing prophecy of
failure. The lady who sat next him looked
round at the deserted house
once or twice and then said:
"What a pity there is such a poor house tonight!
It's so hard on people
to have to sing to empty benches."
He took the remark as an invitation to talk.
He was surprised that
she seemed so little awkward. While they talked
he tried to fix her
permanently in his memory. When he learned
that the young girl beside
her was her daughter he judged her to be a
year or so younger than
himself. Her face, which must have been handsome,
had remained
intelligent. It was an oval face with strongly
marked features. The eyes
were very dark blue and steady. Their gaze
began with a defiant note
but was confused by what seemed a deliberate
swoon of the pupil into the
iris, revealing for an instant a temperament
of great sensibility. The
pupil reasserted itself quickly, this half-disclosed
nature fell again
under the reign of prudence, and her astrakhan
jacket, moulding a bosom
of a certain fullness, struck the note of
defiance more definitely.
He met her again a few weeks afterwards at
a concert in Earlsfort
Terrace and seized the moments when her daughter's
attention was
diverted to become intimate. She alluded once
or twice to her husband
but her tone was not such as to make the allusion
a warning. Her name
was Mrs. Sinico. Her husband's great-great-grandfather
had come from
Leghorn. Her husband was captain of a mercantile
boat plying between
Dublin and Holland; and they had one child.
Meeting her a third time by accident he found
courage to make an
appointment. She came. This was the first
of many meetings; they met
always in the evening and chose the most quiet
quarters for their walks
together. Mr. Duffy, however, had a distaste
for underhand ways and,
finding that they were compelled to meet stealthily,
he forced her to
ask him to her house. Captain Sinico encouraged
his visits, thinking
that his daughter's hand was in question.
He had dismissed his wife so
sincerely from his gallery of pleasures that
he did not suspect that
anyone else would take an interest in her.
As the husband was often
away and the daughter out giving music lessons
Mr. Duffy had many
opportunities of enjoying the lady's society.
Neither he nor she had had
any such adventure before and neither was
conscious of any incongruity.
Little by little he entangled his thoughts
with hers. He lent her books,
provided her with ideas, shared his intellectual
life with her. She
listened to all.
Sometimes in return for his theories she gave
out some fact of her own
life. With almost maternal solicitude she
urged him to let his nature
open to the full: she became his confessor.
He told her that for some
time he had assisted at the meetings of an
Irish Socialist Party where
he had felt himself a unique figure amidst
a score of sober workmen in
a garret lit by an inefficient oil-lamp. When
the party had divided into
three sections, each under its own leader
and in its own garret, he had
discontinued his attendances. The workmen's
discussions, he said,
were too timorous; the interest they took
in the question of wages was
inordinate. He felt that they were hard-featured
realists and that they
resented an exactitude which was the produce
of a leisure not within
their reach. No social revolution, he told
her, would be likely to
strike Dublin for some centuries.
She asked him why did he not write out his
thoughts. For what, he asked
her, with careful scorn. To compete with phrasemongers,
incapable of
thinking consecutively for sixty seconds?
To submit himself to the
criticisms of an obtuse middle class which
entrusted its morality to
policemen and its fine arts to impresarios?
He went often to her little cottage outside
Dublin; often they spent
their evenings alone. Little by little, as
their thoughts entangled,
they spoke of subjects less remote. Her companionship
was like a warm
soil about an exotic. Many times she allowed
the dark to fall upon
them, refraining from lighting the lamp. The
dark discreet room, their
isolation, the music that still vibrated in
their ears united them.
This union exalted him, wore away the rough
edges of his character,
emotionalised his mental life. Sometimes he
caught himself listening to
the sound of his own voice. He thought that
in her eyes he would ascend
to an angelical stature; and, as he attached
the fervent nature of his
companion more and more closely to him, he
heard the strange impersonal
voice which he recognised as his own, insisting
on the soul's incurable
loneliness. We cannot give ourselves, it said:
we are our own. The end
of these discourses was that one night during
which she had shown every
sign of unusual excitement, Mrs. Sinico caught
up his hand passionately
and pressed it to her cheek.
Mr. Duffy was very much surprised. Her interpretation
of his words
disillusioned him. He did not visit her for
a week, then he wrote to her
asking her to meet him. As he did not wish
their last interview to be
troubled by the influence of their ruined
confessional they met in a
little cakeshop near the Parkgate. It was
cold autumn weather but in
spite of the cold they wandered up and down
the roads of the Park for
nearly three hours. They agreed to break off
their intercourse: every
bond, he said, is a bond to sorrow. When they
came out of the Park they
walked in silence towards the tram; but here
she began to tremble
so violently that, fearing another collapse
on her part, he bade her
good-bye quickly and left her. A few days
later he received a parcel
containing his books and music.
Four years passed. Mr. Duffy returned to his
even way of life. His room
still bore witness of the orderliness of his
mind. Some new pieces of
music encumbered the music-stand in the lower
room and on his shelves
stood two volumes by Nietzsche: Thus Spake
Zarathustra and The Gay
Science. He wrote seldom in the sheaf of papers
which lay in his desk.
One of his sentences, written two months after
his last interview with
Mrs. Sinico, read: Love between man and man
is impossible because there
must not be sexual intercourse and friendship
between man and woman is
impossible because there must be sexual intercourse.
He kept away from
concerts lest he should meet her. His father
died; the junior partner of
the bank retired. And still every morning
he went into the city by
tram and every evening walked home from the
city after having dined
moderately in George's Street and read the
evening paper for dessert.
One evening as he was about to put a morsel
of corned beef and cabbage
into his mouth his hand stopped. His eyes
fixed themselves on a
paragraph in the evening paper which he had
propped against the
water-carafe. He replaced the morsel of food
on his plate and read the
paragraph attentively. Then he drank a glass
of water, pushed his plate
to one side, doubled the paper down before
him between his elbows and
read the paragraph over and over again. The
cabbage began to deposit a
cold white grease on his plate. The girl came
over to him to ask was
his dinner not properly cooked. He said it
was very good and ate a few
mouthfuls of it with difficulty. Then he paid
his bill and went out.
He walked along quickly through the November
twilight, his stout hazel
stick striking the ground regularly, the fringe
of the buff Mail peeping
out of a side-pocket of his tight reefer overcoat.
On the lonely road
which leads from the Parkgate to Chapelizod
he slackened his pace.
His stick struck the ground less emphatically
and his breath, issuing
irregularly, almost with a sighing sound,
condensed in the wintry air.
When he reached his house he went up at once
to his bedroom and, taking
the paper from his pocket, read the paragraph
again by the failing light
of the window. He read it not aloud, but moving
his lips as a priest
does when he reads the prayers Secreto. This
was the paragraph:
DEATH OF A LADY AT SYDNEY PARADE
A PAINFUL CASE
Today at the City of Dublin Hospital the Deputy
Coroner (in the absence
of Mr. Leverett) held an inquest on the body
of Mrs. Emily Sinico, aged
forty-three years, who was killed at Sydney
Parade Station yesterday
evening. The evidence showed that the deceased
lady, while attempting to
cross the line, was knocked down by the engine
of the ten o'clock slow
train from Kingstown, thereby sustaining injuries
of the head and right
side which led to her death.
James Lennon, driver of the engine, stated
that he had been in the
employment of the railway company for fifteen
years. On hearing
the guard's whistle he set the train in motion
and a second or two
afterwards brought it to rest in response
to loud cries. The train was
going slowly.
P. Dunne, railway porter, stated that as the
train was about to start he
observed a woman attempting to cross the lines.
He ran towards her and
shouted, but, before he could reach her, she
was caught by the buffer of
the engine and fell to the ground.
A juror. "You saw the lady fall?"
Witness. "Yes."
Police Sergeant Croly deposed that when he
arrived he found the deceased
lying on the platform apparently dead. He
had the body taken to the
waiting-room pending the arrival of the ambulance.
Constable 57E corroborated.
Dr. Halpin, assistant house surgeon of the
City of Dublin Hospital,
stated that the deceased had two lower ribs
fractured and had sustained
severe contusions of the right shoulder. The
right side of the head
had been injured in the fall. The injuries
were not sufficient to
have caused death in a normal person. Death,
in his opinion, had been
probably due to shock and sudden failure of
the heart's action.
Mr. H. B. Patterson Finlay, on behalf of the
railway company, expressed
his deep regret at the accident. The company
had always taken every
precaution to prevent people crossing the
lines except by the bridges,
both by placing notices in every station and
by the use of patent spring
gates at level crossings. The deceased had
been in the habit of crossing
the lines late at night from platform to platform
and, in view of
certain other circumstances of the case, he
did not think the railway
officials were to blame.
Captain Sinico, of Leoville, Sydney Parade,
husband of the deceased,
also gave evidence. He stated that the deceased
was his wife. He was
not in Dublin at the time of the accident
as he had arrived only that
morning from Rotterdam. They had been married
for twenty-two years and
had lived happily until about two years ago
when his wife began to be
rather intemperate in her habits.
Miss Mary Sinico said that of late her mother
had been in the habit
of going out at night to buy spirits. She,
witness, had often tried to
reason with her mother and had induced her
to join a league. She was not
at home until an hour after the accident.
The jury returned a verdict
in accordance with the medical evidence and
exonerated Lennon from all
blame.
The Deputy Coroner said it was a most painful
case, and expressed great
sympathy with Captain Sinico and his daughter.
He urged on the railway
company to take strong measures to prevent
the possibility of similar
accidents in the future. No blame attached
to anyone.
Mr. Duffy raised his eyes from the paper and
gazed out of his window on
the cheerless evening landscape. The river
lay quiet beside the empty
distillery and from time to time a light appeared
in some house on the
Lucan road. What an end! The whole narrative
of her death revolted him
and it revolted him to think that he had ever
spoken to her of what he
held sacred. The threadbare phrases, the inane
expressions of sympathy,
the cautious words of a reporter won over
to conceal the details of
a commonplace vulgar death attacked his stomach.
Not merely had she
degraded herself; she had degraded him. He
saw the squalid tract of her
vice, miserable and malodorous. His soul's
companion! He thought of
the hobbling wretches whom he had seen carrying
cans and bottles to
be filled by the barman. Just God, what an
end! Evidently she had been
unfit to live, without any strength of purpose,
an easy prey to habits,
one of the wrecks on which civilisation has
been reared. But that she
could have sunk so low! Was it possible he
had deceived himself
so utterly about her? He remembered her outburst
of that night and
interpreted it in a harsher sense than he
had ever done. He had no
difficulty now in approving of the course
he had taken.
As the light failed and his memory began to
wander he thought her hand
touched his. The shock which had first attacked
his stomach was now
attacking his nerves. He put on his overcoat
and hat quickly and went
out. The cold air met him on the threshold;
it crept into the sleeves of
his coat. When he came to the public-house
at Chapelizod Bridge he went
in and ordered a hot punch.
The proprietor served him obsequiously but
did not venture to talk.
There were five or six workingmen in the shop
discussing the value of a
gentleman's estate in County Kildare They
drank at intervals from their
huge pint tumblers and smoked, spitting often
on the floor and sometimes
dragging the sawdust over their spits with
their heavy boots. Mr. Duffy
sat on his stool and gazed at them, without
seeing or hearing them.
After a while they went out and he called
for another punch. He sat a
long time over it. The shop was very quiet.
The proprietor sprawled on
the counter reading the Herald and yawning.
Now and again a tram was
heard swishing along the lonely road outside.
As he sat there, living over his life with
her and evoking alternately
the two images in which he now conceived her,
he realised that she was
dead, that she had ceased to exist, that she
had become a memory. He
began to feel ill at ease. He asked himself
what else could he have
done. He could not have carried on a comedy
of deception with her; he
could not have lived with her openly. He had
done what seemed to him
best. How was he to blame? Now that she was
gone he understood how
lonely her life must have been, sitting night
after night alone in that
room. His life would be lonely too until he,
too, died, ceased to exist,
became a memory--if anyone remembered him.
It was after nine o'clock when he left the
shop. The night was cold and
gloomy. He entered the Park by the first gate
and walked along under the
gaunt trees. He walked through the bleak alleys
where they had walked
four years before. She seemed to be near him
in the darkness. At moments
he seemed to feel her voice touch his ear,
her hand touch his. He stood
still to listen. Why had he withheld life
from her? Why had he sentenced
her to death? He felt his moral nature falling
to pieces.
When he gained the crest of the Magazine Hill
he halted and looked
along the river towards Dublin, the lights
of which burned redly and
hospitably in the cold night. He looked down
the slope and, at the base,
in the shadow of the wall of the Park, he
saw some human figures lying.
Those venal and furtive loves filled him with
despair. He gnawed the
rectitude of his life; he felt that he had
been outcast from life's
feast. One human being had seemed to love
him and he had denied her life
and happiness: he had sentenced her to ignominy,
a death of shame. He
knew that the prostrate creatures down by
the wall were watching him and
wished him gone. No one wanted him; he was
outcast from life's feast.
He turned his eyes to the grey gleaming river,
winding along towards
Dublin. Beyond the river he saw a goods train
winding out of Kingsbridge
Station, like a worm with a fiery head winding
through the darkness,
obstinately and laboriously. It passed slowly
out of sight; but still
he heard in his ears the laborious drone of
the engine reiterating the
syllables of her name.
He turned back the way he had come, the rhythm
of the engine pounding
in his ears. He began to doubt the reality
of what memory told him. He
halted under a tree and allowed the rhythm
to die away. He could not
feel her near him in the darkness nor her
voice touch his ear. He
waited for some minutes listening. He could
hear nothing: the night was
perfectly silent. He listened again: perfectly
silent. He felt that he
was alone.
IVY DAY IN THE COMMITTEE ROOM
OLD JACK raked the cinders together with a
piece of cardboard and spread
them judiciously over the whitening dome of
coals. When the dome was
thinly covered his face lapsed into darkness
but, as he set himself to
fan the fire again, his crouching shadow ascended
the opposite wall and
his face slowly re-emerged into light. It
was an old man's face, very
bony and hairy. The moist blue eyes blinked
at the fire and the moist
mouth fell open at times, munching once or
twice mechanically when
it closed. When the cinders had caught he
laid the piece of cardboard
against the wall, sighed and said:
"That's better now, Mr. O'Connor."
Mr. O'Connor, a grey-haired young man, whose
face was disfigured by many
blotches and pimples, had just brought the
tobacco for a cigarette
into a shapely cylinder but when spoken to
he undid his handiwork
meditatively. Then he began to roll the tobacco
again meditatively and
after a moment's thought decided to lick the
paper.
"Did Mr. Tierney say when he'd be back?" he
asked in a husky falsetto.
"He didn't say."
Mr. O'Connor put his cigarette into his mouth
and began search his
pockets. He took out a pack of thin pasteboard
cards.
"I'll get you a match," said the old man.
"Never mind, this'll do," said Mr. O'Connor.
He selected one of the cards and read what
was printed on it:
MUNICIPAL ELECTIONS
----------
ROYAL EXCHANGE WARD
----------
Mr. Richard J. Tierney, P.L.G., respectfully
solicits the favour of your
vote and influence at the coming election
in the Royal Exchange Ward.
Mr. O'Connor had been engaged by Tierney's
agent to canvass one part of
the ward but, as the weather was inclement
and his boots let in the wet,
he spent a great part of the day sitting by
the fire in the Committee
Room in Wicklow Street with Jack, the old
caretaker. They had been
sitting thus since the short day had grown
dark. It was the sixth of
October, dismal and cold out of doors.
Mr. O'Connor tore a strip off the card and,
lighting it, lit his
cigarette. As he did so the flame lit up a
leaf of dark glossy ivy the
lapel of his coat. The old man watched him
attentively and then, taking
up the piece of cardboard again, began to
fan the fire slowly while his
companion smoked.
"Ah, yes," he said, continuing, "it's hard
to know what way to bring
up children. Now who'd think he'd turn out
like that! I sent him to
the Christian Brothers and I done what I could
for him, and there he goes
boosing about. I tried to make him someway
decent."
He replaced the cardboard wearily.
"Only I'm an old man now I'd change his tune
for him. I'd take the stick
to his back and beat him while I could stand
over him--as I done many
a time before. The mother, you know, she cocks
him up with this and
that...."
"That's what ruins children," said Mr. O'Connor.
"To be sure it is," said the old man. "And
little thanks you get for it,
only impudence. He takes th'upper hand of
me whenever he sees I've a
sup taken. What's the world coming to when
sons speaks that way to their
father?"
"What age is he?" said Mr. O'Connor.
"Nineteen," said the old man.
"Why don't you put him to something?"
"Sure, amn't I never done at the drunken bowsy
ever since he left
school? 'I won't keep you,' I says. 'You must
get a job for yourself.'
But, sure, it's worse whenever he gets a job;
he drinks it all."
Mr. O'Connor shook his head in sympathy, and
the old man fell silent,
gazing into the fire. Someone opened the door
of the room and called
out:
"Hello! Is this a Freemasons' meeting?"
"Who's that?" said the old man.
"What are you doing in the dark?" asked a
voice.
"Is that you, Hynes?" asked Mr. O'Connor.
"Yes. What are you doing in the dark?" said
Mr. Hynes. advancing into
the light of the fire.
He was a tall, slender young man with a light
brown moustache. Imminent
little drops of rain hung at the brim of his
hat and the collar of his
jacket-coat was turned up.
"Well, Mat," he said to Mr. O'Connor, "how
goes it?"
Mr. O'Connor shook his head. The old man left
the hearth and, after
stumbling about the room returned with two
candlesticks which he thrust
one after the other into the fire and carried
to the table. A denuded
room came into view and the fire lost all
its cheerful colour. The walls
of the room were bare except for a copy of
an election address. In the
middle of the room was a small table on which
papers were heaped.
Mr. Hynes leaned against the mantelpiece and
asked:
"Has he paid you yet?"
"Not yet," said Mr. O'Connor. "I hope to God
he'll not leave us in the
lurch tonight."
Mr. Hynes laughed.
"O, he'll pay you. Never fear," he said.
"I hope he'll look smart about it if he means
business," said Mr.
O'Connor.
"What do you think, Jack?" said Mr. Hynes
satirically to the old man.
The old man returned to his seat by the fire,
saying:
"It isn't but he has it, anyway. Not like
the other tinker."
"What other tinker?" said Mr. Hynes.
"Colgan," said the old man scornfully.
"It is because Colgan's a working-man you
say that? What's the
difference between a good honest bricklayer
and a publican--eh? Hasn't
the working-man as good a right to be in the
Corporation as anyone
else--ay, and a better right than those shoneens
that are always hat in
hand before any fellow with a handle to his
name? Isn't that so, Mat?"
said Mr. Hynes, addressing Mr. O'Connor.
"I think you're right," said Mr. O'Connor.
"One man is a plain honest man with no hunker-sliding
about him. He goes
in to represent the labour classes. This fellow
you're working for only
wants to get some job or other."
"Of course, the working-classes should be
represented," said the old
man.
"The working-man," said Mr. Hynes, "gets all
kicks and no halfpence. But
it's labour produces everything. The working-man
is not looking for fat
jobs for his sons and nephews and cousins.
The working-man is not going
to drag the honour of Dublin in the mud to
please a German monarch."
"How's that?" said the old man.
"Don't you know they want to present an address
of welcome to Edward
Rex if he comes here next year? What do we
want kowtowing to a foreign
king?"
"Our man won't vote for the address," said
Mr. O'Connor. "He goes in on
the Nationalist ticket."
"Won't he?" said Mr. Hynes. "Wait till you
see whether he will or not. I
know him. Is it Tricky Dicky Tierney?"
"By God! perhaps you're right, Joe," said
Mr. O'Connor. "Anyway, I wish
he'd turn up with the spondulics."
The three men fell silent. The old man began
to rake more cinders
together. Mr. Hynes took off his hat, shook
it and then turned down the
collar of his coat, displaying, as he did
so, an ivy leaf in the lapel.
"If this man was alive," he said, pointing
to the leaf, "we'd have no
talk of an address of welcome."
"That's true," said Mr. O'Connor.
"Musha, God be with them times!" said the
old man. "There was some life
in it then."
The room was silent again. Then a bustling
little man with a snuffling
nose and very cold ears pushed in the door.
He walked over quickly to
the fire, rubbing his hands as if he intended
to produce a spark from
them.
"No money, boys," he said.
"Sit down here, Mr. Henchy," said the old
man, offering him his chair.
"O, don't stir, Jack, don't stir," said Mr.
Henchy
He nodded curtly to Mr. Hynes and sat down
on the chair which the old
man vacated.
"Did you serve Aungier Street?" he asked Mr.
O'Connor.
"Yes," said Mr. O'Connor, beginning to search
his pockets for memoranda.
"Did you call on Grimes?"
"I did."
"Well? How does he stand?"
"He wouldn't promise. He said: 'I won't tell
anyone what way I'm going
to vote.' But I think he'll be all right."
"Why so?"
"He asked me who the nominators were; and
I told him. I mentioned Father
Burke's name. I think it'll be all right."
Mr. Henchy began to snuffle and to rub his
hands over the fire at a
terrific speed. Then he said:
"For the love of God, Jack, bring us a bit
of coal. There must be some
left."
The old man went out of the room.
"It's no go," said Mr. Henchy, shaking his
head. "I asked the little
shoeboy, but he said: 'Oh, now, Mr. Henchy,
when I see work going on
properly I won't forget you, you may be sure.'
Mean little tinker!
'Usha, how could he be anything else?"
"What did I tell you, Mat?" said Mr. Hynes.
"Tricky Dicky Tierney."
"O, he's as tricky as they make 'em," said
Mr. Henchy. "He hasn't got
those little pigs' eyes for nothing. Blast
his soul! Couldn't he pay
up like a man instead of: 'O, now, Mr. Henchy,
I must speak to Mr.
Fanning.... I've spent a lot of money'? Mean
little school-boy of hell! I
suppose he forgets the time his little old
father kept the hand-me-down
shop in Mary's Lane."
"But is that a fact?" asked Mr. O'Connor.
"God, yes," said Mr. Henchy. "Did you never
hear that? And the men
used to go in on Sunday morning before the
houses were open to buy a
waistcoat or a trousers--moya! But Tricky
Dicky's little old father
always had a tricky little black bottle up
in a corner. Do you mind now?
That's that. That's where he first saw the
light."
The old man returned with a few lumps of coal
which he placed here and
there on the fire.
"Thats a nice how-do-you-do," said Mr. O'Connor.
"How does he expect us
to work for him if he won't stump up?"
"I can't help it," said Mr. Henchy. "I expect
to find the bailiffs in
the hall when I go home."
Mr. Hynes laughed and, shoving himself away
from the mantelpiece with
the aid of his shoulders, made ready to leave.
"It'll be all right when King Eddie comes,"
he said. "Well boys, I'm off
for the present. See you later. 'Bye, 'bye."
He went out of the room slowly. Neither Mr.
Henchy nor the old man said
anything, but, just as the door was closing,
Mr. O'Connor, who had been
staring moodily into the fire, called out
suddenly:
"'Bye, Joe."
Mr. Henchy waited a few moments and then nodded
in the direction of the
door.
"Tell me," he said across the fire, "what
brings our friend in here?
What does he want?"
"'Usha, poor Joe!" said Mr. O'Connor, throwing
the end of his cigarette
into the fire, "he's hard up, like the rest
of us."
Mr. Henchy snuffled vigorously and spat so
copiously that he nearly put
out the fire, which uttered a hissing protest.
"To tell you my private and candid opinion,"
he said, "I think he's a
man from the other camp. He's a spy of Colgan's,
if you ask me. Just go
round and try and find out how they're getting
on. They won't suspect
you. Do you twig?"
"Ah, poor Joe is a decent skin," said Mr.
O'Connor.
"His father was a decent, respectable man,"
Mr. Henchy admitted. "Poor
old Larry Hynes! Many a good turn he did in
his day! But I'm greatly
afraid our friend is not nineteen carat. Damn
it, I can understand a
fellow being hard up, but what I can't understand
is a fellow sponging.
Couldn't he have some spark of manhood about
him?"
"He doesn't get a warm welcome from me when
he comes," said the old man.
"Let him work for his own side and not come
spying around here."
"I don't know," said Mr. O'Connor dubiously,
as he took out
cigarette-papers and tobacco. "I think Joe
Hynes is a straight man.
He's a clever chap, too, with the pen. Do
you remember that thing he
wrote...?"
"Some of these hillsiders and fenians are
a bit too clever if you ask me,"
said Mr. Henchy. "Do you know what my private
and candid opinion is
about some of those little jokers? I believe
half of them are in the pay
of the Castle."
"There's no knowing," said the old man.
"O, but I know it for a fact," said Mr. Henchy.
"They're Castle
hacks.... I don't say Hynes.... No, damn it,
I think he's a stroke above
that.... But there's a certain little nobleman
with a cock-eye--you know
the patriot I'm alluding to?"
Mr. O'Connor nodded.
"There's a lineal descendant of Major Sirr
for you if you like! O, the
heart's blood of a patriot! That's a fellow
now that'd sell his country
for fourpence--ay--and go down on his bended
knees and thank the
Almighty Christ he had a country to sell."
There was a knock at the door.
"Come in!" said Mr. Henchy.
A person resembling a poor clergyman or a
poor actor appeared in the
doorway. His black clothes were tightly buttoned
on his short body
and it was impossible to say whether he wore
a clergyman's collar or
a layman's, because the collar of his shabby
frock-coat, the uncovered
buttons of which reflected the candlelight,
was turned up about his
neck. He wore a round hat of hard black felt.
His face, shining with
raindrops, had the appearance of damp yellow
cheese save where two rosy
spots indicated the cheekbones. He opened
his very long mouth suddenly
to express disappointment and at the same
time opened wide his very
bright blue eyes to express pleasure and surprise.
"O Father Keon!" said Mr. Henchy, jumping
up from his chair. "Is that
you? Come in!"
"O, no, no, no!" said Father Keon quickly,
pursing his lips as if he
were addressing a child.
"Won't you come in and sit down?"
"No, no, no!" said Father Keon, speaking in
a discreet, indulgent,
velvety voice. "Don't let me disturb you now!
I'm just looking for Mr.
Fanning...."
"He's round at the Black Eagle," said Mr.
Henchy. "But won't you come in
and sit down a minute?"
"No, no, thank you. It was just a little business
matter," said Father
Keon. "Thank you, indeed."
He retreated from the doorway and Mr. Henchy,
seizing one of the
candlesticks, went to the door to light him
downstairs.
"O, don't trouble, I beg!"
"No, but the stairs is so dark."
"No, no, I can see.... Thank you, indeed."
"Are you right now?"
"All right, thanks.... Thanks."
Mr. Henchy returned with the candlestick and
put it on the table. He sat
down again at the fire. There was silence
for a few moments.
"Tell me, John," said Mr. O'Connor, lighting
his cigarette with another
pasteboard card.
"Hm?"
"What he is exactly?"
"Ask me an easier one," said Mr. Henchy.
"Fanning and himself seem to me very thick.
They're often in Kavanagh's
together. Is he a priest at all?"
"Mmmyes, I believe so.... I think he's what
you call a black sheep.
We haven't many of them, thank God! but we
have a few.... He's an
unfortunate man of some kind...."
"And how does he knock it out?" asked Mr.
O'Connor.
"That's another mystery."
"Is he attached to any chapel or church or
institution or----"
"No," said Mr. Henchy, "I think he's travelling
on his own account....
God forgive me," he added, "I thought he was
the dozen of stout."
"Is there any chance of a drink itself?" asked
Mr. O'Connor.
"I'm dry too," said the old man.
"I asked that little shoeboy three times,"
said Mr. Henchy, "would he
send up a dozen of stout. I asked him again
now, but he was leaning
on the counter in his shirt-sleeves having
a deep goster with Alderman
Cowley."
"Why didn't you remind him?" said Mr. O'Connor.
"Well, I couldn't go over while he was talking
to Alderman Cowley. I
just waited till I caught his eye, and said:
'About that little matter I
was speaking to you about....' 'That'll be
all right, Mr. H.,' he said.
Yerra, sure the little hop-o'-my-thumb has
forgotten all about it."
"There's some deal on in that quarter," said
Mr. O'Connor thoughtfully.
"I saw the three of them hard at it yesterday
at Suffolk Street corner."
"I think I know the little game they're at,"
said Mr. Henchy. "You must
owe the City Fathers money nowadays if you
want to be made Lord Mayor.
Then they'll make you Lord Mayor. By God!
I'm thinking seriously of
becoming a City Father myself. What do you
think? Would I do for the
job?"
Mr. O'Connor laughed.
"So far as owing money goes...."
"Driving out of the Mansion House," said Mr.
Henchy, "in all my vermin,
with Jack here standing up behind me in a
powdered wig--eh?"
"And make me your private secretary, John."
"Yes. And I'll make Father Keon my private
chaplain. We'll have a family
party."
"Faith, Mr. Henchy," said the old man, "you'd
keep up better style than
some of them. I was talking one day to old
Keegan, the porter. 'And
how do you like your new master, Pat?' says
I to him. 'You haven't much
entertaining now,' says I. 'Entertaining!'
says he. 'He'd live on the
smell of an oil-rag.' And do you know what
he told me? Now, I declare to
God I didn't believe him."
"What?" said Mr. Henchy and Mr. O'Connor.
"He told me: 'What do you think of a Lord
Mayor of Dublin sending out
for a pound of chops for his dinner? How's
that for high living?' says
he. 'Wisha! wisha,' says I. 'A pound of chops,'
says he, 'coming into
the Mansion House.' 'Wisha!' says I, 'what
kind of people is going at
all now?'"
At this point there was a knock at the door,
and a boy put in his head.
"What is it?" said the old man.
"From the Black Eagle," said the boy, walking
in sideways and depositing
a basket on the floor with a noise of shaken
bottles.
The old man helped the boy to transfer the
bottles from the basket to
the table and counted the full tally. After
the transfer the boy put his
basket on his arm and asked:
"Any bottles?"
"What bottles?" said the old man.
"Won't you let us drink them first?" said
Mr. Henchy.
"I was told to ask for the bottles."
"Come back tomorrow," said the old man.
"Here, boy!" said Mr. Henchy, "will you run
over to O'Farrell's and ask
him to lend us a corkscrew--for Mr. Henchy,
say. Tell him we won't keep
it a minute. Leave the basket there."
The boy went out and Mr. Henchy began to rub
his hands cheerfully,
saying:
"Ah, well, he's not so bad after all. He's
as good as his word, anyhow."
"There's no tumblers," said the old man.
"O, don't let that trouble you, Jack," said
Mr. Henchy. "Many's the good
man before now drank out of the bottle."
"Anyway, it's better than nothing," said Mr.
O'Connor.
"He's not a bad sort," said Mr. Henchy, "only
Fanning has such a loan of
him. He means well, you know, in his own tinpot
way."
The boy came back with the corkscrew. The
old man opened three bottles
and was handing back the corkscrew when Mr.
Henchy said to the boy:
"Would you like a drink, boy?"
"If you please, sir," said the boy.
The old man opened another bottle grudgingly,
and handed it to the boy.
"What age are you?" he asked.
"Seventeen," said the boy.
As the old man said nothing further, the boy
took the bottle and said:
"Here's my best respects, sir," to Mr. Henchy,
drank the contents, put
the bottle back on the table and wiped his
mouth with his sleeve. Then
he took up the corkscrew and went out of the
door sideways, muttering
some form of salutation.
"That's the way it begins," said the old man.
"The thin edge of the wedge," said Mr. Henchy.
The old man distributed the three bottles
which he had opened and the
men drank from them simultaneously. After
having drunk each placed his
bottle on the mantelpiece within hand's reach
and drew in a long breath
of satisfaction.
"Well, I did a good day's work today," said
Mr. Henchy, after a pause.
"That so, John?"
"Yes. I got him one or two sure things in
Dawson Street, Crofton and
myself. Between ourselves, you know, Crofton
(he's a decent chap, of
course), but he's not worth a damn as a canvasser.
He hasn't a word
to throw to a dog. He stands and looks at
the people while I do the
talking."
Here two men entered the room. One of them
was a very fat man whose blue
serge clothes seemed to be in danger of falling
from his sloping figure.
He had a big face which resembled a young
ox's face in expression,
staring blue eyes and a grizzled moustache.
The other man, who was much
younger and frailer, had a thin, clean-shaven
face. He wore a very high
double collar and a wide-brimmed bowler hat.
"Hello, Crofton!" said Mr. Henchy to the fat
man. "Talk of the devil..."
"Where did the boose come from?" asked the
young man. "Did the cow
calve?"
"O, of course, Lyons spots the drink first
thing!" said Mr. O'Connor,
laughing.
"Is that the way you chaps canvass," said
Mr. Lyons, "and Crofton and I
out in the cold and rain looking for votes?"
"Why, blast your soul," said Mr. Henchy, "I'd
get more votes in five
minutes than you two'd get in a week."
"Open two bottles of stout, Jack," said Mr.
O'Connor.
"How can I?" said the old man, "when there's
no corkscrew?"
"Wait now, wait now!" said Mr. Henchy, getting
up quickly. "Did you ever
see this little trick?"
He took two bottles from the table and, carrying
them to the fire, put
them on the hob. Then he sat down again by
the fire and took another
drink from his bottle. Mr. Lyons sat on the
edge of the table, pushed
his hat towards the nape of his neck and began
to swing his legs.
"Which is my bottle?" he asked.
"This lad," said Mr. Henchy.
Mr. Crofton sat down on a box and looked fixedly
at the other bottle on
the hob. He was silent for two reasons. The
first reason, sufficient in
itself, was that he had nothing to say; the
second reason was that
he considered his companions beneath him.
He had been a canvasser for
Wilkins, the Conservative, but when the Conservatives
had withdrawn
their man and, choosing the lesser of two
evils, given their support to
the Nationalist candidate, he had been engaged
to work for Mr. Tiemey.
In a few minutes an apologetic "Pok!" was
heard as the cork flew out
of Mr. Lyons' bottle. Mr. Lyons jumped off
the table, went to the fire,
took his bottle and carried it back to the
table.
"I was just telling them, Crofton," said Mr.
Henchy, "that we got a good
few votes today."
"Who did you get?" asked Mr. Lyons.
"Well, I got Parkes for one, and I got Atkinson
for two, and got Ward
of Dawson Street. Fine old chap he is, too--regular
old toff, old
Conservative! 'But isn't your candidate a
Nationalist?' said he. 'He's a
respectable man,' said I. 'He's in favour
of whatever will benefit this
country. He's a big ratepayer,' I said. 'He
has extensive house property
in the city and three places of business and
isn't it to his own
advantage to keep down the rates? He's a prominent
and respected
citizen,' said I, 'and a Poor Law Guardian,
and he doesn't belong to any
party, good, bad, or indifferent.' That's
the way to talk to 'em."
"And what about the address to the King?"
said Mr. Lyons, after drinking
and smacking his lips.
"Listen to me," said Mr. Henchy. "What we
want in this country, as I
said to old Ward, is capital. The King's coming
here will mean an influx
of money into this country. The citizens of
Dublin will benefit by it.
Look at all the factories down by the quays
there, idle! Look at all the
money there is in the country if we only worked
the old industries, the
mills, the ship-building yards and factories.
It's capital we want."
"But look here, John," said Mr. O'Connor.
"Why should we welcome the
King of England? Didn't Parnell himself..."
"Parnell," said Mr. Henchy, "is dead. Now,
here's the way I look at it.
Here's this chap come to the throne after
his old mother keeping him out
of it till the man was grey. He's a man of
the world, and he means
well by us. He's a jolly fine decent fellow,
if you ask me, and no damn
nonsense about him. He just says to himself:
'The old one never went
to see these wild Irish. By Christ, I'll go
myself and see what they're
like.' And are we going to insult the man
when he comes over here on a
friendly visit? Eh? Isn't that right, Crofton?"
Mr. Crofton nodded his head.
"But after all now," said Mr. Lyons argumentatively,
"King Edward's
life, you know, is not the very..."
"Let bygones be bygones," said Mr. Henchy.
"I admire the man personally.
He's just an ordinary knockabout like you
and me. He's fond of his glass
of grog and he's a bit of a rake, perhaps,
and he's a good sportsman.
Damn it, can't we Irish play fair?"
"That's all very fine," said Mr. Lyons. "But
look at the case of Parnell
now."
"In the name of God," said Mr. Henchy, "where's
the analogy between the
two cases?"
"What I mean," said Mr. Lyons, "is we have
our ideals. Why, now, would
we welcome a man like that? Do you think now
after what he did Parnell
was a fit man to lead us? And why, then, would
we do it for Edward the
Seventh?"
"This is Parnell's anniversary," said Mr.
O'Connor, "and don't let
us stir up any bad blood. We all respect him
now that he's dead and
gone--even the Conservatives," he added, turning
to Mr. Crofton.
Pok! The tardy cork flew out of Mr. Crofton's
bottle. Mr. Crofton got
up from his box and went to the fire. As he
returned with his capture he
said in a deep voice:
"Our side of the house respects him, because
he was a gentleman."
"Right you are, Crofton!" said Mr. Henchy
fiercely. "He was the only man
that could keep that bag of cats in order.
'Down, ye dogs! Lie down, ye
curs!' That's the way he treated them. Come
in, Joe! Come in!" he called
out, catching sight of Mr. Hynes in the doorway.
Mr. Hynes came in slowly.
"Open another bottle of stout, Jack," said
Mr. Henchy. "O, I forgot
there's no corkscrew! Here, show me one here
and I'll put it at the
fire."
The old man handed him another bottle and
he placed it on the hob.
"Sit down, Joe," said Mr. O'Connor, "we're
just talking about the
Chief."
"Ay, ay!" said Mr. Henchy.
Mr. Hynes sat on the side of the table near
Mr. Lyons but said nothing.
"There's one of them, anyhow," said Mr. Henchy,
"that didn't renege him.
By God, I'll say for you, Joe! No, by God,
you stuck to him like a man!"
"O, Joe," said Mr. O'Connor suddenly. "Give
us that thing you wrote--do
you remember? Have you got it on you?"
"O, ay!" said Mr. Henchy. "Give us that. Did
you ever hear that,
Crofton? Listen to this now: splendid thing."
"Go on," said Mr. O'Connor. "Fire away, Joe."
Mr. Hynes did not seem to remember at once
the piece to which they were
alluding, but, after reflecting a while, he
said:
"O, that thing is it.... Sure, that's old
now."
"Out with it, man!" said Mr. O'Connor.
"'Sh, 'sh," said Mr. Henchy. "Now, Joe!"
Mr. Hynes hesitated a little longer. Then
amid the silence he took off
his hat, laid it on the table and stood up.
He seemed to be rehearsing
the piece in his mind. After a rather long
pause he announced:
THE DEATH OF PARNELL
6th October, 1891
He cleared his throat once or twice and then
began to recite:
He is dead. Our Uncrowned King is dead.
O, Erin, mourn with grief and woe
For he lies dead whom the fell gang
Of modern hypocrites laid low.
He lies slain by the coward hounds
He raised to glory from the mire;
And Erin's hopes and Erin's dreams
Perish upon her monarch's pyre.
In palace, cabin or in cot
The Irish heart where'er it be
Is bowed with woe--for he is gone
Who would have wrought her destiny.
He would have had his Erin famed,
The green flag gloriously unfurled,
Her statesmen, bards and warriors raised
Before the nations of the World.
He dreamed (alas, 'twas but a dream!)
Of Liberty: but as he strove
To clutch that idol, treachery
Sundered him from the thing he loved.
Shame on the coward, caitiff hands
That smote their Lord or with a kiss
Betrayed him to the rabble-rout
Of fawning priests--no friends of his.
May everlasting shame consume
The memory of those who tried
To befoul and smear the exalted name
Of one who spurned them in his pride.
He fell as fall the mighty ones,
Nobly undaunted to the last,
And death has now united him
With Erin's heroes of the past.
No sound of strife disturb his sleep!
Calmly he rests: no human pain
Or high ambition spurs him now
The peaks of glory to attain.
They had their way: they laid him low.
But Erin, list, his spirit may
Rise, like the Phoenix from the flames,
When breaks the dawning of the day,
The day that brings us Freedom's reign.
And on that day may Erin well
Pledge in the cup she lifts to Joy
One grief--the memory of Parnell.
Mr. Hynes sat down again on the table. When
he had finished his
recitation there was a silence and then a
burst of clapping: even Mr.
Lyons clapped. The applause continued for
a little time. When it had
ceased all the auditors drank from their bottles
in silence.
Pok! The cork flew out of Mr. Hynes' bottle,
but Mr. Hynes remained
sitting flushed and bare-headed on the table.
He did not seem to have
heard the invitation.
"Good man, Joe!" said Mr. O'Connor, taking
out his cigarette papers and
pouch the better to hide his emotion.
"What do you think of that, Crofton?" cried
Mr. Henchy. "Isn't that
fine? What?"
Mr. Crofton said that it was a very fine piece
of writing.
A MOTHER
MR HOLOHAN, assistant secretary of the Eire
Abu Society, had been
walking up and down Dublin for nearly a month,
with his hands and
pockets full of dirty pieces of paper, arranging
about the series of
concerts. He had a game leg and for this his
friends called him Hoppy
Holohan. He walked up and down constantly,
stood by the hour at street
corners arguing the point and made notes;
but in the end it was Mrs.
Kearney who arranged everything.
Miss Devlin had become Mrs. Kearney out of
spite. She had been educated
in a high-class convent, where she had learned
French and music. As
she was naturally pale and unbending in manner
she made few friends at
school. When she came to the age of marriage
she was sent out to many
houses where her playing and ivory manners
were much admired. She sat
amid the chilly circle of her accomplishments,
waiting for some suitor
to brave it and offer her a brilliant life.
But the young men whom she
met were ordinary and she gave them no encouragement,
trying to console
her romantic desires by eating a great deal
of Turkish Delight in
secret. However, when she drew near the limit
and her friends began
to loosen their tongues about her, she silenced
them by marrying Mr.
Kearney, who was a bootmaker on Ormond Quay.
He was much older than she. His conversation,
which was serious, took
place at intervals in his great brown beard.
After the first year of
married life, Mrs. Kearney perceived that
such a man would wear better
than a romantic person, but she never put
her own romantic ideas away.
He was sober, thrifty and pious; he went to
the altar every first
Friday, sometimes with her, oftener by himself.
But she never weakened
in her religion and was a good wife to him.
At some party in a strange
house when she lifted her eyebrow ever so
slightly he stood up to take
his leave and, when his cough troubled him,
she put the eider-down quilt
over his feet and made a strong rum punch.
For his part, he was a model
father. By paying a small sum every week into
a society, he ensured for
both his daughters a dowry of one hundred
pounds each when they came to
the age of twenty-four. He sent the older
daughter, Kathleen, to a good
convent, where she learned French and music,
and afterward paid her
fees at the Academy. Every year in the month
of July Mrs. Kearney found
occasion to say to some friend:
"My good man is packing us off to Skerries
for a few weeks."
If it was not Skerries it was Howth or Greystones.
When the Irish Revival began to be appreciable
Mrs. Kearney determined
to take advantage of her daughter's name and
brought an Irish teacher to
the house. Kathleen and her sister sent Irish
picture postcards to their
friends and these friends sent back other
Irish picture postcards.
On special Sundays, when Mr. Kearney went
with his family to the
pro-cathedral, a little crowd of people would
assemble after mass at
the corner of Cathedral Street. They were
all friends of the
Kearneys--musical friends or Nationalist friends;
and, when they had
played every little counter of gossip, they
shook hands with one
another all together, laughing at the crossing
of so many hands, and said
good-bye to one another in Irish. Soon the
name of Miss Kathleen Kearney
began to be heard often on people's lips.
People said that she was
very clever at music and a very nice girl
and, moreover, that she was
a believer in the language movement. Mrs.
Kearney was well content at
this. Therefore she was not surprised when
one day Mr. Holohan came to
her and proposed that her daughter should
be the accompanist at a
series of four grand concerts which his Society
was going to give in the
Antient Concert Rooms. She brought him into
the drawing-room, made him
sit down and brought out the decanter and
the silver biscuit-barrel. She
entered heart and soul into the details of
the enterprise, advised and
dissuaded: and finally a contract was drawn
up by which Kathleen was to
receive eight guineas for her services as
accompanist at the four grand
concerts.
As Mr. Holohan was a novice in such delicate
matters as the wording of
bills and the disposing of items for a programme,
Mrs. Kearney helped
him. She had tact. She knew what artistes
should go into capitals and
what artistes should go into small type. She
knew that the first tenor
would not like to come on after Mr. Meade's
comic turn. To keep the
audience continually diverted she slipped
the doubtful items in between
the old favourites. Mr. Holohan called to
see her every day to have her
advice on some point. She was invariably friendly
and advising--homely,
in fact. She pushed the decanter towards him,
saying:
"Now, help yourself, Mr. Holohan!"
And while he was helping himself she said:
"Don't be afraid! Don't be afraid of it!"
Everything went on smoothly. Mrs. Kearney
bought some lovely blush-pink
charmeuse in Brown Thomas's to let into the
front of Kathleen's dress.
It cost a pretty penny; but there are occasions
when a little expense
is justifiable. She took a dozen of two-shilling
tickets for the final
concert and sent them to those friends who
could not be trusted to come
otherwise. She forgot nothing, and, thanks
to her, everything that was
to be done was done.
The concerts were to be on Wednesday, Thursday,
Friday and Saturday.
When Mrs. Kearney arrived with her daughter
at the Antient Concert Rooms
on Wednesday night she did not like the look
of things. A few young men,
wearing bright blue badges in their coats,
stood idle in the vestibule;
none of them wore evening dress. She passed
by with her daughter and a
quick glance through the open door of the
hall showed her the cause of
the stewards' idleness. At first she wondered
had she mistaken the hour.
No, it was twenty minutes to eight.
In the dressing-room behind the stage she
was introduced to the
secretary of the Society, Mr. Fitzpatrick.
She smiled and shook his
hand. He was a little man, with a white, vacant
face. She noticed that
he wore his soft brown hat carelessly on the
side of his head and that
his accent was flat. He held a programme in
his hand, and, while he was
talking to her, he chewed one end of it into
a moist pulp. He seemed
to bear disappointments lightly. Mr. Holohan
came into the dressingroom
every few minutes with reports from the box-office.
The artistes talked
among themselves nervously, glanced from time
to time at the mirror and
rolled and unrolled their music. When it was
nearly half-past eight, the
few people in the hall began to express their
desire to be entertained.
Mr. Fitzpatrick came in, smiled vacantly at
the room, and said:
"Well now, ladies and gentlemen. I suppose
we'd better open the ball."
Mrs. Kearney rewarded his very flat final
syllable with a quick stare of
contempt, and then said to her daughter encouragingly:
"Are you ready, dear?"
When she had an opportunity, she called Mr.
Holohan aside and asked him
to tell her what it meant. Mr. Holohan did
not know what it meant.
He said that the Committee had made a mistake
in arranging for four
concerts: four was too many.
"And the artistes!" said Mrs. Kearney. "Of
course they are doing their
best, but really they are not good."
Mr. Holohan admitted that the artistes were
no good but the Committee,
he said, had decided to let the first three
concerts go as they pleased
and reserve all the talent for Saturday night.
Mrs. Kearney said
nothing, but, as the mediocre items followed
one another on the platform
and the few people in the hall grew fewer
and fewer, she began to regret
that she had put herself to any expense for
such a concert. There was
something she didn't like in the look of things
and Mr. Fitzpatrick's
vacant smile irritated her very much. However,
she said nothing and
waited to see how it would end. The concert
expired shortly before ten,
and everyone went home quickly.
The concert on Thursday night was better attended,
but Mrs. Kearney
saw at once that the house was filled with
paper. The audience behaved
indecorously, as if the concert were an informal
dress rehearsal. Mr.
Fitzpatrick seemed to enjoy himself; he was
quite unconscious that Mrs.
Kearney was taking angry note of his conduct.
He stood at the edge of
the screen, from time to time jutting out
his head and exchanging a
laugh with two friends in the corner of the
balcony. In the course of
the evening, Mrs. Kearney learned that the
Friday concert was to be
abandoned and that the Committee was going
to move heaven and earth to
secure a bumper house on Saturday night. When
she heard this, she sought
out Mr. Holohan. She buttonholed him as he
was limping out quickly with
a glass of lemonade for a young lady and asked
him was it true. Yes, it
was true.
"But, of course, that doesn't alter the contract,"
she said. "The
contract was for four concerts."
Mr. Holohan seemed to be in a hurry; he advised
her to speak to Mr.
Fitzpatrick. Mrs. Kearney was now beginning
to be alarmed. She called
Mr. Fitzpatrick away from his screen and told
him that her daughter had
signed for four concerts and that, of course,
according to the terms
of the contract, she should receive the sum
originally stipulated for,
whether the society gave the four concerts
or not. Mr. Fitzpatrick, who
did not catch the point at issue very quickly,
seemed unable to resolve
the difficulty and said that he would bring
the matter before the
Committee. Mrs. Kearney's anger began to flutter
in her cheek and she
had all she could do to keep from asking:
"And who is the Cometty pray?"
But she knew that it would not be ladylike
to do that: so she was
silent.
Little boys were sent out into the principal
streets of Dublin early on
Friday morning with bundles of handbills.
Special puffs appeared in all
the evening papers, reminding the music-loving
public of the treat which
was in store for it on the following evening.
Mrs. Kearney was
somewhat reassured, but she thought well to
tell her husband part of
her suspicions. He listened carefully and
said that perhaps it would be
better if he went with her on Saturday night.
She agreed. She respected
her husband in the same way as she respected
the General Post Office, as
something large, secure and fixed; and though
she knew the small number
of his talents she appreciated his abstract
value as a male. She was
glad that he had suggested coming with her.
She thought her plans over.
The night of the grand concert came. Mrs.
Kearney, with her husband and
daughter, arrived at the Antient Concert Rooms
three-quarters of an hour
before the time at which the concert was to
begin. By ill luck it was a
rainy evening. Mrs. Kearney placed her daughter's
clothes and music in
charge of her husband and went all over the
building looking for Mr.
Holohan or Mr. Fitzpatrick. She could find
neither. She asked the
stewards was any member of the Committee in
the hall and, after a great
deal of trouble, a steward brought out a little
woman named Miss
Beirne to whom Mrs. Kearney explained that
she wanted to see one of the
secretaries. Miss Beirne expected them any
minute and asked could she do
anything. Mrs. Kearney looked searchingly
at the oldish face which was
screwed into an expression of trustfulness
and enthusiasm and answered:
"No, thank you!"
The little woman hoped they would have a good
house. She looked out
at the rain until the melancholy of the wet
street effaced all the
trustfulness and enthusiasm from her twisted
features. Then she gave a
little sigh and said:
"Ah, well! We did our best, the dear knows."
Mrs. Kearney had to go back to the dressing-room.
The artistes were arriving. The bass and the
second tenor had already
come. The bass, Mr. Duggan, was a slender
young man with a scattered
black moustache. He was the son of a hall
porter in an office in the
city and, as a boy, he had sung prolonged
bass notes in the resounding
hall. From this humble state he had raised
himself until he had become
a first-rate artiste. He had appeared in grand
opera. One night, when an
operatic artiste had fallen ill, he had undertaken
the part of the king
in the opera of Maritana at the Queen's Theatre.
He sang his music with
great feeling and volume and was warmly welcomed
by the gallery; but,
unfortunately, he marred the good impression
by wiping his nose in his
gloved hand once or twice out of thoughtlessness.
He was unassuming and
spoke little. He said yous so softly that
it passed unnoticed and he
never drank anything stronger than milk for
his voice's sake. Mr. Bell,
the second tenor, was a fair-haired little
man who competed every year
for prizes at the Feis Ceoil. On his fourth
trial he had been awarded
a bronze medal. He was extremely nervous and
extremely jealous of
other tenors and he covered his nervous jealousy
with an ebullient
friendliness. It was his humour to have people
know what an ordeal a
concert was to him. Therefore when he saw
Mr. Duggan he went over to him
and asked:
"Are you in it too?"
"Yes," said Mr. Duggan.
Mr. Bell laughed at his fellow-sufferer, held
out his hand and said:
"Shake!"
Mrs. Kearney passed by these two young men
and went to the edge of the
screen to view the house. The seats were being
filled up rapidly and a
pleasant noise circulated in the auditorium.
She came back and spoke to
her husband privately. Their conversation
was evidently about Kathleen
for they both glanced at her often as she
stood chatting to one of her
Nationalist friends, Miss Healy, the contralto.
An unknown solitary
woman with a pale face walked through the
room. The women followed with
keen eyes the faded blue dress which was stretched
upon a meagre body.
Someone said that she was Madam Glynn, the
soprano.
"I wonder where did they dig her up," said
Kathleen to Miss Healy. "I'm
sure I never heard of her."
Miss Healy had to smile. Mr. Holohan limped
into the dressing-room
at that moment and the two young ladies asked
him who was the unknown
woman. Mr. Holohan said that she was Madam
Glynn from London. Madam
Glynn took her stand in a corner of the room,
holding a roll of music
stiffly before her and from time to time changing
the direction of her
startled gaze. The shadow took her faded dress
into shelter but fell
revengefully into the little cup behind her
collar-bone. The noise of
the hall became more audible. The first tenor
and the baritone arrived
together. They were both well dressed, stout
and complacent and they
brought a breath of opulence among the company.
Mrs. Kearney brought her daughter over to
them, and talked to them
amiably. She wanted to be on good terms with
them but, while she strove
to be polite, her eyes followed Mr. Holohan
in his limping and devious
courses. As soon as she could she excused
herself and went out after
him.
"Mr. Holohan, I want to speak to you for a
moment," she said.
They went down to a discreet part of the corridor.
Mrs Kearney asked
him when was her daughter going to be paid.
Mr. Holohan said that Mr.
Fitzpatrick had charge of that. Mrs. Kearney
said that she didn't know
anything about Mr. Fitzpatrick. Her daughter
had signed a contract for
eight guineas and she would have to be paid.
Mr. Holohan said that it
wasn't his business.
"Why isn't it your business?" asked Mrs. Kearney.
"Didn't you yourself
bring her the contract? Anyway, if it's not
your business it's my
business and I mean to see to it."
"You'd better speak to Mr. Fitzpatrick," said
Mr. Holohan distantly.
"I don't know anything about Mr. Fitzpatrick,"
repeated Mrs. Kearney. "I
have my contract, and I intend to see that
it is carried out."
When she came back to the dressing-room her
cheeks were slightly
suffused. The room was lively. Two men in
outdoor dress had taken
possession of the fireplace and were chatting
familiarly with Miss Healy
and the baritone. They were the Freeman man
and Mr. O'Madden Burke. The
Freeman man had come in to say that he could
not wait for the concert as
he had to report the lecture which an American
priest was giving in
the Mansion House. He said they were to leave
the report for him at the
Freeman office and he would see that it went
in. He was a grey-haired
man, with a plausible voice and careful manners.
He held an extinguished
cigar in his hand and the aroma of cigar smoke
floated near him. He had
not intended to stay a moment because concerts
and artistes bored him
considerably but he remained leaning against
the mantelpiece. Miss
Healy stood in front of him, talking and laughing.
He was old enough to
suspect one reason for her politeness but
young enough in spirit to
turn the moment to account. The warmth, fragrance
and colour of her body
appealed to his senses. He was pleasantly
conscious that the bosom which
he saw rise and fall slowly beneath him rose
and fell at that moment
for him, that the laughter and fragrance and
wilful glances were his
tribute. When he could stay no longer he took
leave of her regretfully.
"O'Madden Burke will write the notice," he
explained to Mr. Holohan,
"and I'll see it in."
"Thank you very much, Mr. Hendrick," said
Mr. Holohan, "you'll see it
in, I know. Now, won't you have a little something
before you go?"
"I don't mind," said Mr. Hendrick.
The two men went along some tortuous passages
and up a dark staircase
and came to a secluded room where one of the
stewards was uncorking
bottles for a few gentlemen. One of these
gentlemen was Mr. O'Madden
Burke, who had found out the room by instinct.
He was a suave, elderly
man who balanced his imposing body, when at
rest, upon a large silk
umbrella. His magniloquent western name was
the moral umbrella upon
which he balanced the fine problem of his
finances. He was widely
respected.
While Mr. Holohan was entertaining the Freeman
man Mrs. Kearney was
speaking so animatedly to her husband that
he had to ask her to lower
her voice. The conversation of the others
in the dressing-room had
become strained. Mr. Bell, the first item,
stood ready with his music
but the accompanist made no sign. Evidently
something was wrong. Mr.
Kearney looked straight before him, stroking
his beard, while Mrs.
Kearney spoke into Kathleen's ear with subdued
emphasis. From the hall
came sounds of encouragement, clapping and
stamping of feet. The
first tenor and the baritone and Miss Healy
stood together, waiting
tranquilly, but Mr. Bell's nerves were greatly
agitated because he was
afraid the audience would think that he had
come late.
Mr. Holohan and Mr. O'Madden Burke came into
the room. In a moment Mr.
Holohan perceived the hush. He went over to
Mrs. Kearney and spoke
with her earnestly. While they were speaking
the noise in the hall grew
louder. Mr. Holohan became very red and excited.
He spoke volubly, but
Mrs. Kearney said curtly at intervals:
"She won't go on. She must get her eight guineas."
Mr. Holohan pointed desperately towards the
hall where the audience was
clapping and stamping. He appealed to Mr Kearney
and to Kathleen. But
Mr. Kearney continued to stroke his beard
and Kathleen looked down,
moving the point of her new shoe: it was not
her fault. Mrs. Kearney
repeated:
"She won't go on without her money."
After a swift struggle of tongues Mr. Holohan
hobbled out in haste.
The room was silent. When the strain of the
silence had become somewhat
painful Miss Healy said to the baritone:
"Have you seen Mrs. Pat Campbell this week?"
The baritone had not seen her but he had been
told that she was very
fine. The conversation went no further. The
first tenor bent his head
and began to count the links of the gold chain
which was extended across
his waist, smiling and humming random notes
to observe the effect on the
frontal sinus. From time to time everyone
glanced at Mrs. Kearney.
The noise in the auditorium had risen to a
clamour when Mr. Fitzpatrick
burst into the room, followed by Mr. Holohan,
who was panting. The
clapping and stamping in the hall were punctuated
by whistling. Mr.
Fitzpatrick held a few banknotes in his hand.
He counted out four
into Mrs. Kearney's hand and said she would
get the other half at the
interval. Mrs. Kearney said:
"This is four shillings short."
But Kathleen gathered in her skirt and said:
"Now, Mr. Bell," to
the first item, who was shaking like an aspen.
The singer and the
accompanist went out together. The noise in
hall died away. There was a
pause of a few seconds: and then the piano
was heard.
The first part of the concert was very successful
except for Madam
Glynn's item. The poor lady sang Killarney
in a bodiless gasping voice,
with all the old-fashioned mannerisms of intonation
and pronunciation
which she believed lent elegance to her singing.
She looked as if she
had been resurrected from an old stage-wardrobe
and the cheaper parts
of the hall made fun of her high wailing notes.
The first tenor and the
contralto, however, brought down the house.
Kathleen played a selection
of Irish airs which was generously applauded.
The first part closed with
a stirring patriotic recitation delivered
by a young lady who arranged
amateur theatricals. It was deservedly applauded;
and, when it was
ended, the men went out for the interval,
content.
All this time the dressing-room was a hive
of excitement. In one corner
were Mr. Holohan, Mr. Fitzpatrick, Miss Beirne,
two of the stewards, the
baritone, the bass, and Mr. O'Madden Burke.
Mr. O'Madden Burke said it
was the most scandalous exhibition he had
ever witnessed. Miss Kathleen
Kearney's musical career was ended in Dublin
after that, he said. The
baritone was asked what did he think of Mrs.
Kearney's conduct. He did
not like to say anything. He had been paid
his money and wished to be at
peace with men. However, he said that Mrs.
Kearney might have taken the
artistes into consideration. The stewards
and the secretaries debated
hotly as to what should be done when the interval
came.
"I agree with Miss Beirne," said Mr. O'Madden
Burke. "Pay her nothing."
In another corner of the room were Mrs. Kearney
and her husband, Mr.
Bell, Miss Healy and the young lady who had
to recite the patriotic
piece. Mrs. Kearney said that the Committee
had treated her
scandalously. She had spared neither trouble
nor expense and this was
how she was repaid.
They thought they had only a girl to deal
with and that, therefore, they
could ride roughshod over her. But she would
show them their mistake.
They wouldn't have dared to have treated her
like that if she had been a
man. But she would see that her daughter got
her rights: she wouldn't
be fooled. If they didn't pay her to the last
farthing she would make
Dublin ring. Of course she was sorry for the
sake of the artistes. But
what else could she do? She appealed to the
second tenor who said he
thought she had not been well treated. Then
she appealed to Miss Healy.
Miss Healy wanted to join the other group
but she did not like to do so
because she was a great friend of Kathleen's
and the Kearneys had often
invited her to their house.
As soon as the first part was ended Mr. Fitzpatrick
and Mr. Holohan went
over to Mrs. Kearney and told her that the
other four guineas would be
paid after the Committee meeting on the following
Tuesday and that, in
case her daughter did not play for the second
part, the Committee would
consider the contract broken and would pay
nothing.
"I haven't seen any Committee," said Mrs.
Kearney angrily. "My daughter
has her contract. She will get four pounds
eight into her hand or a foot
she won't put on that platform."
"I'm surprised at you, Mrs. Kearney," said
Mr. Holohan. "I never thought
you would treat us this way."
"And what way did you treat me?" asked Mrs.
Kearney.
Her face was inundated with an angry colour
and she looked as if she
would attack someone with her hands.
"I'm asking for my rights." she said.
"You might have some sense of decency," said
Mr. Holohan.
"Might I, indeed?... And when I ask when my
daughter is going to be paid
I can't get a civil answer."
She tossed her head and assumed a haughty
voice:
"You must speak to the secretary. It's not
my business. I'm a great
fellow fol-the-diddle-I-do."
"I thought you were a lady," said Mr. Holohan,
walking away from her
abruptly.
After that Mrs. Kearney's conduct was condemned
on all hands: everyone
approved of what the Committee had done. She
stood at the door, haggard
with rage, arguing with her husband and daughter,
gesticulating with
them. She waited until it was time for the
second part to begin in the
hope that the secretaries would approach her.
But Miss Healy had kindly
consented to play one or two accompaniments.
Mrs. Kearney had to stand
aside to allow the baritone and his accompanist
to pass up to the
platform. She stood still for an instant like
an angry stone image
and, when the first notes of the song struck
her ear, she caught up her
daughter's cloak and said to her husband:
"Get a cab!"
He went out at once. Mrs. Kearney wrapped
the cloak round her daughter
and followed him. As she passed through the
doorway she stopped and
glared into Mr. Holohan's face.
"I'm not done with you yet," she said.
"But I'm done with you," said Mr. Holohan.
Kathleen followed her mother meekly. Mr. Holohan
began to pace up and
down the room, in order to cool himself for
he his skin on fire.
"That's a nice lady!" he said. "O, she's a
nice lady!"
"You did the proper thing, Holohan," said
Mr. O'Madden Burke, poised
upon his umbrella 
in approval.
GRACE
TWO GENTLEMEN who were in the lavatory at
the time tried to lift him up:
but he was quite helpless. He lay curled up
at the foot of the stairs
down which he had fallen. They succeeded in
turning him over. His hat
had rolled a few yards away and his clothes
were smeared with the filth
and ooze of the floor on which he had lain,
face downwards. His eyes
were closed and he breathed with a grunting
noise. A thin stream of
blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
These two gentlemen and one of the curates
carried him up the stairs
and laid him down again on the floor of the
bar. In two minutes he was
surrounded by a ring of men. The manager of
the bar asked everyone
who he was and who was with him. No one knew
who he was but one of the
curates said he had served the gentleman with
a small rum.
"Was he by himself?" asked the manager.
"No, sir. There was two gentlemen with him."
"And where are they?"
No one knew; a voice said:
"Give him air. He's fainted."
The ring of onlookers distended and closed
again elastically. A dark
medal of blood had formed itself near the
man's head on the tessellated
floor. The manager, alarmed by the grey pallor
of the man's face, sent
for a policeman.
His collar was unfastened and his necktie
undone. He opened eyes for an
instant, sighed and closed them again. One
of gentlemen who had carried
him upstairs held a dinged silk hat in his
hand. The manager asked
repeatedly did no one know who the injured
man was or where had his
friends gone. The door of the bar opened and
an immense constable
entered. A crowd which had followed him down
the laneway collected
outside the door, struggling to look in through
the glass panels.
The manager at once began to narrate what
he knew. The constable, a young
man with thick immobile features, listened.
He moved his head slowly to
right and left and from the manager to the
person on the floor, as if
he feared to be the victim of some delusion.
Then he drew off his glove,
produced a small book from his waist, licked
the lead of his pencil and
made ready to indite. He asked in a suspicious
provincial accent:
"Who is the man? What's his name and address?"
A young man in a cycling-suit cleared his
way through the ring of
bystanders. He knelt down promptly beside
the injured man and called for
water. The constable knelt down also to help.
The young man washed the
blood from the injured man's mouth and then
called for some brandy. The
constable repeated the order in an authoritative
voice until a curate
came running with the glass. The brandy was
forced down the man's
throat. In a few seconds he opened his eyes
and looked about him. He
looked at the circle of faces and then, understanding,
strove to rise to
his feet.
"You're all right now?" asked the young man
in the cycling-suit.
"Sha,'s nothing," said the injured man, trying
to stand up.
He was helped to his feet. The manager said
something about a hospital
and some of the bystanders gave advice. The
battered silk hat was placed
on the man's head. The constable asked:
"Where do you live?"
The man, without answering, began to twirl
the ends of his moustache.
He made light of his accident. It was nothing,
he said: only a little
accident. He spoke very thickly.
"Where do you live?" repeated the constable.
The man said they were to get a cab for him.
While the point was being
debated a tall agile gentleman of fair complexion,
wearing a long yellow
ulster, came from the far end of the bar.
Seeing the spectacle, he
called out:
"Hallo, Tom, old man! What's the trouble?"
"Sha,'s nothing," said the man.
The new-comer surveyed the deplorable figure
before him and then turned
to the constable, saying:
"It's all right, constable. I'll see him home."
The constable touched his helmet and answered:
"All right, Mr. Power!"
"Come now, Tom," said Mr. Power, taking his
friend by the arm. "No bones
broken. What? Can you walk?"
The young man in the cycling-suit took the
man by the other arm and the
crowd divided.
"How did you get yourself into this mess?"
asked Mr. Power.
"The gentleman fell down the stairs," said
the young man.
"I' 'ery 'uch o'liged to you, sir," said the
injured man.
"Not at all."
"'ant we have a little...?"
"Not now. Not now."
The three men left the bar and the crowd sifted
through the doors in to
the laneway. The manager brought the constable
to the stairs to inspect
the scene of the accident. They agreed that
the gentleman must have
missed his footing. The customers returned
to the counter and a curate
set about removing the traces of blood from
the floor.
When they came out into Grafton Street, Mr.
Power whistled for an
outsider. The injured man said again as well
as he could.
"I' 'ery 'uch o'liged to you, sir. I hope
we'll 'eet again. 'y na'e is
Kernan."
The shock and the incipient pain had partly
sobered him.
"Don't mention it," said the young man.
They shook hands. Mr. Kernan was hoisted on
to the car and, while Mr.
Power was giving directions to the carman,
he expressed his gratitude
to the young man and regretted that they could
not have a little drink
together.
"Another time," said the young man.
The car drove off towards Westmoreland Street.
As it passed Ballast
Office the clock showed half-past nine. A
keen east wind hit them,
blowing from the mouth of the river. Mr. Kernan
was huddled together
with cold. His friend asked him to tell how
the accident had happened.
"I'an't 'an," he answered, "'y 'ongue is hurt."
"Show."
The other leaned over the well of the car
and peered into Mr. Kernan's
mouth but he could not see. He struck a match
and, sheltering it in the
shell of his hands, peered again into the
mouth which Mr. Kernan opened
obediently. The swaying movement of the car
brought the match to and
from the opened mouth. The lower teeth and
gums were covered with
clotted blood and a minute piece of the tongue
seemed to have been
bitten off. The match was blown out.
"That's ugly," said Mr. Power.
"Sha, 's nothing," said Mr. Kernan, closing
his mouth and pulling the
collar of his filthy coat across his neck.
Mr. Kernan was a commercial traveller of the
old school which believed
in the dignity of its calling. He had never
been seen in the city
without a silk hat of some decency and a pair
of gaiters. By grace of
these two articles of clothing, he said, a
man could always pass muster.
He carried on the tradition of his Napoleon,
the great Blackwhite, whose
memory he evoked at times by legend and mimicry.
Modern business methods
had spared him only so far as to allow him
a little office in Crowe
Street, on the window blind of which was written
the name of his firm
with the address--London, E. C. On the mantelpiece
of this little office
a little leaden battalion of canisters was
drawn up and on the table
before the window stood four or five china
bowls which were usually half
full of a black liquid. From these bowls Mr.
Kernan tasted tea. He took
a mouthful, drew it up, saturated his palate
with it and then spat it
forth into the grate. Then he paused to judge.
Mr. Power, a much younger man, was employed
in the Royal Irish
Constabulary Office in Dublin Castle. The
arc of his social rise
intersected the arc of his friend's decline,
but Mr. Kernan's decline
was mitigated by the fact that certain of
those friends who had known
him at his highest point of success still
esteemed him as a character.
Mr. Power was one of these friends. His inexplicable
debts were a byword
in his circle; he was a debonair young man.
The car halted before a small house on the
Glasnevin road and Mr. Kernan
was helped into the house. His wife put him
to bed while Mr. Power sat
downstairs in the kitchen asking the children
where they went to school
and what book they were in. The children--two
girls and a boy, conscious
of their father's helplessness and of their
mother's absence, began some
horseplay with him. He was surprised at their
manners and at their
accents, and his brow grew thoughtful. After
a while Mrs. Kernan entered
the kitchen, exclaiming:
"Such a sight! O, he'll do for himself one
day and that's the holy alls
of it. He's been drinking since Friday."
Mr. Power was careful to explain to her that
he was not responsible,
that he had come on the scene by the merest
accident. Mrs. Kernan,
remembering Mr. Power's good offices during
domestic quarrels, as well
as many small, but opportune loans, said:
"O, you needn't tell me that, Mr. Power. I
know you're a friend of his,
not like some of the others he does be with.
They're all right so long
as he has money in his pocket to keep him
out from his wife and family.
Nice friends! Who was he with tonight, I'd
like to know?"
Mr. Power shook his head but said nothing.
"I'm so sorry," she continued, "that I've
nothing in the house to offer
you. But if you wait a minute I'll send round
to Fogarty's at the
corner."
Mr. Power stood up.
"We were waiting for him to come home with
the money. He never seems to
think he has a home at all."
"O, now, Mrs. Kernan," said Mr. Power, "we'll
make him turn over a new
leaf. I'll talk to Martin. He's the man. We'll
come here one of these
nights and talk it over."
She saw him to the door. The carman was stamping
up and down the
footpath, and swinging his arms to warm himself.
"It's very kind of you to bring him home,"
she said.
"Not at all," said Mr. Power.
He got up on the car. As it drove off he raised
his hat to her gaily.
"We'll make a new man of him," he said. "Good-night,
Mrs. Kernan."
* * * * *
Mrs. Kernan's puzzled eyes watched the car
till it was out of sight.
Then she withdrew them, went into the house
and emptied her husband's
pockets.
She was an active, practical woman of middle
age. Not long before she
had celebrated her silver wedding and renewed
her intimacy with her
husband by waltzing with him to Mr. Power's
accompaniment. In her days
of courtship, Mr. Kernan had seemed to her
a not ungallant figure: and
she still hurried to the chapel door whenever
a wedding was reported
and, seeing the bridal pair, recalled with
vivid pleasure how she had
passed out of the Star of the Sea Church in
Sandymount, leaning on the
arm of a jovial well-fed man, who was dressed
smartly in a frock-coat
and lavender trousers and carried a silk hat
gracefully balanced upon
his other arm. After three weeks she had found
a wife's life irksome
and, later on, when she was beginning to find
it unbearable, she had
become a mother. The part of mother presented
to her no insuperable
difficulties and for twenty-five years she
had kept house shrewdly for
her husband. Her two eldest sons were launched.
One was in a draper's
shop in Glasgow and the other was clerk to
a tea-merchant in Belfast.
They were good sons, wrote regularly and sometimes
sent home money. The
other children were still at school.
Mr. Kernan sent a letter to his office next
day and remained in bed. She
made beef-tea for him and scolded him roundly.
She accepted his frequent
intemperance as part of the climate, healed
him dutifully whenever he
was sick and always tried to make him eat
a breakfast. There were worse
husbands. He had never been violent since
the boys had grown up, and she
knew that he would walk to the end of Thomas
Street and back again to
book even a small order.
Two nights after, his friends came to see
him. She brought them up to
his bedroom, the air of which was impregnated
with a personal odour,
and gave them chairs at the fire. Mr. Kernan's
tongue, the occasional
stinging pain of which had made him somewhat
irritable during the day,
became more polite. He sat propped up in the
bed by pillows and the
little colour in his puffy cheeks made them
resemble warm cinders. He
apologised to his guests for the disorder
of the room, but at the same
time looked at them a little proudly, with
a veteran's pride.
He was quite unconscious that he was the victim
of a plot which his
friends, Mr. Cunningham, Mr. M'Coy and Mr.
Power had disclosed to Mrs.
Kernan in the parlour. The idea had been Mr.
Power's, but its development
was entrusted to Mr. Cunningham. Mr. Kernan
came of Protestant stock
and, though he had been converted to the Catholic
faith at the time
of his marriage, he had not been in the pale
of the Church for twenty
years. He was fond, moreover, of giving side-thrusts
at Catholicism.
Mr. Cunningham was the very man for such a
case. He was an elder
colleague of Mr. Power. His own domestic life
was not very happy. People
had great sympathy with him, for it was known
that he had married an
unpresentable woman who was an incurable drunkard.
He had set up house
for her six times; and each time she had pawned
the furniture on him.
Everyone had respect for poor Martin Cunningham.
He was a thoroughly
sensible man, influential and intelligent.
His blade of human knowledge,
natural astuteness particularised by long
association with cases in the
police courts, had been tempered by brief
immersions in the waters
of general philosophy. He was well informed.
His friends bowed to his
opinions and considered that his face was
like Shakespeare's.
When the plot had been disclosed to her, Mrs.
Kernan had said:
"I leave it all in your hands, Mr. Cunningham."
After a quarter of a century of married life,
she had very few illusions
left. Religion for her was a habit, and she
suspected that a man of her
husband's age would not change greatly before
death. She was tempted to
see a curious appropriateness in his accident
and, but that she did
not wish to seem bloody-minded, would have
told the gentlemen that
Mr. Kernan's tongue would not suffer by being
shortened. However, Mr.
Cunningham was a capable man; and religion
was religion. The scheme
might do good and, at least, it could do no
harm. Her beliefs were
not extravagant. She believed steadily in
the Sacred Heart as the
most generally useful of all Catholic devotions
and approved of the
sacraments. Her faith was bounded by her kitchen,
but, if she was put to
it, she could believe also in the banshee
and in the Holy Ghost.
The gentlemen began to talk of the accident.
Mr. Cunningham said that he
had once known a similar case. A man of seventy
had bitten off a piece
of his tongue during an epileptic fit and
the tongue had filled in
again, so that no one could see a trace of
the bite.
"Well, I'm not seventy," said the invalid.
"God forbid," said Mr. Cunningham.
"It doesn't pain you now?" asked Mr. M'Coy.
Mr. M'Coy had been at one time a tenor of
some reputation. His wife, who
had been a soprano, still taught young children
to play the piano at low
terms. His line of life had not been the shortest
distance between two
points and for short periods he had been driven
to live by his wits. He
had been a clerk in the Midland Railway, a
canvasser for advertisements
for The Irish Times and for The Freeman's
Journal, a town traveller
for a coal firm on commission, a private inquiry
agent, a clerk in the
office of the Sub-Sheriff, and he had recently
become secretary to the
City Coroner. His new office made him professionally
interested in Mr.
Kernan's case.
"Pain? Not much," answered Mr. Kernan. "But
it's so sickening. I feel as
if I wanted to retch off."
"That's the boose," said Mr. Cunningham firmly.
"No," said Mr. Kernan. "I think I caught a
cold on the car. There's
something keeps coming into my throat, phlegm
or----"
"Mucus." said Mr. M'Coy.
"It keeps coming like from down in my throat;
sickening."
"Yes, yes," said Mr. M'Coy, "that's the thorax."
He looked at Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Power
at the same time with an air
of challenge. Mr. Cunningham nodded his head
rapidly and Mr. Power said:
"Ah, well, all's well that ends well."
"I'm very much obliged to you, old man," said
the invalid.
Mr. Power waved his hand.
"Those other two fellows I was with----"
"Who were you with?" asked Mr. Cunningham.
"A chap. I don't know his name. Damn it now,
what's his name? Little
chap with sandy hair...."
"And who else?"
"Harford."
"Hm," said Mr. Cunningham.
When Mr. Cunningham made that remark, people
were silent. It was known
that the speaker had secret sources of information.
In this case the
monosyllable had a moral intention. Mr. Harford
sometimes formed one
of a little detachment which left the city
shortly after noon on Sunday
with the purpose of arriving as soon as possible
at some public-house on
the outskirts of the city where its members
duly qualified themselves as
bona fide travellers. But his fellow-travellers
had never consented
to overlook his origin. He had begun life
as an obscure financier by
lending small sums of money to workmen at
usurious interest. Later on he
had become the partner of a very fat, short
gentleman, Mr. Goldberg, in
the Liffey Loan Bank. Though he had never
embraced more than the Jewish
ethical code, his fellow-Catholics, whenever
they had smarted in person
or by proxy under his exactions, spoke of
him bitterly as an Irish Jew
and an illiterate, and saw divine disapproval
of usury made manifest
through the person of his idiot son. At other
times they remembered his
good points.
"I wonder where did he go to," said Mr. Kernan.
He wished the details of the incident to remain
vague. He wished his
friends to think there had been some mistake,
that Mr. Harford and he
had missed each other. His friends, who knew
quite well Mr. Harford's
manners in drinking were silent. Mr. Power
said again:
"All's well that ends well."
Mr. Kernan changed the subject at once.
"That was a decent young chap, that medical
fellow," he said. "Only for
him----"
"O, only for him," said Mr. Power, "it might
have been a case of seven
days, without the option of a fine."
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Kernan, trying to remember.
"I remember now there
was a policeman. Decent young fellow, he seemed.
How did it happen at
all?"
"It happened that you were peloothered, Tom,"
said Mr. Cunningham
gravely.
"True bill," said Mr. Kernan, equally gravely.
"I suppose you squared the constable, Jack,"
said Mr. M'Coy.
Mr. Power did not relish the use of his Christian
name. He was not
straight-laced, but he could not forget that
Mr. M'Coy had recently made
a crusade in search of valises and portmanteaus
to enable Mrs. M'Coy to
fulfil imaginary engagements in the country.
More than he resented the
fact that he had been victimised he resented
such low playing of the
game. He answered the question, therefore,
as if Mr. Kernan had asked
it.
The narrative made Mr. Kernan indignant. He
was keenly conscious of his
citizenship, wished to live with his city
on terms mutually honourable
and resented any affront put upon him by those
whom he called country
bumpkins.
"Is this what we pay rates for?" he asked.
"To feed and clothe these
ignorant bostooms... and they're nothing else."
Mr. Cunningham laughed. He was a Castle official
only during office
hours.
"How could they be anything else, Tom?" he
said.
He assumed a thick, provincial accent and
said in a tone of command:
"65, catch your cabbage!"
Everyone laughed. Mr. M'Coy, who wanted to
enter the conversation by any
door, pretended that he had never heard the
story. Mr. Cunningham said:
"It is supposed--they say, you know--to take
place in the depot where
they get these thundering big country fellows,
omadhauns, you know, to
drill. The sergeant makes them stand in a
row against the wall and hold
up their plates."
He illustrated the story by grotesque gestures.
"At dinner, you know. Then he has a bloody
big bowl of cabbage before
him on the table and a bloody big spoon like
a shovel. He takes up a wad
of cabbage on the spoon and pegs it across
the room and the poor devils
have to try and catch it on their plates:
65, catch your cabbage."
Everyone laughed again: but Mr. Kernan was
somewhat indignant still. He
talked of writing a letter to the papers.
"These yahoos coming up here," he said, "think
they can boss the people.
I needn't tell you, Martin, what kind of men
they are."
Mr. Cunningham gave a qualified assent.
"It's like everything else in this world,"
he said. "You get some bad
ones and you get some good ones."
"O yes, you get some good ones, I admit,"
said Mr. Kernan, satisfied.
"It's better to have nothing to say to them,"
said Mr. M'Coy. "That's my
opinion!"
Mrs. Kernan entered the room and, placing
a tray on the table, said:
"Help yourselves, gentlemen."
Mr. Power stood up to officiate, offering
her his chair. She declined
it, saying she was ironing downstairs, and,
after having exchanged a nod
with Mr. Cunningham behind Mr. Power's back,
prepared to leave the room.
Her husband called out to her:
"And have you nothing for me, duckie?"
"O, you! The back of my hand to you!" said
Mrs. Kernan tartly.
Her husband called after her:
"Nothing for poor little hubby!"
He assumed such a comical face and voice that
the distribution of the
bottles of stout took place amid general merriment.
The gentlemen drank from their glasses, set
the glasses again on the
table and paused. Then Mr. Cunningham turned
towards Mr. Power and said
casually:
"On Thursday night, you said, Jack."
"Thursday, yes," said Mr. Power.
"Righto!" said Mr. Cunningham promptly.
"We can meet in M'Auley's," said Mr. M'Coy.
"That'll be the most
convenient place."
"But we mustn't be late," said Mr. Power earnestly,
"because it is sure
to be crammed to the doors."
"We can meet at half-seven," said Mr. M'Coy.
"Righto!" said Mr. Cunningham.
"Half-seven at M'Auley's be it!"
There was a short silence. Mr. Kernan waited
to see whether he would be
taken into his friends' confidence. Then he
asked:
"What's in the wind?"
"O, it's nothing," said Mr. Cunningham. "It's
only a little matter that
we're arranging about for Thursday."
"The opera, is it?" said Mr. Kernan.
"No, no," said Mr. Cunningham in an evasive
tone, "it's just a little...
spiritual matter."
"O," said Mr. Kernan.
There was silence again. Then Mr. Power said,
point blank:
"To tell you the truth, Tom, we're going to
make a retreat."
"Yes, that's it," said Mr. Cunningham, "Jack
and I and M'Coy here--we're
all going to wash the pot."
He uttered the metaphor with a certain homely
energy and, encouraged by
his own voice, proceeded:
"You see, we may as well all admit we're a
nice collection of
scoundrels, one and all. I say, one and all,"
he added with gruff
charity and turning to Mr. Power. "Own up
now!"
"I own up," said Mr. Power.
"And I own up," said Mr. M'Coy.
"So we're going to wash the pot together,"
said Mr. Cunningham.
A thought seemed to strike him. He turned
suddenly to the invalid and
said:
"D'ye know what, Tom, has just occurred to
me? You night join in and
we'd have a four-handed reel."
"Good idea," said Mr. Power. "The four of
us together."
Mr. Kernan was silent. The proposal conveyed
very little meaning to
his mind, but, understanding that some spiritual
agencies were about to
concern themselves on his behalf, he thought
he owed it to his dignity
to show a stiff neck. He took no part in the
conversation for a long
while, but listened, with an air of calm enmity,
while his friends
discussed the Jesuits.
"I haven't such a bad opinion of the Jesuits,"
he said, intervening at
length. "They're an educated order. I believe
they mean well, too."
"They're the grandest order in the Church,
Tom," said Mr. Cunningham,
with enthusiasm. "The General of the Jesuits
stands next to the Pope."
"There's no mistake about it," said Mr. M'Coy,
"if you want a thing
well done and no flies about, you go to a
Jesuit. They're the boyos have
influence. I'll tell you a case in point...."
"The Jesuits are a fine body of men," said
Mr. Power.
"It's a curious thing," said Mr. Cunningham,
"about the Jesuit Order.
Every other order of the Church had to be
reformed at some time or other
but the Jesuit Order was never once reformed.
It never fell away."
"Is that so?" asked Mr. M'Coy.
"That's a fact," said Mr. Cunningham. "That's
history."
"Look at their church, too," said Mr. Power.
"Look at the congregation
they have."
"The Jesuits cater for the upper classes,"
said Mr. M'Coy.
"Of course," said Mr. Power.
"Yes," said Mr. Kernan. "That's why I have
a feeling for them. It's some
of those secular priests, ignorant, bumptious----"
"They're all good men," said Mr. Cunningham,
"each in his own way. The
Irish priesthood is honoured all the world
over."
"O yes," said Mr. Power.
"Not like some of the other priesthoods on
the continent," said Mr.
M'Coy, "unworthy of the name."
"Perhaps you're right," said Mr. Kernan, relenting.
"Of course I'm right," said Mr. Cunningham.
"I haven't been in the
world all this time and seen most sides of
it without being a judge of
character."
The gentlemen drank again, one following another's
example. Mr. Kernan
seemed to be weighing something in his mind.
He was impressed. He had a
high opinion of Mr. Cunningham as a judge
of character and as a reader
of faces. He asked for particulars.
"O, it's just a retreat, you know," said Mr.
Cunningham. "Father Purdon
is giving it. It's for business men, you know."
"He won't be too hard on us, Tom," said Mr.
Power persuasively.
"Father Purdon? Father Purdon?" said the invalid.
"O, you must know him, Tom," said Mr. Cunningham
stoutly. "Fine, jolly
fellow! He's a man of the world like ourselves."
"Ah,... yes. I think I know him. Rather red
face; tall."
"That's the man."
"And tell me, Martin.... Is he a good preacher?"
"Munno.... It's not exactly a sermon, you
know. It's just kind of a
friendly talk, you know, in a common-sense
way."
Mr. Kernan deliberated. Mr. M'Coy said:
"Father Tom Burke, that was the boy!"
"O, Father Tom Burke," said Mr. Cunningham,
"that was a born orator. Did
you ever hear him, Tom?"
"Did I ever hear him!" said the invalid, nettled.
"Rather! I heard
him...."
"And yet they say he wasn't much of a theologian,"
said Mr Cunningham.
"Is that so?" said Mr. M'Coy.
"O, of course, nothing wrong, you know. Only
sometimes, they say, he
didn't preach what was quite orthodox."
"Ah!... he was a splendid man," said Mr. M'Coy.
"I heard him once," Mr. Kernan continued.
"I forget the subject of his
discourse now. Crofton and I were in the back
of the... pit, you know...
the----"
"The body," said Mr. Cunningham.
"Yes, in the back near the door. I forget
now what.... O yes, it was
on the Pope, the late Pope. I remember it
well. Upon my word it was
magnificent, the style of the oratory. And
his voice! God! hadn't he a
voice! The Prisoner of the Vatican, he called
him. I remember Crofton
saying to me when we came out----"
"But he's an Orangeman, Crofton, isn't he?"
said Mr. Power.
"'Course he is," said Mr. Kernan, "and a damned
decent Orangeman too. We
went into Butler's in Moore Street--faith,
I was genuinely moved, tell you
the God's truth--and I remember well his very
words. 'Kernan,' he said, 'we
worship at different altars, he said, but
our belief is the same.' Struck
me as very well put."
"There's a good deal in that," said Mr. Power.
"There used always to be
crowds of Protestants in the chapel where
Father Tom was preaching."
"There's not much difference between us,"
said Mr. M'Coy.
"We both believe in----"
He hesitated for a moment.
"... in the Redeemer. Only they don't believe
in the Pope and in the
mother of God."
"But, of course," said Mr. Cunningham quietly
and effectively, "our
religion is the religion, the old, original
faith."
"Not a doubt of it," said Mr. Kernan warmly.
Mrs. Kernan came to the door of the bedroom
and announced:
"Here's a visitor for you!"
"Who is it?"
"Mr. Fogarty."
"O, come in! come in!"
A pale, oval face came forward into the light.
The arch of its fair
trailing moustache was repeated in the fair
eyebrows looped above
pleasantly astonished eyes. Mr. Fogarty was
a modest grocer. He had
failed in business in a licensed house in
the city because his financial
condition had constrained him to tie himself
to second-class distillers
and brewers. He had opened a small shop on
Glasnevin Road where, he
flattered himself, his manners would ingratiate
him with the housewives
of the district. He bore himself with a certain
grace, complimented
little children and spoke with a neat enunciation.
He was not without
culture.
Mr. Fogarty brought a gift with him, a half-pint
of special whisky. He
inquired politely for Mr. Kernan, placed his
gift on the table and sat
down with the company on equal terms. Mr.
Kernan appreciated the gift
all the more since he was aware that there
was a small account for
groceries unsettled between him and Mr. Fogarty.
He said:
"I wouldn't doubt you, old man. Open that,
Jack, will you?"
Mr. Power again officiated. Glasses were rinsed
and five small
measures of whisky were poured out. This new
influence enlivened the
conversation. Mr. Fogarty, sitting on a small
area of the chair, was
specially interested.
"Pope Leo XIII," said Mr. Cunningham, "was
one of the lights of the age.
His great idea, you know, was the union of
the Latin and Greek Churches.
That was the aim of his life."
"I often heard he was one of the most intellectual
men in Europe," said
Mr. Power. "I mean, apart from his being Pope."
"So he was," said Mr. Cunningham, "if not
the most so. His motto, you
know, as Pope, was Lux upon Lux--Light upon
Light."
"No, no," said Mr. Fogarty eagerly. "I think
you're wrong there. It was
Lux in Tenebris, I think--Light in Darkness."
"O yes," said Mr. M'Coy, "Tenebrae."
"Allow me," said Mr. Cunningham positively,
"it was Lux upon Lux. And
Pius IX his predecessor's motto was Crux upon
Crux--that is, Cross upon
Cross--to show the difference between their
two pontificates."
The inference was allowed. Mr. Cunningham
continued.
"Pope Leo, you know, was a great scholar and
a poet."
"He had a strong face," said Mr. Kernan.
"Yes," said Mr. Cunningham. "He wrote Latin
poetry."
"Is that so?" said Mr. Fogarty.
Mr. M'Coy tasted his whisky contentedly and
shook his head with a double
intention, saying:
"That's no joke, I can tell you."
"We didn't learn that, Tom," said Mr. Power,
following Mr. M'Coy's
example, "when we went to the penny-a-week
school."
"There was many a good man went to the penny-a-week
school with a sod
of turf under his oxter," said Mr. Kernan
sententiously. "The old system
was the best: plain honest education. None
of your modern trumpery...."
"Quite right," said Mr. Power.
"No superfluities," said Mr. Fogarty.
He enunciated the word and then drank gravely.
"I remember reading," said Mr. Cunningham,
"that one of Pope Leo's poems
was on the invention of the photograph--in
Latin, of course."
"On the photograph!" exclaimed Mr. Kernan.
"Yes," said Mr. Cunningham.
He also drank from his glass.
"Well, you know," said Mr. M'Coy, "isn't the
photograph wonderful when
you come to think of it?"
"O, of course," said Mr. Power, "great minds
can see things."
"As the poet says: Great minds are very near
to madness," said Mr.
Fogarty.
Mr. Kernan seemed to be troubled in mind.
He made an effort to recall
the Protestant theology on some thorny points
and in the end addressed
Mr. Cunningham.
"Tell me, Martin," he said. "Weren't some
of the popes--of course, not
our present man, or his predecessor, but some
of the old popes--not
exactly... you know... up to the knocker?"
There was a silence. Mr. Cunningham said
"O, of course, there were some bad lots...
But the astonishing thing
is this. Not one of them, not the biggest
drunkard, not the most...
out-and-out ruffian, not one of them ever
preached ex cathedra a word of
false doctrine. Now isn't that an astonishing
thing?"
"That is," said Mr. Kernan.
"Yes, because when the Pope speaks ex cathedra,"
Mr. Fogarty explained,
"he is infallible."
"Yes," said Mr. Cunningham.
"O, I know about the infallibility of the
Pope. I remember I was younger
then.... Or was it that----?"
Mr. Fogarty interrupted. He took up the bottle
and helped the others to
a little more. Mr. M'Coy, seeing that there
was not enough to go round,
pleaded that he had not finished his first
measure. The others accepted
under protest. The light music of whisky falling
into glasses made an
agreeable interlude.
"What's that you were saying, Tom?" asked
Mr. M'Coy.
"Papal infallibility," said Mr. Cunningham,
"that was the greatest scene
in the whole history of the Church."
"How was that, Martin?" asked Mr. Power.
Mr. Cunningham held up two thick fingers.
"In the sacred college, you know, of cardinals
and archbishops and
bishops there were two men who held out against
it while the others were
all for it. The whole conclave except these
two was unanimous. No! They
wouldn't have it!"
"Ha!" said Mr. M'Coy.
"And they were a German cardinal by the name
of Dolling... or Dowling...
or----"
"Dowling was no German, and that's a sure
five," said Mr. Power,
laughing.
"Well, this great German cardinal, whatever
his name was, was one; and
the other was John MacHale."
"What?" cried Mr. Kernan. "Is it John of Tuam?"
"Are you sure of that now?" asked Mr. Fogarty
dubiously. "I thought it
was some Italian or American."
"John of Tuam," repeated Mr. Cunningham, "was
the man."
He drank and the other gentlemen followed
his lead. Then he resumed:
"There they were at it, all the cardinals
and bishops and archbishops
from all the ends of the earth and these two
fighting dog and devil
until at last the Pope himself stood up and
declared infallibility a
dogma of the Church ex cathedra. On the very
moment John MacHale, who
had been arguing and arguing against it, stood
up and shouted out with
the voice of a lion: 'Credo!'"
"I believe!" said Mr. Fogarty.
"Credo!" said Mr. Cunningham. "That showed
the faith he had. He submitted
the moment the Pope spoke."
"And what about Dowling?" asked Mr. M'Coy.
"The German cardinal wouldn't submit. He left
the church."
Mr. Cunningham's words had built up the vast
image of the church in the
minds of his hearers. His deep, raucous voice
had thrilled them as it
uttered the word of belief and submission.
When Mrs. Kernan came into
the room, drying her hands she came into a
solemn company. She did not
disturb the silence, but leaned over the rail
at the foot of the bed.
"I once saw John MacHale," said Mr. Kernan,
"and I'll never forget it as
long as I live."
He turned towards his wife to be confirmed.
"I often told you that?"
Mrs. Kernan nodded.
"It was at the unveiling of Sir John Gray's
statue. Edmund Dwyer
Gray was speaking, blathering away, and here
was this old fellow,
crabbed-looking old chap, looking at him from
under his bushy eyebrows."
Mr. Kernan knitted his brows and, lowering
his head like an angry bull,
glared at his wife.
"God!" he exclaimed, resuming his natural
face, "I never saw such an eye
in a man's head. It was as much as to say:
I have you properly taped, my
lad. He had an eye like a hawk."
"None of the Grays was any good," said Mr.
Power.
There was a pause again. Mr. Power turned
to Mrs. Kernan and said with
abrupt joviality:
"Well, Mrs. Kernan, we're going to make your
man here a good holy pious
and God-fearing Roman Catholic."
He swept his arm round the company inclusively.
"We're all going to make a retreat together
and confess our sins--and
God knows we want it badly."
"I don't mind," said Mr. Kernan, smiling a
little nervously.
Mrs. Kernan thought it would be wiser to conceal
her satisfaction. So
she said:
"I pity the poor priest that has to listen
to your tale."
Mr. Kernan's expression changed.
"If he doesn't like it," he said bluntly,
"he can... do the other thing.
I'll just tell him my little tale of woe.
I'm not such a bad fellow----"
Mr. Cunningham intervened promptly.
"We'll all renounce the devil," he said, "together,
not forgetting his
works and pomps."
"Get behind me, Satan!" said Mr. Fogarty,
laughing and looking at the
others.
Mr. Power said nothing. He felt completely
out-generalled. But a pleased
expression flickered across his face.
"All we have to do," said Mr. Cunningham,
"is to stand up with lighted
candles in our hands and renew our baptismal
vows."
"O, don't forget the candle, Tom," said Mr.
M'Coy, "whatever you do."
"What?" said Mr. Kernan. "Must I have a candle?"
"O yes," said Mr. Cunningham.
"No, damn it all," said Mr. Kernan sensibly,
"I draw the line there.
I'll do the job right enough. I'll do the
retreat business and
confession, and... all that business. But...
no candles! No, damn it
all, I bar the candles!"
He shook his head with farcical gravity.
"Listen to that!" said his wife.
"I bar the candles," said Mr. Kernan, conscious
of having created an
effect on his audience and continuing to shake
his head to and fro. "I
bar the magic-lantern business."
Everyone laughed heartily.
"There's a nice Catholic for you!" said his
wife.
"No candles!" repeated Mr. Kernan obdurately.
"That's off!"
The transept of the Jesuit Church in Gardiner
Street was almost full;
and still at every moment gentlemen entered
from the side door and,
directed by the lay-brother, walked on tiptoe
along the aisles until
they found seating accommodation. The gentlemen
were all well dressed
and orderly. The light of the lamps of the
church fell upon an assembly
of black clothes and white collars, relieved
here and there by tweeds,
on dark mottled pillars of green marble and
on lugubrious canvases. The
gentlemen sat in the benches, having hitched
their trousers slightly
above their knees and laid their hats in security.
They sat well back
and gazed formally at the distant speck of
red light which was suspended
before the high altar.
In one of the benches near the pulpit sat
Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Kernan.
In the bench behind sat Mr. M'Coy alone: and
in the bench behind him sat
Mr. Power and Mr. Fogarty. Mr. M'Coy had tried
unsuccessfully to find a
place in the bench with the others, and, when
the party had settled down
in the form of a quincunx, he had tried unsuccessfully
to make comic
remarks. As these had not been well received,
he had desisted. Even he
was sensible of the decorous atmosphere and
even he began to respond to
the religious stimulus. In a whisper, Mr.
Cunningham drew Mr. Kernan's
attention to Mr. Harford, the moneylender,
who sat some distance off,
and to Mr. Fanning, the registration agent
and mayor maker of the city,
who was sitting immediately under the pulpit
beside one of the newly
elected councillors of the ward. To the right
sat old Michael Grimes,
the owner of three pawnbroker's shops, and
Dan Hogan's nephew, who was
up for the job in the Town Clerk's office.
Farther in front sat
Mr. Hendrick, the chief reporter of The Freeman's
Journal, and poor
O'Carroll, an old friend of Mr. Kernan's,
who had been at one time a
considerable commercial figure. Gradually,
as he recognised familiar
faces, Mr. Kernan began to feel more at home.
His hat, which had been
rehabilitated by his wife, rested upon his
knees. Once or twice he
pulled down his cuffs with one hand while
he held the brim of his hat
lightly, but firmly, with the other hand.
A powerful-looking figure, the upper part
of which was draped with
a white surplice, was observed to be struggling
into the pulpit.
Simultaneously the congregation unsettled,
produced handkerchiefs and
knelt upon them with care. Mr. Kernan followed
the general example. The
priest's figure now stood upright in the pulpit,
two-thirds of its bulk,
crowned by a massive red face, appearing above
the balustrade.
Father Purdon knelt down, turned towards the
red speck of light
and, covering his face with his hands, prayed.
After an interval, he
uncovered his face and rose. The congregation
rose also and settled
again on its benches. Mr. Kernan restored
his hat to its original
position on his knee and presented an attentive
face to the preacher.
The preacher turned back each wide sleeve
of his surplice with an
elaborate large gesture and slowly surveyed
the array of faces. Then he
said:
"For the children of this world are wiser
in their generation than the
children of light. Wherefore make unto yourselves
friends out of the
mammon of iniquity so that when you die they
may receive you into
everlasting dwellings."
Father Purdon developed the text with resonant
assurance. It was one of
the most difficult texts in all the Scriptures,
he said, to interpret
properly. It was a text which might seem to
the casual observer at
variance with the lofty morality elsewhere
preached by Jesus Christ.
But, he told his hearers, the text had seemed
to him specially adapted
for the guidance of those whose lot it was
to lead the life of the world
and who yet wished to lead that life not in
the manner of worldlings. It
was a text for business men and professional
men. Jesus Christ, with His
divine understanding of every cranny of our
human nature, understood
that all men were not called to the religious
life, that by far the vast
majority were forced to live in the world,
and, to a certain extent,
for the world: and in this sentence He designed
to give them a word of
counsel, setting before them as exemplars
in the religious life those
very worshippers of Mammon who were of all
men the least solicitous in
matters religious.
He told his hearers that he was there that
evening for no terrifying,
no extravagant purpose; but as a man of the
world speaking to his
fellow-men. He came to speak to business men
and he would speak to them
in a businesslike way. If he might use the
metaphor, he said, he was
their spiritual accountant; and he wished
each and every one of his
hearers to open his books, the books of his
spiritual life, and see if
they tallied accurately with conscience.
Jesus Christ was not a hard taskmaster. He
understood our little
failings, understood the weakness of our poor
fallen nature, understood
the temptations of this life. We might have
had, we all had from time to
time, our temptations: we might have, we all
had, our failings. But one
thing only, he said, he would ask of his hearers.
And that was: to be
straight and manly with God. If their accounts
tallied in every point to
say:
"Well, I have verified my accounts. I find
all well."
But if, as might happen, there were some discrepancies,
to admit the
truth, to be frank and say like a man:
"Well, I have looked into my accounts. I find
this wrong and this wrong.
But, with God's grace, I will rectify this
and this. I will set right my
accounts."
THE DEAD
LILY, the caretaker's daughter, was literally
run off her feet. Hardly
had she brought one gentleman into the little
pantry behind the office
on the ground floor and helped him off with
his overcoat than the wheezy
hall-door bell clanged again and she had to
scamper along the bare
hallway to let in another guest. It was well
for her she had not to
attend to the ladies also. But Miss Kate and
Miss Julia had thought
of that and had converted the bathroom upstairs
into a ladies'
dressing-room. Miss Kate and Miss Julia were
there, gossiping and
laughing and fussing, walking after each other
to the head of the
stairs, peering down over the banisters and
calling down to Lily to ask
her who had come.
It was always a great affair, the Misses Morkan's
annual dance.
Everybody who knew them came to it, members
of the family, old friends
of the family, the members of Julia's choir,
any of Kate's pupils that
were grown up enough, and even some of Mary
Jane's pupils too. Never
once had it fallen flat. For years and years
it had gone off in splendid
style, as long as anyone could remember; ever
since Kate and Julia,
after the death of their brother Pat, had
left the house in Stoney
Batter and taken Mary Jane, their only niece,
to live with them in the
dark, gaunt house on Usher's Island, the upper
part of which they had
rented from Mr. Fulham, the corn-factor on
the ground floor. That was a
good thirty years ago if it was a day. Mary
Jane, who was then a little
girl in short clothes, was now the main prop
of the household, for she
had the organ in Haddington Road. She had
been through the Academy
and gave a pupils' concert every year in the
upper room of the Antient
Concert Rooms. Many of her pupils belonged
to the better-class families
on the Kingstown and Dalkey line. Old as they
were, her aunts also did
their share. Julia, though she was quite grey,
was still the leading
soprano in Adam and Eve's, and Kate, being
too feeble to go about much,
gave music lessons to beginners on the old
square piano in the back
room. Lily, the caretaker's daughter, did
housemaid's work for them.
Though their life was modest, they believed
in eating well; the best
of everything: diamond-bone sirloins, three-shilling
tea and the best
bottled stout. But Lily seldom made a mistake
in the orders, so that she
got on well with her three mistresses. They
were fussy, that was all.
But the only thing they would not stand was
back answers.
Of course, they had good reason to be fussy
on such a night. And then it
was long after ten o'clock and yet there was
no sign of Gabriel and his
wife. Besides they were dreadfully afraid
that Freddy Malins might
turn up screwed. They would not wish for worlds
that any of Mary Jane's
pupils should see him under the influence;
and when he was like that it
was sometimes very hard to manage him. Freddy
Malins always came late,
but they wondered what could be keeping Gabriel:
and that was what
brought them every two minutes to the banisters
to ask Lily had Gabriel
or Freddy come.
"O, Mr. Conroy," said Lily to Gabriel when
she opened the door for him,
"Miss Kate and Miss Julia thought you were
never coming. Good-night,
Mrs. Conroy."
"I'll engage they did," said Gabriel, "but
they forget that my wife here
takes three mortal hours to dress herself."
He stood on the mat, scraping the snow from
his goloshes, while Lily led
his wife to the foot of the stairs and called
out:
"Miss Kate, here's Mrs. Conroy."
Kate and Julia came toddling down the dark
stairs at once. Both of them
kissed Gabriel's wife, said she must be perished
alive, and asked was
Gabriel with her.
"Here I am as right as the mail, Aunt Kate!
Go on up. I'll follow,"
called out Gabriel from the dark.
He continued scraping his feet vigorously
while the three women went
upstairs, laughing, to the ladies' dressing-room.
A light fringe of snow
lay like a cape on the shoulders of his overcoat
and like toecaps on the
toes of his goloshes; and, as the buttons
of his overcoat slipped with a
squeaking noise through the snow-stiffened
frieze, a cold, fragrant air
from out-of-doors escaped from crevices and
folds.
"Is it snowing again, Mr. Conroy?" asked Lily.
She had preceded him into the pantry to help
him off with his overcoat.
Gabriel smiled at the three syllables she
had given his surname and
glanced at her. She was a slim, growing girl,
pale in complexion and
with hay-coloured hair. The gas in the pantry
made her look still paler.
Gabriel had known her when she was a child
and used to sit on the lowest
step nursing a rag doll.
"Yes, Lily," he answered, "and I think we're
in for a night of it."
He looked up at the pantry ceiling, which
was shaking with the stamping
and shuffling of feet on the floor above,
listened for a moment to
the piano and then glanced at the girl, who
was folding his overcoat
carefully at the end of a shelf.
"Tell me. Lily," he said in a friendly tone,
"do you still go to
school?"
"O no, sir," she answered. "I'm done schooling
this year and more."
"O, then," said Gabriel gaily, "I suppose
we'll be going to your wedding
one of these fine days with your young man,
eh?"
The girl glanced back at him over her shoulder
and said with great
bitterness:
"The men that is now is only all palaver and
what they can get out of
you."
Gabriel coloured, as if he felt he had made
a mistake and, without
looking at her, kicked off his goloshes and
flicked actively with his
muffler at his patent-leather shoes.
He was a stout, tallish young man. The high
colour of his cheeks
pushed upwards even to his forehead, where
it scattered itself in a
few formless patches of pale red; and on his
hairless face there
scintillated restlessly the polished lenses
and the bright gilt rims of
the glasses which screened his delicate and
restless eyes. His glossy
black hair was parted in the middle and brushed
in a long curve behind
his ears where it curled slightly beneath
the groove left by his hat.
When he had flicked lustre into his shoes
he stood up and pulled his
waistcoat down more tightly on his plump body.
Then he took a coin
rapidly from his pocket.
"O Lily," he said, thrusting it into her hands,
"it's Christmastime,
isn't it? Just... here's a little...."
He walked rapidly towards the door.
"O no, sir!" cried the girl, following him.
"Really, sir, I wouldn't
take it."
"Christmas-time! Christmas-time!" said Gabriel,
almost trotting to the
stairs and waving his hand to her in deprecation.
The girl, seeing that he had gained the stairs,
called out after him:
"Well, thank you, sir."
He waited outside the drawing-room door until
the waltz should finish,
listening to the skirts that swept against
it and to the shuffling of
feet. He was still discomposed by the girl's
bitter and sudden retort.
It had cast a gloom over him which he tried
to dispel by arranging his
cuffs and the bows of his tie. He then took
from his waistcoat pocket a
little paper and glanced at the headings he
had made for his speech. He
was undecided about the lines from Robert
Browning, for he feared they
would be above the heads of his hearers. Some
quotation that they would
recognise from Shakespeare or from the Melodies
would be better. The
indelicate clacking of the men's heels and
the shuffling of their soles
reminded him that their grade of culture differed
from his. He would
only make himself ridiculous by quoting poetry
to them which they
could not understand. They would think that
he was airing his superior
education. He would fail with them just as
he had failed with the girl
in the pantry. He had taken up a wrong tone.
His whole speech was a
mistake from first to last, an utter failure.
Just then his aunts and his wife came out
of the ladies' dressing-room.
His aunts were two small, plainly dressed
old women. Aunt Julia was an
inch or so the taller. Her hair, drawn low
over the tops of her ears,
was grey; and grey also, with darker shadows,
was her large flaccid
face. Though she was stout in build and stood
erect, her slow eyes and
parted lips gave her the appearance of a woman
who did not know where
she was or where she was going. Aunt Kate
was more vivacious. Her
face, healthier than her sister's, was all
puckers and creases, like a
shrivelled red apple, and her hair, braided
in the same old-fashioned
way, had not lost its ripe nut colour.
They both kissed Gabriel frankly. He was their
favourite nephew, the son
of their dead elder sister, Ellen, who had
married T. J. Conroy of the
Port and Docks.
"Gretta tells me you're not going to take
a cab back to Monkstown
tonight, Gabriel," said Aunt Kate.
"No," said Gabriel, turning to his wife, "we
had quite enough of that
last year, hadn't we? Don't you remember,
Aunt Kate, what a cold Gretta
got out of it? Cab windows rattling all the
way, and the east wind
blowing in after we passed Merrion. Very jolly
it was. Gretta caught a
dreadful cold."
Aunt Kate frowned severely and nodded her
head at every word.
"Quite right, Gabriel, quite right," she said.
"You can't be too
careful."
"But as for Gretta there," said Gabriel, "she'd
walk home in the snow if
she were let."
Mrs. Conroy laughed.
"Don't mind him, Aunt Kate," she said. "He's
really an awful bother,
what with green shades for Tom's eyes at night
and making him do the
dumb-bells, and forcing Eva to eat the stirabout.
The poor child! And
she simply hates the sight of it!... O, but
you'll never guess what he
makes me wear now!"
She broke out into a peal of laughter and
glanced at her husband, whose
admiring and happy eyes had been wandering
from her dress to her face
and hair. The two aunts laughed heartily,
too, for Gabriel's solicitude
was a standing joke with them.
"Goloshes!" said Mrs. Conroy. "That's the
latest. Whenever it's wet
underfoot I must put on my galoshes. Tonight
even, he wanted me to put
them on, but I wouldn't. The next thing he'll
buy me will be a diving
suit."
Gabriel laughed nervously and patted his tie
reassuringly, while Aunt
Kate nearly doubled herself, so heartily did
she enjoy the joke. The
smile soon faded from Aunt Julia's face and
her mirthless eyes were
directed towards her nephew's face. After
a pause she asked:
"And what are goloshes, Gabriel?"
"Goloshes, Julia!" exclaimed her sister "Goodness
me, don't you know
what goloshes are? You wear them over your...
over your boots, Gretta,
isn't it?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Conroy. "Guttapercha things.
We both have a pair now.
Gabriel says everyone wears them on the Continent."
"O, on the Continent," murmured Aunt Julia,
nodding her head slowly.
Gabriel knitted his brows and said, as if
he were slightly angered:
"It's nothing very wonderful, but Gretta thinks
it very funny because
she says the word reminds her of Christy Minstrels."
"But tell me, Gabriel," said Aunt Kate, with
brisk tact. "Of course,
you've seen about the room. Gretta was saying..."
"O, the room is all right," replied Gabriel.
"I've taken one in the
Gresham."
"To be sure," said Aunt Kate, "by far the
best thing to do. And the
children, Gretta, you're not anxious about
them?"
"O, for one night," said Mrs. Conroy. "Besides,
Bessie will look after
them."
"To be sure," said Aunt Kate again. "What
a comfort it is to have a girl
like that, one you can depend on! There's
that Lily, I'm sure I don't
know what has come over her lately. She's
not the girl she was at all."
Gabriel was about to ask his aunt some questions
on this point, but she
broke off suddenly to gaze after her sister,
who had wandered down the
stairs and was craning her neck over the banisters.
"Now, I ask you," she said almost testily,
"where is Julia going? Julia!
Julia! Where are you going?"
Julia, who had gone half way down one flight,
came back and announced
blandly:
"Here's Freddy."
At the same moment a clapping of hands and
a final flourish of the
pianist told that the waltz had ended. The
drawing-room door was opened
from within and some couples came out. Aunt
Kate drew Gabriel aside
hurriedly and whispered into his ear:
"Slip down, Gabriel, like a good fellow and
see if he's all right, and
don't let him up if he's screwed. I'm sure
he's screwed. I'm sure he
is."
Gabriel went to the stairs and listened over
the banisters. He could
hear two persons talking in the pantry. Then
he recognised Freddy
Malins' laugh. He went down the stairs noisily.
"It's such a relief," said Aunt Kate to Mrs.
Conroy, "that Gabriel is
here. I always feel easier in my mind when
he's here.... Julia, there's
Miss Daly and Miss Power will take some refreshment.
Thanks for your
beautiful waltz, Miss Daly. It made lovely
time."
A tall wizen-faced man, with a stiff grizzled
moustache and swarthy
skin, who was passing out with his partner,
said:
"And may we have some refreshment, too, Miss
Morkan?"
"Julia," said Aunt Kate summarily, "and here's
Mr. Browne and Miss
Furlong. Take them in, Julia, with Miss Daly
and Miss Power."
"I'm the man for the ladies," said Mr. Browne,
pursing his lips until
his moustache bristled and smiling in all
his wrinkles. "You know, Miss
Morkan, the reason they are so fond of me
is----"
He did not finish his sentence, but, seeing
that Aunt Kate was out of
earshot, at once led the three young ladies
into the back room. The
middle of the room was occupied by two square
tables placed end to
end, and on these Aunt Julia and the caretaker
were straightening
and smoothing a large cloth. On the sideboard
were arrayed dishes and
plates, and glasses and bundles of knives
and forks and spoons. The top
of the closed square piano served also as
a sideboard for viands
and sweets. At a smaller sideboard in one
corner two young men were
standing, drinking hop-bitters.
Mr. Browne led his charges thither and invited
them all, in jest, to
some ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet.
As they said they never took
anything strong, he opened three bottles of
lemonade for them. Then
he asked one of the young men to move aside,
and, taking hold of the
decanter, filled out for himself a goodly
measure of whisky. The young
men eyed him respectfully while he took a
trial sip.
"God help me," he said, smiling, "it's the
doctor's orders."
His wizened face broke into a broader smile,
and the three young ladies
laughed in musical echo to his pleasantry,
swaying their bodies to and
fro, with nervous jerks of their shoulders.
The boldest said:
"O, now, Mr. Browne, I'm sure the doctor never
ordered anything of the
kind."
Mr. Browne took another sip of his whisky
and said, with sidling
mimicry:
"Well, you see, I'm like the famous Mrs. Cassidy,
who is reported to
have said: 'Now, Mary Grimes, if I don't take
it, make me take it, for I
feel I want it.'"
His hot face had leaned forward a little too
confidentially and he had
assumed a very low Dublin accent so that the
young ladies, with one
instinct, received his speech in silence.
Miss Furlong, who was one
of Mary Jane's pupils, asked Miss Daly what
was the name of the pretty
waltz she had played; and Mr. Browne, seeing
that he was ignored, turned
promptly to the two young men who were more
appreciative.
A red-faced young woman, dressed in pansy,
came into the room, excitedly
clapping her hands and crying:
"Quadrilles! Quadrilles!"
Close on her heels came Aunt Kate, crying:
"Two gentlemen and three ladies, Mary Jane!"
"O, here's Mr. Bergin and Mr. Kerrigan," said
Mary Jane. "Mr. Kerrigan,
will you take Miss Power? Miss Furlong, may
I get you a partner, Mr.
Bergin. O, that'll just do now."
"Three ladies, Mary Jane," said Aunt Kate.
The two young gentlemen asked the ladies if
they might have the
pleasure, and Mary Jane turned to Miss Daly.
"O, Miss Daly, you're really awfully good,
after playing for the last
two dances, but really we're so short of ladies
tonight."
"I don't mind in the least, Miss Morkan."
"But I've a nice partner for you, Mr. Bartell
D'Arcy, the tenor. I'll
get him to sing later on. All Dublin is raving
about him."
"Lovely voice, lovely voice!" said Aunt Kate.
As the piano had twice begun the prelude to
the first figure Mary Jane
led her recruits quickly from the room. They
had hardly gone when Aunt
Julia wandered slowly into the room, looking
behind her at something.
"What is the matter, Julia?" asked Aunt Kate
anxiously. "Who is it?"
Julia, who was carrying in a column of table-napkins,
turned to her
sister and said, simply, as if the question
had surprised her:
"It's only Freddy, Kate, and Gabriel with
him."
In fact right behind her Gabriel could be
seen piloting Freddy Malins
across the landing. The latter, a young man
of about forty, was of
Gabriel's size and build, with very round
shoulders. His face was fleshy
and pallid, touched with colour only at the
thick hanging lobes of his
ears and at the wide wings of his nose. He
had coarse features, a
blunt nose, a convex and receding brow, tumid
and protruded lips. His
heavy-lidded eyes and the disorder of his
scanty hair made him look
sleepy. He was laughing heartily in a high
key at a story which he had
been telling Gabriel on the stairs and at
the same time rubbing the
knuckles of his left fist backwards and forwards
into his left eye.
"Good-evening, Freddy," said Aunt Julia.
Freddy Malins bade the Misses Morkan good-evening
in what seemed an
offhand fashion by reason of the habitual
catch in his voice and then,
seeing that Mr. Browne was grinning at him
from the sideboard, crossed
the room on rather shaky legs and began to
repeat in an undertone the
story he had just told to Gabriel.
"He's not so bad, is he?" said Aunt Kate to
Gabriel.
Gabriel's brows were dark but he raised them
quickly and answered:
"O, no, hardly noticeable."
"Now, isn't he a terrible fellow!" she said.
"And his poor mother made
him take the pledge on New Year's Eve. But
come on, Gabriel, into the
drawing-room."
Before leaving the room with Gabriel she signalled
to Mr. Browne by
frowning and shaking her forefinger in warning
to and fro. Mr. Browne
nodded in answer and, when she had gone, said
to Freddy Malins:
"Now, then, Teddy, I'm going to fill you out
a good glass of lemonade
just to buck you up."
Freddy Malins, who was nearing the climax
of his story, waved the offer
aside impatiently but Mr. Browne, having first
called Freddy Malins'
attention to a disarray in his dress, filled
out and handed him a
full glass of lemonade. Freddy Malins' left
hand accepted the
glass mechanically, his right hand being engaged
in the mechanical
readjustment of his dress. Mr. Browne, whose
face was once more
wrinkling with mirth, poured out for himself
a glass of whisky while
Freddy Malins exploded, before he had well
reached the climax of his
story, in a kink of high-pitched bronchitic
laughter and, setting down
his untasted and overflowing glass, began
to rub the knuckles of his
left fist backwards and forwards into his
left eye, repeating words of
his last phrase as well as his fit of laughter
would allow him.
Gabriel could not listen while Mary Jane was
playing her Academy piece,
full of runs and difficult passages, to the
hushed drawing-room. He
liked music but the piece she was playing
had no melody for him and he
doubted whether it had any melody for the
other listeners, though they
had begged Mary Jane to play something. Four
young men, who had come
from the refreshment-room to stand in the
doorway at the sound of the
piano, had gone away quietly in couples after
a few minutes. The only
persons who seemed to follow the music were
Mary Jane herself, her hands
racing along the key-board or lifted from
it at the pauses like those
of a priestess in momentary imprecation, and
Aunt Kate standing at her
elbow to turn the page.
Gabriel's eyes, irritated by the floor, which
glittered with beeswax
under the heavy chandelier, wandered to the
wall above the piano. A
picture of the balcony scene in Romeo and
Juliet hung there and beside
it was a picture of the two murdered princes
in the Tower which Aunt
Julia had worked in red, blue and brown wools
when she was a girl.
Probably in the school they had gone to as
girls that kind of work had
been taught for one year. His mother had worked
for him as a birthday
present a waistcoat of purple tabinet, with
little foxes' heads upon it,
lined with brown satin and having round mulberry
buttons. It was strange
that his mother had had no musical talent
though Aunt Kate used to call
her the brains carrier of the Morkan family.
Both she and Julia had
always seemed a little proud of their serious
and matronly sister. Her
photograph stood before the pierglass. She
held an open book on her
knees and was pointing out something in it
to Constantine who, dressed
in a man-o-war suit, lay at her feet. It was
she who had chosen the name
of her sons for she was very sensible of the
dignity of family life.
Thanks to her, Constantine was now senior
curate in Balbrigan and,
thanks to her, Gabriel himself had taken his
degree in the Royal
University. A shadow passed over his face
as he remembered her sullen
opposition to his marriage. Some slighting
phrases she had used still
rankled in his memory; she had once spoken
of Gretta as being country
cute and that was not true of Gretta at all.
It was Gretta who had
nursed her during all her last long illness
in their house at Monkstown.
He knew that Mary Jane must be near the end
of her piece for she was
playing again the opening melody with runs
of scales after every bar and
while he waited for the end the resentment
died down in his heart.
The piece ended with a trill of octaves in
the treble and a final deep
octave in the bass. Great applause greeted
Mary Jane as, blushing and
rolling up her music nervously, she escaped
from the room. The most
vigorous clapping came from the four young
men in the doorway who had
gone away to the refreshment-room at the beginning
of the piece but had
come back when the piano had stopped.
Lancers were arranged. Gabriel found himself
partnered with Miss Ivors.
She was a frank-mannered talkative young lady,
with a freckled face and
prominent brown eyes. She did not wear a low-cut
bodice and the large
brooch which was fixed in the front of her
collar bore on it an Irish
device and motto.
When they had taken their places she said
abruptly:
"I have a crow to pluck with you."
"With me?" said Gabriel.
She nodded her head gravely.
"What is it?" asked Gabriel, smiling at her
solemn manner.
"Who is G. C.?" answered Miss Ivors, turning
her eyes upon him.
Gabriel coloured and was about to knit his
brows, as if he did not
understand, when she said bluntly:
"O, innocent Amy! I have found out that you
write for The Daily Express.
Now, aren't you ashamed of yourself?"
"Why should I be ashamed of myself?" asked
Gabriel, blinking his eyes
and trying to smile.
"Well, I'm ashamed of you," said Miss Ivors
frankly. "To say you'd write
for a paper like that. I didn't think you
were a West Briton."
A look of perplexity appeared on Gabriel's
face. It was true that he
wrote a literary column every Wednesday in
The Daily Express, for which
he was paid fifteen shillings. But that did
not make him a West Briton
surely. The books he received for review were
almost more welcome than
the paltry cheque. He loved to feel the covers
and turn over the pages
of newly printed books. Nearly every day when
his teaching in the
college was ended he used to wander down the
quays to the second-hand
booksellers, to Hickey's on Bachelor's Walk,
to Web's or Massey's on
Aston's Quay, or to O'Clohissey's in the by-street.
He did not know how
to meet her charge. He wanted to say that
literature was above politics.
But they were friends of many years' standing
and their careers had been
parallel, first at the University and then
as teachers: he could not
risk a grandiose phrase with her. He continued
blinking his eyes and
trying to smile and murmured lamely that he
saw nothing political in
writing reviews of books.
When their turn to cross had come he was still
perplexed and
inattentive. Miss Ivors promptly took his
hand in a warm grasp and said
in a soft friendly tone:
"Of course, I was only joking. Come, we cross
now."
When they were together again she spoke of
the University question and
Gabriel felt more at ease. A friend of hers
had shown her his review
of Browning's poems. That was how she had
found out the secret: but she
liked the review immensely. Then she said
suddenly:
"O, Mr. Conroy, will you come for an excursion
to the Aran Isles this
summer? We're going to stay there a whole
month. It will be splendid
out in the Atlantic. You ought to come. Mr.
Clancy is coming, and Mr.
Kilkelly and Kathleen Kearney. It would be
splendid for Gretta too if
she'd come. She's from Connacht, isn't she?"
"Her people are," said Gabriel shortly.
"But you will come, won't you?" said Miss
Ivors, laying her warm hand
eagerly on his arm.
"The fact is," said Gabriel, "I have just
arranged to go----"
"Go where?" asked Miss Ivors.
"Well, you know, every year I go for a cycling
tour with some fellows
and so----"
"But where?" asked Miss Ivors.
"Well, we usually go to France or Belgium
or perhaps Germany," said
Gabriel awkwardly.
"And why do you go to France and Belgium,"
said Miss Ivors, "instead of
visiting your own land?"
"Well," said Gabriel, "it's partly to keep
in touch with the languages
and partly for a change."
"And haven't you your own language to keep
in touch with--Irish?" asked
Miss Ivors.
"Well," said Gabriel, "if it comes to that,
you know, Irish is not my
language."
Their neighbours had turned to listen to the
cross-examination. Gabriel
glanced right and left nervously and tried
to keep his good humour under
the ordeal which was making a blush invade
his forehead.
"And haven't you your own land to visit,"
continued Miss Ivors, "that
you know nothing of, your own people, and
your own country?"
"O, to tell you the truth," retorted Gabriel
suddenly, "I'm sick of my
own country, sick of it!"
"Why?" asked Miss Ivors.
Gabriel did not answer for his retort had
heated him.
"Why?" repeated Miss Ivors.
They had to go visiting together and, as he
had not answered her, Miss
Ivors said warmly:
"Of course, you've no answer."
Gabriel tried to cover his agitation by taking
part in the dance with
great energy. He avoided her eyes for he had
seen a sour expression on
her face. But when they met in the long chain
he was surprised to feel
his hand firmly pressed. She looked at him
from under her brows for a
moment quizzically until he smiled. Then,
just as the chain was about to
start again, she stood on tiptoe and whispered
into his ear:
"West Briton!"
When the lancers were over Gabriel went away
to a remote corner of the
room where Freddy Malins' mother was sitting.
She was a stout feeble old
woman with white hair. Her voice had a catch
in it like her son's and
she stuttered slightly. She had been told
that Freddy had come and that
he was nearly all right. Gabriel asked her
whether she had had a good
crossing. She lived with her married daughter
in Glasgow and came to
Dublin on a visit once a year. She answered
placidly that she had had a
beautiful crossing and that the captain had
been most attentive to her.
She spoke also of the beautiful house her
daughter kept in Glasgow, and
of all the friends they had there. While her
tongue rambled on Gabriel
tried to banish from his mind all memory of
the unpleasant incident with
Miss Ivors. Of course the girl or woman, or
whatever she was, was an
enthusiast but there was a time for all things.
Perhaps he ought not
to have answered her like that. But she had
no right to call him a West
Briton before people, even in joke. She had
tried to make him ridiculous
before people, heckling him and staring at
him with her rabbit's eyes.
He saw his wife making her way towards him
through the waltzing couples.
When she reached him she said into his ear:
"Gabriel, Aunt Kate wants to know won't you
carve the goose as usual.
Miss Daly will carve the ham and I'll do the
pudding."
"All right," said Gabriel.
"She's sending in the younger ones first as
soon as this waltz is over
so that we'll have the table to ourselves."
"Were you dancing?" asked Gabriel.
"Of course I was. Didn't you see me? What
row had you with Molly Ivors?"
"No row. Why? Did she say so?"
"Something like that. I'm trying to get that
Mr. D'Arcy to sing. He's
full of conceit, I think."
"There was no row," said Gabriel moodily,
"only she wanted me to go for
a trip to the west of Ireland and I said I
wouldn't."
His wife clasped her hands excitedly and gave
a little jump.
"O, do go, Gabriel," she cried. "I'd love
to see Galway again."
"You can go if you like," said Gabriel coldly.
She looked at him for a moment, then turned
to Mrs. Malins and said:
"There's a nice husband for you, Mrs. Malins."
While she was threading her way back across
the room Mrs. Malins,
without adverting to the interruption, went
on to tell Gabriel what
beautiful places there were in Scotland and
beautiful scenery. Her
son-in-law brought them every year to the
lakes and they used to go
fishing. Her son-in-law was a splendid fisher.
One day he caught a
beautiful big fish and the man in the hotel
cooked it for their dinner.
Gabriel hardly heard what she said. Now that
supper was coming near he
began to think again about his speech and
about the quotation. When he
saw Freddy Malins coming across the room to
visit his mother Gabriel
left the chair free for him and retired into
the embrasure of the
window. The room had already cleared and from
the back room came the
clatter of plates and knives. Those who still
remained in the
drawing-room seemed tired of dancing and were
conversing quietly in little
groups. Gabriel's warm trembling fingers tapped
the cold pane of the
window. How cool it must be outside! How pleasant
it would be to walk
out alone, first along by the river and then
through the park! The snow
would be lying on the branches of the trees
and forming a bright cap on
the top of the Wellington Monument. How much
more pleasant it would be
there than at the supper-table!
He ran over the headings of his speech: Irish
hospitality, sad memories,
the Three Graces, Paris, the quotation from
Browning. He repeated to
himself a phrase he had written in his review:
"One feels that one is
listening to a thought-tormented music." Miss
Ivors had praised the
review. Was she sincere? Had she really any
life of her own behind all
her propagandism? There had never been any
ill-feeling between them
until that night. It unnerved him to think
that she would be at the
supper-table, looking up at him while he spoke
with her critical
quizzing eyes. Perhaps she would not be sorry
to see him fail in his
speech. An idea came into his mind and gave
him courage. He would
say, alluding to Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia:
"Ladies and Gentlemen, the
generation which is now on the wane among
us may have had its faults but
for my part I think it had certain qualities
of hospitality, of humour,
of humanity, which the new and very serious
and hypereducated generation
that is growing up around us seems to me to
lack." Very good: that
was one for Miss Ivors. What did he care that
his aunts were only two
ignorant old women?
A murmur in the room attracted his attention.
Mr. Browne was advancing
from the door, gallantly escorting Aunt Julia,
who leaned upon his arm,
smiling and hanging her head. An irregular
musketry of applause escorted
her also as far as the piano and then, as
Mary Jane seated herself on
the stool, and Aunt Julia, no longer smiling,
half turned so as to pitch
her voice fairly into the room, gradually
ceased. Gabriel recognised
the prelude. It was that of an old song of
Aunt Julia's--Arrayed for the
Bridal. Her voice, strong and clear in tone,
attacked with great spirit
the runs which embellish the air and though
she sang very rapidly she
did not miss even the smallest of the grace
notes. To follow the
voice, without looking at the singer's face,
was to feel and share the
excitement of swift and secure flight. Gabriel
applauded loudly with all
the others at the close of the song and loud
applause was borne in from
the invisible supper-table. It sounded so
genuine that a little
colour struggled into Aunt Julia's face as
she bent to replace in the
music-stand the old leather-bound songbook
that had her initials on the
cover. Freddy Malins, who had listened with
his head perched sideways to
hear her better, was still applauding when
everyone else had ceased and
talking animatedly to his mother who nodded
her head gravely and slowly
in acquiescence. At last, when he could clap
no more, he stood up
suddenly and hurried across the room to Aunt
Julia whose hand he seized
and held in both his hands, shaking it when
words failed him or the
catch in his voice proved too much for him.
"I was just telling my mother," he said, "I
never heard you sing so
well, never. No, I never heard your voice
so good as it is tonight. Now!
Would you believe that now? That's the truth.
Upon my word and honour
that's the truth. I never heard your voice
sound so fresh and so... so
clear and fresh, never."
Aunt Julia smiled broadly and murmured something
about compliments as
she released her hand from his grasp. Mr.
Browne extended his open
hand towards her and said to those who were
near him in the manner of a
showman introducing a prodigy to an audience:
"Miss Julia Morkan, my latest discovery!"
He was laughing very heartily at this himself
when Freddy Malins turned
to him and said:
"Well, Browne, if you're serious you might
make a worse discovery. All
I can say is I never heard her sing half so
well as long as I am coming
here. And that's the honest truth."
"Neither did I," said Mr. Browne. "I think
her voice has greatly
improved."
Aunt Julia shrugged her shoulders and said
with meek pride:
"Thirty years ago I hadn't a bad voice as
voices go."
"I often told Julia," said Aunt Kate emphatically,
"that she was simply
thrown away in that choir. But she never would
be said by me."
She turned as if to appeal to the good sense
of the others against a
refractory child while Aunt Julia gazed in
front of her, a vague smile
of reminiscence playing on her face.
"No," continued Aunt Kate, "she wouldn't be
said or led by anyone,
slaving there in that choir night and day,
night and day. Six o'clock on
Christmas morning! And all for what?"
"Well, isn't it for the honour of God, Aunt
Kate?" asked Mary Jane,
twisting round on the piano-stool and smiling.
Aunt Kate turned fiercely on her niece and
said:
"I know all about the honour of God, Mary
Jane, but I think it's not at
all honourable for the pope to turn out the
women out of the choirs that
have slaved there all their lives and put
little whipper-snappers of
boys over their heads. I suppose it is for
the good of the Church if the
pope does it. But it's not just, Mary Jane,
and it's not right."
She had worked herself into a passion and
would have continued in
defence of her sister for it was a sore subject
with her but Mary Jane,
seeing that all the dancers had come back,
intervened pacifically:
"Now, Aunt Kate, you're giving scandal to
Mr. Browne who is of the other
persuasion."
Aunt Kate turned to Mr. Browne, who was grinning
at this allusion to his
religion, and said hastily:
"O, I don't question the pope's being right.
I'm only a stupid old woman
and I wouldn't presume to do such a thing.
But there's such a thing as
common everyday politeness and gratitude.
And if I were in Julia's place
I'd tell that Father Healey straight up to
his face..."
"And besides, Aunt Kate," said Mary Jane,
"we really are all hungry and
when we are hungry we are all very quarrelsome."
"And when we are thirsty we are also quarrelsome,"
added Mr. Browne.
"So that we had better go to supper," said
Mary Jane, "and finish the
discussion afterwards."
On the landing outside the drawing-room Gabriel
found his wife and Mary
Jane trying to persuade Miss Ivors to stay
for supper. But Miss Ivors,
who had put on her hat and was buttoning her
cloak, would not stay.
She did not feel in the least hungry and she
had already overstayed her
time.
"But only for ten minutes, Molly," said Mrs.
Conroy. "That won't delay
you."
"To take a pick itself," said Mary Jane, "after
all your dancing."
"I really couldn't," said Miss Ivors.
"I am afraid you didn't enjoy yourself at
all," said Mary Jane
hopelessly.
"Ever so much, I assure you," said Miss Ivors,
"but you really must let
me run off now."
"But how can you get home?" asked Mrs. Conroy.
"O, it's only two steps up the quay."
Gabriel hesitated a moment and said:
"If you will allow me, Miss Ivors, I'll see
you home if you are really
obliged to go."
But Miss Ivors broke away from them.
"I won't hear of it," she cried. "For goodness'
sake go in to your
suppers and don't mind me. I'm quite well
able to take care of myself."
"Well, you're the comical girl, Molly," said
Mrs. Conroy frankly.
"Beannacht libh," cried Miss Ivors, with a
laugh, as she ran down the
staircase.
Mary Jane gazed after her, a moody puzzled
expression on her face,
while Mrs. Conroy leaned over the banisters
to listen for the hall-door.
Gabriel asked himself was he the cause of
her abrupt departure. But she
did not seem to be in ill humour: she had
gone away laughing. He stared
blankly down the staircase.
At the moment Aunt Kate came toddling out
of the supper-room, almost
wringing her hands in despair.
"Where is Gabriel?" she cried. "Where on earth
is Gabriel? There's
everyone waiting in there, stage to let, and
nobody to carve the goose!"
"Here I am, Aunt Kate!" cried Gabriel, with
sudden animation, "ready to
carve a flock of geese, if necessary."
A fat brown goose lay at one end of the table
and at the other end, on
a bed of creased paper strewn with sprigs
of parsley, lay a great ham,
stripped of its outer skin and peppered over
with crust crumbs, a neat
paper frill round its shin and beside this
was a round of spiced beef.
Between these rival ends ran parallel lines
of side-dishes: two little
minsters of jelly, red and yellow; a shallow
dish full of blocks
of blancmange and red jam, a large green leaf-shaped
dish with a
stalk-shaped handle, on which lay bunches
of purple raisins and peeled
almonds, a companion dish on which lay a solid
rectangle of Smyrna
figs, a dish of custard topped with grated
nutmeg, a small bowl full of
chocolates and sweets wrapped in gold and
silver papers and a glass vase
in which stood some tall celery stalks. In
the centre of the table there
stood, as sentries to a fruit-stand which
upheld a pyramid of oranges
and American apples, two squat old-fashioned
decanters of cut glass, one
containing port and the other dark sherry.
On the closed square piano
a pudding in a huge yellow dish lay in waiting
and behind it were three
squads of bottles of stout and ale and minerals,
drawn up according to
the colours of their uniforms, the first two
black, with brown and
red labels, the third and smallest squad white,
with transverse green
sashes.
Gabriel took his seat boldly at the head of
the table and, having looked
to the edge of the carver, plunged his fork
firmly into the goose. He
felt quite at ease now for he was an expert
carver and liked nothing
better than to find himself at the head of
a well-laden table.
"Miss Furlong, what shall I send you?" he
asked. "A wing or a slice of
the breast?"
"Just a small slice of the breast."
"Miss Higgins, what for you?"
"O, anything at all, Mr. Conroy."
While Gabriel and Miss Daly exchanged plates
of goose and plates of ham
and spiced beef Lily went from guest to guest
with a dish of hot floury
potatoes wrapped in a white napkin. This was
Mary Jane's idea and she
had also suggested apple sauce for the goose
but Aunt Kate had said that
plain roast goose without any apple sauce
had always been good enough
for her and she hoped she might never eat
worse. Mary Jane waited on
her pupils and saw that they got the best
slices and Aunt Kate and Aunt
Julia opened and carried across from the piano
bottles of stout and ale
for the gentlemen and bottles of minerals
for the ladies. There was a
great deal of confusion and laughter and noise,
the noise of orders
and counter-orders, of knives and forks, of
corks and glass-stoppers.
Gabriel began to carve second helpings as
soon as he had finished the
first round without serving himself. Everyone
protested loudly so that
he compromised by taking a long draught of
stout for he had found the
carving hot work. Mary Jane settled down quietly
to her supper but Aunt
Kate and Aunt Julia were still toddling round
the table, walking on
each other's heels, getting in each other's
way and giving each other
unheeded orders. Mr. Browne begged of them
to sit down and eat their
suppers and so did Gabriel but they said there
was time enough, so that,
at last, Freddy Malins stood up and, capturing
Aunt Kate, plumped her
down on her chair amid general laughter.
When everyone had been well served Gabriel
said, smiling:
"Now, if anyone wants a little more of what
vulgar people call stuffing
let him or her speak."
A chorus of voices invited him to begin his
own supper and Lily came
forward with three potatoes which she had
reserved for him.
"Very well," said Gabriel amiably, as he took
another preparatory
draught, "kindly forget my existence, ladies
and gentlemen, for a few
minutes."
He set to his supper and took no part in the
conversation with which the
table covered Lily's removal of the plates.
The subject of talk was the
opera company which was then at the Theatre
Royal. Mr. Bartell D'Arcy,
the tenor, a dark-complexioned young man with
a smart moustache, praised
very highly the leading contralto of the company
but Miss Furlong
thought she had a rather vulgar style of production.
Freddy Malins said
there was a Negro chieftain singing in the
second part of the Gaiety
pantomime who had one of the finest tenor
voices he had ever heard.
"Have you heard him?" he asked Mr. Bartell
D'Arcy across the table.
"No," answered Mr. Bartell D'Arcy carelessly.
"Because," Freddy Malins explained, "now I'd
be curious to hear your
opinion of him. I think he has a grand voice."
"It takes Teddy to find out the really good
things," said Mr. Browne
familiarly to the table.
"And why couldn't he have a voice too?" asked
Freddy Malins sharply. "Is
it because he's only a black?"
Nobody answered this question and Mary Jane
led the table back to the
legitimate opera. One of her pupils had given
her a pass for Mignon.
Of course it was very fine, she said, but
it made her think of poor
Georgina Burns. Mr. Browne could go back farther
still, to the old
Italian companies that used to come to Dublin--Tietjens,
Ilma de Murzka,
Campanini, the great Trebelli, Giuglini, Ravelli,
Aramburo. Those were
the days, he said, when there was something
like singing to be heard in
Dublin. He told too of how the top gallery
of the old Royal used to be
packed night after night, of how one night
an Italian tenor had sung
five encores to Let me like a Soldier fall,
introducing a high C every
time, and of how the gallery boys would sometimes
in their enthusiasm
unyoke the horses from the carriage of some
great prima donna and pull
her themselves through the streets to her
hotel. Why did they never play
the grand old operas now, he asked, Dinorah,
Lucrezia Borgia? Because
they could not get the voices to sing them:
that was why.
"Oh, well," said Mr. Bartell D'Arcy, "I presume
there are as good
singers today as there were then."
"Where are they?" asked Mr. Browne defiantly.
"In London, Paris, Milan," said Mr. Bartell
D'Arcy warmly. "I suppose
Caruso, for example, is quite as good, if
not better than any of the men
you have mentioned."
"Maybe so," said Mr. Browne. "But I may tell
you I doubt it strongly."
"O, I'd give anything to hear Caruso sing,"
said Mary Jane.
"For me," said Aunt Kate, who had been picking
a bone, "there was only
one tenor. To please me, I mean. But I suppose
none of you ever heard of
him."
"Who was he, Miss Morkan?" asked Mr. Bartell
D'Arcy politely.
"His name," said Aunt Kate, "was Parkinson.
I heard him when he was in
his prime and I think he had then the purest
tenor voice that was ever
put into a man's throat."
"Strange," said Mr. Bartell D'Arcy. "I never
even heard of him."
"Yes, yes, Miss Morkan is right," said Mr.
Browne. "I remember hearing
of old Parkinson but he's too far back for
me."
"A beautiful, pure, sweet, mellow English
tenor," said Aunt Kate with
enthusiasm.
Gabriel having finished, the huge pudding
was transferred to the table.
The clatter of forks and spoons began again.
Gabriel's wife served out
spoonfuls of the pudding and passed the plates
down the table. Midway
down they were held up by Mary Jane, who replenished
them with raspberry
or orange jelly or with blancmange and jam.
The pudding was of Aunt
Julia's making and she received praises for
it from all quarters. She
herself said that it was not quite brown enough.
"Well, I hope, Miss Morkan," said Mr. Browne,
"that I'm brown enough for
you because, you know, I'm all brown."
All the gentlemen, except Gabriel, ate some
of the pudding out of
compliment to Aunt Julia. As Gabriel never
ate sweets the celery had
been left for him. Freddy Malins also took
a stalk of celery and ate it
with his pudding. He had been told that celery
was a capital thing for
the blood and he was just then under doctor's
care. Mrs. Malins, who had
been silent all through the supper, said that
her son was going down to
Mount Melleray in a week or so. The table
then spoke of Mount Melleray,
how bracing the air was down there, how hospitable
the monks were and
how they never asked for a penny-piece from
their guests.
"And do you mean to say," asked Mr. Browne
incredulously, "that a chap
can go down there and put up there as if it
were a hotel and live on the
fat of the land and then come away without
paying anything?"
"O, most people give some donation to the
monastery when they leave."
said Mary Jane.
"I wish we had an institution like that in
our Church," said Mr. Browne
candidly.
He was astonished to hear that the monks never
spoke, got up at two in
the morning and slept in their coffins. He
asked what they did it for.
"That's the rule of the order," said Aunt
Kate firmly.
"Yes, but why?" asked Mr. Browne.
Aunt Kate repeated that it was the rule, that
was all. Mr. Browne still
seemed not to understand. Freddy Malins explained
to him, as best he
could, that the monks were trying to make
up for the sins committed by
all the sinners in the outside world. The
explanation was not very clear
for Mr. Browne grinned and said:
"I like that idea very much but wouldn't a
comfortable spring bed do
them as well as a coffin?"
"The coffin," said Mary Jane, "is to remind
them of their last end."
As the subject had grown lugubrious it was
buried in a silence of the
table during which Mrs. Malins could be heard
saying to her neighbour in
an indistinct undertone:
"They are very good men, the monks, very pious
men."
The raisins and almonds and figs and apples
and oranges and chocolates
and sweets were now passed about the table
and Aunt Julia invited all
the guests to have either port or sherry.
At first Mr. Bartell D'Arcy
refused to take either but one of his neighbours
nudged him and
whispered something to him upon which he allowed
his glass to be filled.
Gradually as the last glasses were being filled
the conversation
ceased. A pause followed, broken only by the
noise of the wine and by
unsettlings of chairs. The Misses Morkan,
all three, looked down at
the tablecloth. Someone coughed once or twice
and then a few gentlemen
patted the table gently as a signal for silence.
The silence came and
Gabriel pushed back his chair.
The patting at once grew louder in encouragement
and then ceased
altogether. Gabriel leaned his ten trembling
fingers on the tablecloth
and smiled nervously at the company. Meeting
a row of upturned faces he
raised his eyes to the chandelier. The piano
was playing a waltz tune
and he could hear the skirts sweeping against
the drawing-room door.
People, perhaps, were standing in the snow
on the quay outside, gazing
up at the lighted windows and listening to
the waltz music. The air was
pure there. In the distance lay the park where
the trees were weighted
with snow. The Wellington Monument wore a
gleaming cap of snow that
flashed westward over the white field of Fifteen
Acres.
He began:
"Ladies and Gentlemen,
"It has fallen to my lot this evening, as
in years past, to perform a
very pleasing task but a task for which I
am afraid my poor powers as a
speaker are all too inadequate."
"No, no!" said Mr. Browne.
"But, however that may be, I can only ask
you tonight to take the will
for the deed and to lend me your attention
for a few moments while
I endeavour to express to you in words what
my feelings are on this
occasion.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, it is not the first
time that we have gathered
together under this hospitable roof, around
this hospitable board. It is
not the first time that we have been the recipients--or
perhaps, I had
better say, the victims--of the hospitality
of certain good ladies."
He made a circle in the air with his arm and
paused. Everyone laughed or
smiled at Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia and Mary
Jane who all turned crimson
with pleasure. Gabriel went on more boldly:
"I feel more strongly with every recurring
year that our country has
no tradition which does it so much honour
and which it should guard so
jealously as that of its hospitality. It is
a tradition that is unique
as far as my experience goes (and I have visited
not a few places
abroad) among the modern nations. Some would
say, perhaps, that with us
it is rather a failing than anything to be
boasted of. But granted even
that, it is, to my mind, a princely failing,
and one that I trust will
long be cultivated among us. Of one thing,
at least, I am sure. As long
as this one roof shelters the good ladies
aforesaid--and I wish from my
heart it may do so for many and many a long
year to come--the tradition
of genuine warm-hearted courteous Irish hospitality,
which our
forefathers have handed down to us and which
we in turn must hand down
to our descendants, is still alive among us."
A hearty murmur of assent ran round the table.
It shot through
Gabriel's mind that Miss Ivors was not there
and that she had gone away
discourteously: and he said with confidence
in himself:
"Ladies and Gentlemen,
"A new generation is growing up in our midst,
a generation actuated by
new ideas and new principles. It is serious
and enthusiastic for
these new ideas and its enthusiasm, even when
it is misdirected, is, I
believe, in the main sincere. But we are living
in a sceptical and, if
I may use the phrase, a thought-tormented
age: and sometimes I fear that
this new generation, educated or hypereducated
as it is, will lack those
qualities of humanity, of hospitality, of
kindly humour which belonged
to an older day. Listening tonight to the
names of all those great
singers of the past it seemed to me, I must
confess, that we were living
in a less spacious age. Those days might,
without exaggeration, be
called spacious days: and if they are gone
beyond recall let us hope, at
least, that in gatherings such as this we
shall still speak of them with
pride and affection, still cherish in our
hearts the memory of those
dead and gone great ones whose fame the world
will not willingly let
die."
"Hear, hear!" said Mr. Browne loudly.
"But yet," continued Gabriel, his voice falling
into a softer
inflection, "there are always in gatherings
such as this sadder thoughts
that will recur to our minds: thoughts of
the past, of youth, of
changes, of absent faces that we miss here
tonight. Our path through
life is strewn with many such sad memories:
and were we to brood upon
them always we could not find the heart to
go on bravely with our work
among the living. We have all of us living
duties and living affections
which claim, and rightly claim, our strenuous
endeavours.
"Therefore, I will not linger on the past.
I will not let any gloomy
moralising intrude upon us here tonight. Here
we are gathered together
for a brief moment from the bustle and rush
of our everyday routine.
We are met here as friends, in the spirit
of good-fellowship, as
colleagues, also to a certain extent, in the
true spirit of camaraderie,
and as the guests of--what shall I call them?--the
Three Graces of the
Dublin musical world."
The table burst into applause and laughter
at this allusion. Aunt Julia
vainly asked each of her neighbours in turn
to tell her what Gabriel had
said.
"He says we are the Three Graces, Aunt Julia,"
said Mary Jane.
Aunt Julia did not understand but she looked
up, smiling, at Gabriel,
who continued in the same vein:
"Ladies and Gentlemen,
"I will not attempt to play tonight the part
that Paris played on
another occasion. I will not attempt to choose
between them. The task
would be an invidious one and one beyond my
poor powers. For when I view
them in turn, whether it be our chief hostess
herself, whose good heart,
whose too good heart, has become a byword
with all who know her, or her
sister, who seems to be gifted with perennial
youth and whose singing
must have been a surprise and a revelation
to us all tonight, or, last
but not least, when I consider our youngest
hostess, talented, cheerful,
hard-working and the best of nieces, I confess,
Ladies and Gentlemen,
that I do not know to which of them I should
award the prize."
Gabriel glanced down at his aunts and, seeing
the large smile on Aunt
Julia's face and the tears which had risen
to Aunt Kate's eyes, hastened
to his close. He raised his glass of port
gallantly, while every member
of the company fingered a glass expectantly,
and said loudly:
"Let us toast them all three together. Let
us drink to their health,
wealth, long life, happiness and prosperity
and may they long continue
to hold the proud and self-won position which
they hold in their
profession and the position of honour and
affection which they hold in
our hearts."
All the guests stood up, glass in hand, and
turning towards the three
seated ladies, sang in unison, with Mr. Browne
as leader:
For they are jolly gay fellows,
For they are jolly gay fellows,
For they are jolly gay fellows,
Which nobody can deny.
Aunt Kate was making frank use of her handkerchief
and even Aunt Julia
seemed moved. Freddy Malins beat time with
his pudding-fork and the
singers turned towards one another, as if
in melodious conference, while
they sang with emphasis:
Unless he tells a lie,
Unless he tells a lie.
Then, turning once more towards their hostesses,
they sang:
For they are jolly gay fellows,
For they are jolly gay fellows,
For they are jolly gay fellows,
Which nobody can deny.
The acclamation which followed was taken up
beyond the door of the
supper-room by many of the other guests and
renewed time after time,
Freddy Malins acting as officer with his fork
on high.
The piercing morning air came into the hall
where they were standing so
that Aunt Kate said:
"Close the door, somebody. Mrs. Malins will
get her death of cold."
"Browne is out there, Aunt Kate," said Mary
Jane.
"Browne is everywhere," said Aunt Kate, lowering
her voice.
Mary Jane laughed at her tone.
"Really," she said archly, "he is very attentive."
"He has been laid on here like the gas," said
Aunt Kate in the same
tone, "all during the Christmas."
She laughed herself this time good-humouredly
and then added quickly:
"But tell him to come in, Mary Jane, and close
the door. I hope to
goodness he didn't hear me."
At that moment the hall-door was opened and
Mr. Browne came in from the
doorstep, laughing as if his heart would break.
He was dressed in a long
green overcoat with mock astrakhan cuffs and
collar and wore on his head
an oval fur cap. He pointed down the snow-covered
quay from where the
sound of shrill prolonged whistling was borne
in.
"Teddy will have all the cabs in Dublin out,"
he said.
Gabriel advanced from the little pantry behind
the office, struggling
into his overcoat and, looking round the hall,
said:
"Gretta not down yet?"
"She's getting on her things, Gabriel," said
Aunt Kate.
"Who's playing up there?" asked Gabriel.
"Nobody. They're all gone."
"O no, Aunt Kate," said Mary Jane. "Bartell
D'Arcy and Miss O'Callaghan
aren't gone yet."
"Someone is fooling at the piano anyhow,"
said Gabriel.
Mary Jane glanced at Gabriel and Mr. Browne
and said with a shiver:
"It makes me feel cold to look at you two
gentlemen muffled up like
that. I wouldn't like to face your journey
home at this hour."
"I'd like nothing better this minute," said
Mr. Browne stoutly, "than a
rattling fine walk in the country or a fast
drive with a good spanking
goer between the shafts."
"We used to have a very good horse and trap
at home," said Aunt Julia
sadly.
"The never-to-be-forgotten Johnny," said Mary
Jane, laughing.
Aunt Kate and Gabriel laughed too.
"Why, what was wonderful about Johnny?" asked
Mr. Browne.
"The late lamented Patrick Morkan, our grandfather,
that is," explained
Gabriel, "commonly known in his later years
as the old gentleman, was a
glue-boiler."
"O, now, Gabriel," said Aunt Kate, laughing,
"he had a starch mill."
"Well, glue or starch," said Gabriel, "the
old gentleman had a horse by
the name of Johnny. And Johnny used to work
in the old gentleman's mill,
walking round and round in order to drive
the mill. That was all very
well; but now comes the tragic part about
Johnny. One fine day the old
gentleman thought he'd like to drive out with
the quality to a military
review in the park."
"The Lord have mercy on his soul," said Aunt
Kate compassionately.
"Amen," said Gabriel. "So the old gentleman,
as I said, harnessed Johnny
and put on his very best tall hat and his
very best stock collar and
drove out in grand style from his ancestral
mansion somewhere near Back
Lane, I think."
Everyone laughed, even Mrs. Malins, at Gabriel's
manner and Aunt Kate
said:
"O, now, Gabriel, he didn't live in Back Lane,
really. Only the mill was
there."
"Out from the mansion of his forefathers,"
continued Gabriel, "he drove
with Johnny. And everything went on beautifully
until Johnny came in
sight of King Billy's statue: and whether
he fell in love with the horse
King Billy sits on or whether he thought he
was back again in the mill,
anyhow he began to walk round the statue."
Gabriel paced in a circle round the hall in
his goloshes amid the
laughter of the others.
"Round and round he went," said Gabriel, "and
the old gentleman, who was
a very pompous old gentleman, was highly indignant.
'Go on, sir! What
do you mean, sir? Johnny! Johnny! Most extraordinary
conduct! Can't
understand the horse!'"
The peal of laughter which followed Gabriel's
imitation of the incident
was interrupted by a resounding knock at the
hall door. Mary Jane ran to
open it and let in Freddy Malins. Freddy Malins,
with his hat well back
on his head and his shoulders humped with
cold, was puffing and steaming
after his exertions.
"I could only get one cab," he said.
"O, we'll find another along the quay," said
Gabriel.
"Yes," said Aunt Kate. "Better not keep Mrs.
Malins standing in the
draught."
Mrs. Malins was helped down the front steps
by her son and Mr. Browne
and, after many manoeuvres, hoisted into the
cab. Freddy Malins
clambered in after her and spent a long time
settling her on the seat,
Mr. Browne helping him with advice. At last
she was settled comfortably
and Freddy Malins invited Mr. Browne into
the cab. There was a good
deal of confused talk, and then Mr. Browne
got into the cab. The cabman
settled his rug over his knees, and bent down
for the address. The
confusion grew greater and the cabman was
directed differently by Freddy
Malins and Mr. Browne, each of whom had his
head out through a window of
the cab. The difficulty was to know where
to drop Mr. Browne along the
route, and Aunt Kate, Aunt Julia and Mary
Jane helped the discussion
from the doorstep with cross-directions and
contradictions and abundance
of laughter. As for Freddy Malins he was speechless
with laughter.
He popped his head in and out of the window
every moment to the
great danger of his hat, and told his mother
how the discussion was
progressing, till at last Mr. Browne shouted
to the bewildered cabman
above the din of everybody's laughter:
"Do you know Trinity College?"
"Yes, sir," said the cabman.
"Well, drive bang up against Trinity College
gates," said Mr. Browne,
"and then we'll tell you where to go. You
understand now?"
"Yes, sir," said the cabman.
"Make like a bird for Trinity College."
"Right, sir," said the cabman.
The horse was whipped up and the cab rattled
off along the quay amid a
chorus of laughter and adieus.
Gabriel had not gone to the door with the
others. He was in a dark part
of the hall gazing up the staircase. A woman
was standing near the top
of the first flight, in the shadow also. He
could not see her face but
he could see the terra-cotta and salmon-pink
panels of her skirt which
the shadow made appear black and white. It
was his wife. She was leaning
on the banisters, listening to something.
Gabriel was surprised at her
stillness and strained his ear to listen also.
But he could hear little
save the noise of laughter and dispute on
the front steps, a few chords
struck on the piano and a few notes of a man's
voice singing.
He stood still in the gloom of the hall, trying
to catch the air that
the voice was singing and gazing up at his
wife. There was grace and
mystery in her attitude as if she were a symbol
of something. He asked
himself what is a woman standing on the stairs
in the shadow, listening
to distant music, a symbol of. If he were
a painter he would paint her
in that attitude. Her blue felt hat would
show off the bronze of her
hair against the darkness and the dark panels
of her skirt would show
off the light ones. Distant Music he would
call the picture if he were a
painter.
The hall-door was closed; and Aunt Kate, Aunt
Julia and Mary Jane came
down the hall, still laughing.
"Well, isn't Freddy terrible?" said Mary Jane.
"He's really terrible."
Gabriel said nothing but pointed up the stairs
towards where his wife
was standing. Now that the hall-door was closed
the voice and the piano
could be heard more clearly. Gabriel held
up his hand for them to be
silent. The song seemed to be in the old Irish
tonality and the singer
seemed uncertain both of his words and of
his voice. The voice,
made plaintive by distance and by the singer's
hoarseness, faintly
illuminated the cadence of the air with words
expressing grief:
O, the rain falls on my heavy locks
And the dew wets my skin,
My babe lies cold...
"O," exclaimed Mary Jane. "It's Bartell D'Arcy
singing and he wouldn't
sing all the night. O, I'll get him to sing
a song before he goes."
"O, do, Mary Jane," said Aunt Kate.
Mary Jane brushed past the others and ran
to the staircase, but before
she reached it the singing stopped and the
piano was closed abruptly.
"O, what a pity!" she cried. "Is he coming
down, Gretta?"
Gabriel heard his wife answer yes and saw
her come down towards them. A
few steps behind her were Mr. Bartell D'Arcy
and Miss O'Callaghan.
"O, Mr. D'Arcy," cried Mary Jane, "it's downright
mean of you to break
off like that when we were all in raptures
listening to you."
"I have been at him all the evening," said
Miss O'Callaghan, "and Mrs.
Conroy, too, and he told us he had a dreadful
cold and couldn't sing."
"O, Mr. D'Arcy," said Aunt Kate, "now that
was a great fib to tell."
"Can't you see that I'm as hoarse as a crow?"
said Mr. D'Arcy roughly.
He went into the pantry hastily and put on
his overcoat. The others,
taken aback by his rude speech, could find
nothing to say. Aunt Kate
wrinkled her brows and made signs to the others
to drop the subject. Mr.
D'Arcy stood swathing his neck carefully and
frowning.
"It's the weather," said Aunt Julia, after
a pause.
"Yes, everybody has colds," said Aunt Kate
readily, "everybody."
"They say," said Mary Jane, "we haven't had
snow like it for thirty
years; and I read this morning in the newspapers
that the snow is
general all over Ireland."
"I love the look of snow," said Aunt Julia
sadly.
"So do I," said Miss O'Callaghan. "I think
Christmas is never really
Christmas unless we have the snow on the ground."
"But poor Mr. D'Arcy doesn't like the snow,"
said Aunt Kate, smiling.
Mr. D'Arcy came from the pantry, fully swathed
and buttoned, and in
a repentant tone told them the history of
his cold. Everyone gave him
advice and said it was a great pity and urged
him to be very careful of
his throat in the night air. Gabriel watched
his wife, who did not join
in the conversation. She was standing right
under the dusty fanlight and
the flame of the gas lit up the rich bronze
of her hair, which he had
seen her drying at the fire a few days before.
She was in the same
attitude and seemed unaware of the talk about
her. At last she turned
towards them and Gabriel saw that there was
colour on her cheeks and
that her eyes were shining. A sudden tide
of joy went leaping out of his
heart.
"Mr. D'Arcy," she said, "what is the name
of that song you were
singing?"
"It's called The Lass of Aughrim," said Mr.
D'Arcy, "but I couldn't
remember it properly. Why? Do you know it?"
"The Lass of Aughrim," she repeated. "I couldn't
think of the name."
"It's a very nice air," said Mary Jane. "I'm
sorry you were not in voice
tonight."
"Now, Mary Jane," said Aunt Kate, "don't annoy
Mr. D'Arcy. I won't have
him annoyed."
Seeing that all were ready to start she shepherded
them to the door,
where good-night was said:
"Well, good-night, Aunt Kate, and thanks for
the pleasant evening."
"Good-night, Gabriel. Good-night, Gretta!"
"Good-night, Aunt Kate, and thanks ever so
much. Goodnight, Aunt Julia."
"O, good-night, Gretta, I didn't see you."
"Good-night, Mr. D'Arcy. Good-night, Miss
O'Callaghan."
"Good-night, Miss Morkan."
"Good-night, again."
"Good-night, all. Safe home."
"Good-night. Good night."
The morning was still dark. A dull, yellow
light brooded over the
houses and the river; and the sky seemed to
be descending. It was slushy
underfoot; and only streaks and patches of
snow lay on the roofs, on
the parapets of the quay and on the area railings.
The lamps were still
burning redly in the murky air and, across
the river, the palace of the
Four Courts stood out menacingly against the
heavy sky.
She was walking on before him with Mr. Bartell
D'Arcy, her shoes in a
brown parcel tucked under one arm and her
hands holding her skirt up
from the slush. She had no longer any grace
of attitude, but Gabriel's
eyes were still bright with happiness. The
blood went bounding along his
veins; and the thoughts went rioting through
his brain, proud, joyful,
tender, valorous.
She was walking on before him so lightly and
so erect that he longed to
run after her noiselessly, catch her by the
shoulders and say something
foolish and affectionate into her ear. She
seemed to him so frail that
he longed to defend her against something
and then to be alone with her.
Moments of their secret life together burst
like stars upon his memory.
A heliotrope envelope was lying beside his
breakfast-cup and he was
caressing it with his hand. Birds were twittering
in the ivy and the
sunny web of the curtain was shimmering along
the floor: he could not
eat for happiness. They were standing on the
crowded platform and he was
placing a ticket inside the warm palm of her
glove. He was standing
with her in the cold, looking in through a
grated window at a man making
bottles in a roaring furnace. It was very
cold. Her face, fragrant in
the cold air, was quite close to his; and
suddenly he called out to the
man at the furnace:
"Is the fire hot, sir?"
But the man could not hear with the noise
of the furnace. It was just as
well. He might have answered rudely.
A wave of yet more tender joy escaped from
his heart and went coursing
in warm flood along his arteries. Like the
tender fire of stars moments
of their life together, that no one knew of
or would ever know of, broke
upon and illumined his memory. He longed to
recall to her those moments,
to make her forget the years of their dull
existence together and
remember only their moments of ecstasy. For
the years, he felt, had not
quenched his soul or hers. Their children,
his writing, her household
cares had not quenched all their souls' tender
fire. In one letter that
he had written to her then he had said: "Why
is it that words like
these seem to me so dull and cold? Is it because
there is no word tender
enough to be your name?"
Like distant music these words that he had
written years before were
borne towards him from the past. He longed
to be alone with her. When
the others had gone away, when he and she
were in the room in their hotel,
then they would be alone together. He would
call her softly:
"Gretta!"
Perhaps she would not hear at once: she would
be undressing. Then
something in his voice would strike her. She
would turn and look at
him....
At the corner of Winetavern Street they met
a cab. He was glad of its
rattling noise as it saved him from conversation.
She was looking out of
the window and seemed tired. The others spoke
only a few words, pointing
out some building or street. The horse galloped
along wearily under the
murky morning sky, dragging his old rattling
box after his heels,
and Gabriel was again in a cab with her, galloping
to catch the boat,
galloping to their honeymoon.
As the cab drove across O'Connell Bridge Miss
O'Callaghan said:
"They say you never cross O'Connell Bridge
without seeing a white
horse."
"I see a white man this time," said Gabriel.
"Where?" asked Mr. Bartell D'Arcy.
Gabriel pointed to the statue, on which lay
patches of snow. Then he
nodded familiarly to it and waved his hand.
"Good-night, Dan," he said gaily.
When the cab drew up before the hotel, Gabriel
jumped out and, in spite
of Mr. Bartell D'Arcy's protest, paid the
driver. He gave the man a
shilling over his fare. The man saluted and
said:
"A prosperous New Year to you, sir."
"The same to you," said Gabriel cordially.
She leaned for a moment on his arm in getting
out of the cab and while
standing at the curbstone, bidding the others
good-night. She leaned
lightly on his arm, as lightly as when she
had danced with him a few
hours before. He had felt proud and happy
then, happy that she was his,
proud of her grace and wifely carriage. But
now, after the kindling
again of so many memories, the first touch
of her body, musical and
strange and perfumed, sent through him a keen
pang of lust. Under cover
of her silence he pressed her arm closely
to his side; and, as they
stood at the hotel door, he felt that they
had escaped from their lives
and duties, escaped from home and friends
and run away together with
wild and radiant hearts to a new adventure.
An old man was dozing in a great hooded chair
in the hall. He lit a
candle in the office and went before them
to the stairs. They followed
him in silence, their feet falling in soft
thuds on the thickly carpeted
stairs. She mounted the stairs behind the
porter, her head bowed in
the ascent, her frail shoulders curved as
with a burden, her skirt girt
tightly about her. He could have flung his
arms about her hips and held
her still, for his arms were trembling with
desire to seize her and only
the stress of his nails against the palms
of his hands held the wild
impulse of his body in check. The porter halted
on the stairs to settle
his guttering candle. They halted, too, on
the steps below him. In the
silence Gabriel could hear the falling of
the molten wax into the tray
and the thumping of his own heart against
his ribs.
The porter led them along a corridor and opened
a door. Then he set his
unstable candle down on a toilet-table and
asked at what hour they were
to be called in the morning.
"Eight," said Gabriel.
The porter pointed to the tap of the electric-light
and began a muttered
apology, but Gabriel cut him short.
"We don't want any light. We have light enough
from the street. And I
say," he added, pointing to the candle, "you
might remove that handsome
article, like a good man."
The porter took up his candle again, but slowly,
for he was surprised by
such a novel idea. Then he mumbled good-night
and went out. Gabriel shot
the lock to.
A ghostly light from the street lamp lay in
a long shaft from one window
to the door. Gabriel threw his overcoat and
hat on a couch and crossed
the room towards the window. He looked down
into the street in order
that his emotion might calm a little. Then
he turned and leaned against
a chest of drawers with his back to the light.
She had taken off her hat
and cloak and was standing before a large
swinging mirror, unhooking her
waist. Gabriel paused for a few moments, watching
her, and then said:
"Gretta!"
She turned away from the mirror slowly and
walked along the shaft of
light towards him. Her face looked so serious
and weary that the words
would not pass Gabriel's lips. No, it was
not the moment yet.
"You looked tired," he said.
"I am a little," she answered.
"You don't feel ill or weak?"
"No, tired: that's all."
She went on to the window and stood there,
looking out. Gabriel waited
again and then, fearing that diffidence was
about to conquer him, he
said abruptly:
"By the way, Gretta!"
"What is it?"
"You know that poor fellow Malins?" he said
quickly.
"Yes. What about him?"
"Well, poor fellow, he's a decent sort of
chap, after all," continued
Gabriel in a false voice. "He gave me back
that sovereign I lent him,
and I didn't expect it, really. It's a pity
he wouldn't keep away from
that Browne, because he's not a bad fellow,
really."
He was trembling now with annoyance. Why did
she seem so abstracted? He
did not know how he could begin. Was she annoyed,
too, about something?
If she would only turn to him or come to him
of her own accord! To take
her as she was would be brutal. No, he must
see some ardour in her eyes
first. He longed to be master of her strange
mood.
"When did you lend him the pound?" she asked,
after a pause.
Gabriel strove to restrain himself from breaking
out into brutal
language about the sottish Malins and his
pound. He longed to cry to her
from his soul, to crush her body against his,
to overmaster her. But he
said:
"O, at Christmas, when he opened that little
Christmas-card shop in
Henry Street."
He was in such a fever of rage and desire
that he did not hear her come
from the window. She stood before him for
an instant, looking at him
strangely. Then, suddenly raising herself
on tiptoe and resting her
hands lightly on his shoulders, she kissed
him.
"You are a very generous person, Gabriel,"
she said.
Gabriel, trembling with delight at her sudden
kiss and at the quaintness
of her phrase, put his hands on her hair and
began smoothing it back,
scarcely touching it with his fingers. The
washing had made it fine and
brilliant. His heart was brimming over with
happiness. Just when he
was wishing for it she had come to him of
her own accord. Perhaps her
thoughts had been running with his. Perhaps
she had felt the impetuous
desire that was in him, and then the yielding
mood had come upon her.
Now that she had fallen to him so easily,
he wondered why he had been so
diffident.
He stood, holding her head between his hands.
Then, slipping one arm
swiftly about her body and drawing her towards
him, he said softly:
"Gretta, dear, what are you thinking about?"
She did not answer nor yield wholly to his
arm. He said again, softly:
"Tell me what it is, Gretta. I think I know
what is the matter. Do I
know?"
She did not answer at once. Then she said
in an outburst of tears:
"O, I am thinking about that song, The Lass
of Aughrim."
She broke loose from him and ran to the bed
and, throwing her arms
across the bed-rail, hid her face. Gabriel
stood stock-still for a moment
in astonishment and then followed her. As
he passed in the way of the
cheval-glass he caught sight of himself in
full length, his broad,
well-filled shirt-front, the face whose expression
always puzzled him
when he saw it in a mirror, and his glimmering
gilt-rimmed eyeglasses.
He halted a few paces from her and said:
"What about the song? Why does that make you
cry?"
She raised her head from her arms and dried
her eyes with the back of
her hand like a child. A kinder note than
he had intended went into his
voice.
"Why, Gretta?" he asked.
"I am thinking about a person long ago who
used to sing that song."
"And who was the person long ago?" asked Gabriel,
smiling.
"It was a person I used to know in Galway
when I was living with my
grandmother," she said.
The smile passed away from Gabriel's face.
A dull anger began to gather
again at the back of his mind and the dull
fires of his lust began to
glow angrily in his veins.
"Someone you were in love with?" he asked
ironically.
"It was a young boy I used to know," she answered,
"named Michael Furey.
He used to sing that song, The Lass of Aughrim.
He was very delicate."
Gabriel was silent. He did not wish her to
think that he was interested
in this delicate boy.
"I can see him so plainly," she said, after
a moment. "Such eyes as he
had: big, dark eyes! And such an expression
in them--an expression!"
"O, then, you are in love with him?" said
Gabriel.
"I used to go out walking with him," she said,
"when I was in Galway."
A thought flew across Gabriel's mind.
"Perhaps that was why you wanted to go to
Galway with that Ivors girl?"
he said coldly.
She looked at him and asked in surprise:
"What for?"
Her eyes made Gabriel feel awkward. He shrugged
his shoulders and said:
"How do I know? To see him, perhaps."
She looked away from him along the shaft of
light towards the window in
silence.
"He is dead," she said at length. "He died
when he was only seventeen.
Isn't it a terrible thing to die so young
as that?"
"What was he?" asked Gabriel, still ironically.
"He was in the gasworks," she said.
Gabriel felt humiliated by the failure of
his irony and by the evocation
of this figure from the dead, a boy in the
gasworks. While he had been
full of memories of their secret life together,
full of tenderness and
joy and desire, she had been comparing him
in her mind with another. A
shameful consciousness of his own person assailed
him. He saw himself
as a ludicrous figure, acting as a pennyboy
for his aunts, a nervous,
well-meaning sentimentalist, orating to vulgarians
and idealising his
own clownish lusts, the pitiable fatuous fellow
he had caught a glimpse
of in the mirror. Instinctively he turned
his back more to the light
lest she might see the shame that burned upon
his forehead.
He tried to keep up his tone of cold interrogation,
but his voice when
he spoke was humble and indifferent.
"I suppose you were in love with this Michael
Furey, Gretta," he said.
"I was great with him at that time," she said.
Her voice was veiled and sad. Gabriel, feeling
now how vain it would be
to try to lead her whither he had purposed,
caressed one of her hands
and said, also sadly:
"And what did he die of so young, Gretta?
Consumption, was it?"
"I think he died for me," she answered.
A vague terror seized Gabriel at this answer,
as if, at that hour when
he had hoped to triumph, some impalpable and
vindictive being was coming
against him, gathering forces against him
in its vague world. But he
shook himself free of it with an effort of
reason and continued to
caress her hand. He did not question her again,
for he felt that she
would tell him of herself. Her hand was warm
and moist: it did not
respond to his touch, but he continued to
caress it just as he had
caressed her first letter to him that spring
morning.
"It was in the winter," she said, "about the
beginning of the winter
when I was going to leave my grandmother's
and come up here to the
convent. And he was ill at the time in his
lodgings in Galway and
wouldn't be let out, and his people in Oughterard
were written to.
He was in decline, they said, or something
like that. I never knew
rightly."
She paused for a moment and sighed.
"Poor fellow," she said. "He was very fond
of me and he was such a
gentle boy. We used to go out together, walking,
you know, Gabriel, like
the way they do in the country. He was going
to study singing only for
his health. He had a very good voice, poor
Michael Furey."
"Well; and then?" asked Gabriel.
"And then when it came to the time for me
to leave Galway and come up to
the convent he was much worse and I wouldn't
be let see him so I wrote
him a letter saying I was going up to Dublin
and would be back in the
summer, and hoping he would be better then."
She paused for a moment to get her voice under
control, and then went
on:
"Then the night before I left, I was in my
grandmother's house in Nuns'
Island, packing up, and I heard gravel thrown
up against the window.
The window was so wet I couldn't see, so I
ran downstairs as I was and
slipped out the back into the garden and there
was the poor fellow at
the end of the garden, shivering."
"And did you not tell him to go back?" asked
Gabriel.
"I implored of him to go home at once and
told him he would get his
death in the rain. But he said he did not
want to live. I can see his
eyes as well as well! He was standing at the
end of the wall where there
was a tree."
"And did he go home?" asked Gabriel.
"Yes, he went home. And when I was only a
week in the convent he died
and he was buried in Oughterard, where his
people came from. O, the day
I heard that, that he was dead!"
She stopped, choking with sobs, and, overcome
by emotion, flung herself
face downward on the bed, sobbing in the quilt.
Gabriel held her hand
for a moment longer, irresolutely, and then,
shy of intruding on her
grief, let it fall gently and walked quietly
to the window.
She was fast asleep.
Gabriel, leaning on his elbow, looked for
a few moments unresentfully
on her tangled hair and half-open mouth, listening
to her deep-drawn
breath. So she had had that romance in her
life: a man had died for her
sake. It hardly pained him now to think how
poor a part he, her husband,
had played in her life. He watched her while
she slept, as though he and
she had never lived together as man and wife.
His curious eyes rested
long upon her face and on her hair: and, as
he thought of what she must
have been then, in that time of her first
girlish beauty, a strange,
friendly pity for her entered his soul. He
did not like to say even to
himself that her face was no longer beautiful,
but he knew that it was
no longer the face for which Michael Furey
had braved death.
Perhaps she had not told him all the story.
His eyes moved to the
chair over which she had thrown some of her
clothes. A petticoat string
dangled to the floor. One boot stood upright,
its limp upper fallen
down: the fellow of it lay upon its side.
He wondered at his riot of
emotions of an hour before. From what had
it proceeded? From his aunt's
supper, from his own foolish speech, from
the wine and dancing, the
merry-making when saying good-night in the
hall, the pleasure of the
walk along the river in the snow. Poor Aunt
Julia! She, too, would soon
be a shade with the shade of Patrick Morkan
and his horse. He had
caught that haggard look upon her face for
a moment when she was singing
Arrayed for the Bridal. Soon, perhaps, he
would be sitting in that same
drawing-room, dressed in black, his silk hat
on his knees. The blinds
would be drawn down and Aunt Kate would be
sitting beside him, crying
and blowing her nose and telling him how Julia
had died. He would cast
about in his mind for some words that might
console her, and would find
only lame and useless ones. Yes, yes: that
would happen very soon.
The air of the room chilled his shoulders.
He stretched himself
cautiously along under the sheets and lay
down beside his wife. One by
one, they were all becoming shades. Better
pass boldly into that other
world, in the full glory of some passion,
than fade and wither dismally
with age. He thought of how she who lay beside
him had locked in her
heart for so many years that image of her
lover's eyes when he had told
her that he did not wish to live.
Generous tears filled Gabriel's eyes. He had
never felt like that
himself towards any woman, but he knew that
such a feeling must be love.
The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes
and in the partial darkness
he imagined he saw the form of a young man
standing under a dripping
tree. Other forms were near. His soul had
approached that region where
dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious
of, but could not
apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence.
His own identity was
fading out into a grey impalpable world: the
solid world itself,
which these dead had one time reared and lived
in, was dissolving and
dwindling.
A few light taps upon the pane made him turn
to the window. It had begun
to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes,
silver and dark, falling
obliquely against the lamplight. The time
had come for him to set out on
his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers
were right: snow was general
all over Ireland. It was falling on every
part of the dark central
plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly
upon the Bog of Allen and,
farther westward, softly falling into the
dark mutinous Shannon waves.
It was falling, too, upon every part of the
lonely churchyard on the
hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay
thickly drifted on the
crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears
of the little gate, on
the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly
as he heard the snow falling
faintly through the universe and faintly falling,
like the descent of
their last end, upon all the living and the
dead.
