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diff --git a/2814-h/2814-h.htm b/2814-h/2814-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6b02b22 --- /dev/null +++ b/2814-h/2814-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11602 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Dubliners, by James Joyce</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {font-size: 120%; + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +hr.small {width: 80%; + margin: 2em auto 2em auto; + border-color: #000000; + border-style: solid; + clear: both;} + +hr.small1 {width: 40%; + margin: 1em auto 1em auto; + border-color: #000000; + border-style: solid; + clear: both;} + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Dubliners, by James Joyce</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Dubliners</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: James Joyce</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: September, 2001 [eBook #2814]<br /> +[Most recently updated: January 20, 2019]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Reed, Karol Pietrzak and David Widger</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DUBLINERS ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="cover " /> +</div> + +<h1>DUBLINERS</h1> + +<h2>by James Joyce</h2> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">The Sisters</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">An Encounter</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">Araby</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">Eveline</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">After the Race</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">Two Gallants</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">The Boarding House</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">A Little Cloud</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">Counterparts</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">Clay</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">A Painful Case</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">Ivy Day in the Committee Room</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">A Mother</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">Grace</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">The Dead</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>THE SISTERS</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I have my own theory about it,” he said. “I think it was one +of those ... peculiar cases.... But it’s hard to say....” +</p> + +<p> +He began to puff again at his pipe without giving us his theory. My uncle saw +me staring and said to me: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, so your old friend is gone, you’ll be sorry to hear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Father Flynn.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he dead?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Cotter here has just told us. He was passing by the house.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“God have mercy on his soul,” said my aunt piously. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I wouldn’t like children of mine,” he said, “to have +too much to say to a man like that.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you mean, Mr Cotter?” asked my aunt. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, not for me,” said old Cotter. +</p> + +<p> +My aunt brought the dish from the safe and put it on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“But why do you think it’s not good for children, Mr Cotter?” +she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +I crammed my mouth with stirabout for fear I might give utterance to my anger. +Tiresome old red-nosed imbecile! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Drapery</i>. The drapery consisted mainly of children’s +bootees and umbrellas; and on ordinary days a notice used to hang in the +window, saying: <i>Umbrellas Re-covered</i>. No notice was visible now for the +shutters were up. A crape bouquet was tied to the door-knocker with ribbon. Two +poor women and a telegram boy were reading the card pinned on the crape. I also +approached and read: +</p> + +<p class="center"> +July 1st, 1895<br /> +The Rev. James Flynn (formerly of S. Catherine’s<br /> +Church, Meath Street), aged sixty-five years.<br /> +<i>R. I. P.</i> +</p> + +<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. +</p> + +<p> +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 shop-windows 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 <i>Post Office Directory</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +My aunt waited until Eliza sighed and then said: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well, he’s gone to a better world.” +</p> + +<p> +Eliza sighed again and bowed her head in assent. My aunt fingered the stem of +her wine-glass before sipping a little. +</p> + +<p> +“Did he ... peacefully?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And everything...?” +</p> + +<p> +“Father O’Rourke was in with him a Tuesday and anointed him and +prepared him and all.” +</p> + +<p> +“He knew then?” +</p> + +<p> +“He was quite resigned.” +</p> + +<p> +“He looks quite resigned,” said my aunt. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, indeed,” said my aunt. +</p> + +<p> +She sipped a little more from her glass and said: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Eliza smoothed her dress over her knees. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Nannie had leaned her head against the sofa-pillow and seemed about to fall +asleep. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>Freeman’s General</i> and took charge of all the papers +for the cemetery and poor James’s insurance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wasn’t that good of him?” said my aunt. +</p> + +<p> +Eliza closed her eyes and shook her head slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, there’s no friends like the old friends,” she said, +“when all is said and done, no friends that a body can trust.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s when it’s all over that you’ll miss him,” +said my aunt. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +She stopped, as if she were communing with the past and then said shrewdly: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She laid a finger against her nose and frowned: then she continued: +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“The Lord have mercy on his soul!” said my aunt. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said my aunt. “He was a disappointed man. You could +see that.” +</p> + +<p> +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 corner. 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: +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“And was that it?” said my aunt. “I heard +something....” +</p> + +<p> +Eliza nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Eliza resumed: +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>AN ENCOUNTER</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +It was Joe Dillon who introduced the Wild West to us. He had a little library +made up of old numbers of <i>The Union Jack</i>, <i>Pluck</i> and <i>The +Halfpenny Marvel</i>. 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: +</p> + +<p> +“Ya! yaka, yaka, yaka!” +</p> + +<p> +Everyone was incredulous when it was reported that he had a vocation for the +priesthood. Nevertheless it was true. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>The Halfpenny Marvel</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“This page or this page? This page? Now, Dillon, up! <i>‘Hardly had +the day’....</i> Go on! What day? <i>‘Hardly had the day +dawned’....</i> Have you studied it? What have you there in your +pocket?” +</p> + +<p> +Everyone’s heart palpitated as Leo Dillon handed up the paper and +everyone assumed an innocent face. Father Butler turned over the pages, +frowning. +</p> + +<p> +“What is this rubbish?” he said. “<i>The Apache Chief!</i> 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....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Till tomorrow, mates!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Come along. I knew Fatty’d funk it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And his sixpence...?” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s forfeit,” said Mahony. “And so much the better +for us—a bob and a tanner instead of a bob.” +</p> + +<p> +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: <i>“Swaddlers! Swaddlers!”</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“All right! All right!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +schoolboy 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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell us,” said Mahony pertly to the man, “how many have you +yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +The man smiled as before and said that when he was our age he had lots of +sweethearts. +</p> + +<p> +“Every boy,” he said, “has a little sweetheart.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“I say! Look what he’s doing!” +</p> + +<p> +As I neither answered nor raised my eyes Mahony exclaimed again: +</p> + +<p> +“I say.... He’s a queer old josser!” +</p> + +<p> +“In case he asks us for our names,” I said, “let you be +Murphy and I’ll be Smith.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Murphy!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>ARABY</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +<i>The Abbot</i>, by Walter Scott, <i>The Devout Communicant</i> and <i>The +Memoirs of Vidocq</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>come-all-you</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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: <i>“O love! O love!”</i> many times. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>Araby</i>. I forgot whether I answered yes or no. It would be a splendid +bazaar, she said; she would love to go. +</p> + +<p> +“And why can’t you?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s well for you,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“If I go,” I said, “I will bring you something.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>Araby</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, boy, I know.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our +Lord.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“The people are in bed and after their first sleep now,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically: +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t you give him the money and let him go? You’ve kept him +late enough as it is.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>The Arab’s Farewell to his Steed</i>. When I left the kitchen he +was about to recite the opening lines of the piece to my aunt. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Café Chantant</i> were written in coloured lamps, two men were +counting money on a salver. I listened to the fall of the coins. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“O, I never said such a thing!” +</p> + +<p> +“O, but you did!” +</p> + +<p> +“O, but I didn’t!” +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t she say that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I heard her.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, there’s a ... fib!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by +vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>EVELINE</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>nix</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“He is in Melbourne now.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Hill, don’t you see these ladies are waiting?” +</p> + +<p> +“Look lively, Miss Hill, please.” +</p> + +<p> +She would not cry many tears at leaving the Stores. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>The Bohemian Girl</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“I know these sailor chaps,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +One day he had quarrelled with Frank and after that she had to meet her lover +secretly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Damned Italians! coming over here!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<hr class="small" /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +A bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize her hand: +</p> + +<p> +“Come!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Come!” +</p> + +<p> +No! No! No! It was impossible. Her hands clutched the iron in frenzy. Amid the +seas she sent a cry of anguish! +</p> + +<p> +“Eveline! Evvy!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>AFTER THE RACE</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 Ségouin, the owner of the car; André +Rivière, a young electrician of Canadian birth; a huge Hungarian named Villona +and a neatly groomed young man named Doyle. Ségouin was in good humour because +he had unexpectedly received some orders in advance (he was about to start a +motor establishment in Paris) and Rivière 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 Ségouin. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 Ségouin 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. Ségouin, 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. +</p> + +<p> +Of course, the investment was a good one and Ségouin 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 Ségouin 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 Ségouin 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 Ségouin’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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The dinner was excellent, exquisite. Ségouin, Jimmy decided, had a very refined +taste. The party was increased by a young Englishman named Routh whom Jimmy had +seen with Ségouin 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. Rivière, 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 Ségouin 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 +Ségouin’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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“André.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s Farley!” +</p> + +<p> +A torrent of talk followed. Farley was an American. No one knew very well what +the talk was about. Villona and Rivière 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: +</p> + +<p> +“Fine night, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +It was a serene summer night; the harbour lay like a darkened mirror at their +feet. They proceeded towards it with linked arms, singing <i>Cadet Roussel</i> +in chorus, stamping their feet at every: +</p> + +<p> +<i>“Ho! Ho! Hohé, vraiment!”</i> +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“It is delightful!” +</p> + +<p> +There was a yacht piano in the cabin. Villona played a waltz for Farley and +Rivière, Farley acting as cavalier and Rivière 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 <i>“Stop!”</i> 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: <i>“Hear! +hear!”</i> 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! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>The Belle of Newport</i> and then someone proposed one great game for +a finish. +</p> + +<p> +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 Ségouin. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Daybreak, gentlemen!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>TWO GALLANTS</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +When he was quite sure that the narrative had ended he laughed noiselessly for +fully half a minute. Then he said: +</p> + +<p> +“Well!... That takes the biscuit!” +</p> + +<p> +His voice seemed winnowed of vigour; and to enforce his words he added with +humour: +</p> + +<p> +“That takes the solitary, unique, and, if I may so call it, +<i>recherché</i> biscuit!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And where did you pick her up, Corley?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Corley ran his tongue swiftly along his upper lip. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Maybe she thinks you’ll marry her,” said Lenehan. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Lenehan laughed again, noiselessly. +</p> + +<p> +“Of all the good ones ever I heard,” he said, “that +emphatically takes the biscuit.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Well ... tell me, Corley, I suppose you’ll be able to pull it off +all right, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Corley closed one eye expressively as an answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Is she game for that?” asked Lenehan dubiously. “You can +never know women.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s all right,” said Corley. “I know the way to get +around her, man. She’s a bit gone on me.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re what I call a gay Lothario,” said Lenehan. “And +the proper kind of a Lothario, too!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing to touch a good slavey,” he affirmed. +“Take my tip for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“By one who has tried them all,” said Lenehan. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +But Lenehan could well believe it; he nodded gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“I know that game,” he said, “and it’s a mug’s +game.” +</p> + +<p> +“And damn the thing I ever got out of it,” said Corley. +</p> + +<p> +“Ditto here,” said Lenehan. +</p> + +<p> +“Only off of one of them,” said Corley. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“She was ... a bit of all right,” he said regretfully. +</p> + +<p> +He was silent again. Then he added: +</p> + +<p> +“She’s on the turf now. I saw her driving down Earl Street one +night with two fellows with her on a car.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose that’s your doing,” said Lenehan. +</p> + +<p> +“There was others at her before me,” said Corley philosophically. +</p> + +<p> +This time Lenehan was inclined to disbelieve. He shook his head to and fro and +smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“You know you can’t kid me, Corley,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Honest to God!” said Corley. “Didn’t she tell me +herself?” +</p> + +<p> +Lenehan made a tragic gesture. +</p> + +<p> +“Base betrayer!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +As they passed along the railings of Trinity College, Lenehan skipped out into +the road and peered up at the clock. +</p> + +<p> +“Twenty after,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Time enough,” said Corley. “She’ll be there all right. +I always let her wait a bit.” +</p> + +<p> +Lenehan laughed quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ecod! Corley, you know how to take them,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m up to all their little tricks,” Corley confessed. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll pull it off,” he said. “Leave it to me, +can’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s a fine decent tart,” he said, with appreciation; +“that’s what she is.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Silent, O Moyle</i>, while +the other hand careered in the treble after each group of notes. The notes of +the air sounded deep and full. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There she is!” said Corley. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s have a look at her, Corley,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Corley glanced sideways at his friend and an unpleasant grin appeared on his +face. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you trying to get inside me?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Right!” said Lenehan. +</p> + +<p> +Corley had already thrown one leg over the chains when Lenehan called out: +</p> + +<p> +“And after? Where will we meet?” +</p> + +<p> +“Half ten,” answered Corley, bringing over his other leg. +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” +</p> + +<p> +“Corner of Merrion Street. We’ll be coming back.” +</p> + +<p> +“Work it all right now,” said Lenehan in farewell. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 bosom, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Refreshment Bar</i> were printed in white letters. +On the glass of the window were two flying inscriptions: <i>Ginger Beer</i> and +<i>Ginger Ale</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How much is a plate of peas?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Three halfpence, sir,” said the girl. +</p> + +<p> +“Bring me a plate of peas,” he said, “and a bottle of ginger +beer.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Hallo, Corley!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hallo, Corley!” he cried again. +</p> + +<p> +He came level with his friend and looked keenly in his face. He could see +nothing there. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” he said. “Did it come off?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t you tell us?” he said. “Did you try her?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>THE BOARDING HOUSE</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>artistes</i> 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 <i>The +Madam</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>artiste</i>. 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 <i>artistes</i> would oblige; and Sheridan played waltzes and +polkas and vamped accompaniments. Polly Mooney, the Madam’s daughter, +would also sing. She sang: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<i>I’m a ... naughty girl.<br /> +    You needn’t sham:<br /> +    You know I am.</i> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Reynolds’s Newspaper</i> 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 <i>was</i> a little vulgar; sometimes 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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“O Bob! Bob! What am I to do? What am I to do at all?” +</p> + +<p> +She would put an end to herself, she said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +But delirium passes. He echoed her phrase, applying it to himself: +<i>“What am I to do?”</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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: <i>“O my God!”</i> +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Bass</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly he remembered the night when one of the music-hall <i>artistes</i>, 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 <i>artiste</i>, 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 <i>his</i> sister +he’d bloody well put his teeth down his throat, so he would. +</p> + +<hr class="small" /> + +<p> +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 revery. There was no +longer any perturbation visible on her face. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At last she heard her mother calling. She started to her feet and ran to the +banisters. +</p> + +<p> +“Polly! Polly!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, mamma?” +</p> + +<p> +“Come down, dear. Mr Doran wants to speak to you.” +</p> + +<p> +Then she remembered what she had been waiting for. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>A LITTLE CLOUD</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Half time now, boys,” he used to say light-heartedly. +“Where’s my considering cap?” +</p> + +<p> +That was Ignatius Gallaher all out; and, damn it, you couldn’t but admire +him for it. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 to weigh 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. <i>“Mr Chandler has the gift of easy and +graceful verse.” ... “A wistful sadness pervades these +poems.” ... “The Celtic note.”</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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, +<i>garçon</i>, 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?” +</p> + +<p> +Ignatius Gallaher took off his hat and displayed a large closely cropped head. +His face was heavy, pale and clean-shaven. 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Little Chandler allowed his whisky to be very much diluted. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t know what’s good for you, my boy,” said +Ignatius Gallaher. “I drink mine neat.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well,” said Ignatius Gallaher, cheerfully, “here’s +to us and to old times and old acquaintance.” +</p> + +<p> +They clinked glasses and drank the toast. +</p> + +<p> +“I met some of the old gang today,” said Ignatius Gallaher. +“O’Hara seems to be in a bad way. What’s he doing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” said Little Chandler. “He’s gone to the +dogs.” +</p> + +<p> +“But Hogan has a good sit, hasn’t he?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; he’s in the Land Commission.” +</p> + +<p> +“I met him one night in London and he seemed to be very flush.... Poor +O’Hara! Boose, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Other things, too,” said Little Chandler shortly. +</p> + +<p> +Ignatius Gallaher laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been to the Isle of Man,” said Little Chandler. +</p> + +<p> +Ignatius Gallaher laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“The Isle of Man!” he said. “Go to London or Paris: Paris, +for choice. That’d do you good.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you seen Paris?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should think I have! I’ve knocked about there a little.” +</p> + +<p> +“And is it really so beautiful as they say?” asked Little Chandler. +</p> + +<p> +He sipped a little of his drink while Ignatius Gallaher finished his boldly. +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +Little Chandler finished his whisky and, after some trouble, succeeded in +catching the barman’s eye. He ordered the same again. +</p> + +<p> +“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 cafés. Hot stuff! Not for a pious chap like you, Tommy.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Little Chandler took four or five sips from his glass. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me,” he said, “is it true that Paris is so ... immoral +as they say?” +</p> + +<p> +Ignatius Gallaher made a catholic gesture with his right arm. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>cocottes</i> begin to let +themselves loose. You know what they are, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve heard of them,” said Little Chandler. +</p> + +<p> +Ignatius Gallaher drank off his whisky and shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” he said, “you may say what you like. There’s no +woman like the Parisienne—for style, for go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it is an immoral city,” said Little Chandler, with timid +insistence—“I mean, compared with London or Dublin?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, really....” +</p> + +<p> +“O, come on, another one won’t do you any harm. What is it? The +same again, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well ... all right.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>François</i>, the same again.... Will you smoke, Tommy?” +</p> + +<p> +Ignatius Gallaher produced his cigar-case. The two friends lit their cigars and +puffed at them in silence until their drinks were served. +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well,” said Ignatius Gallaher, “here we are in old +jog-along Dublin where nothing is known of such things.” +</p> + +<p> +“How dull you must find it,” said Little Chandler, “after all +the other places you’ve seen!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Little Chandler blushed and smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said. “I was married last May twelve months.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He extended his hand, which Little Chandler took. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know that,” said Little Chandler. +</p> + +<p> +“Any youngsters?” said Ignatius Gallaher. +</p> + +<p> +Little Chandler blushed again. +</p> + +<p> +“We have one child,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Son or daughter?” +</p> + +<p> +“A little boy.” +</p> + +<p> +Ignatius Gallaher slapped his friend sonorously on the back. +</p> + +<p> +“Bravo,” he said, “I wouldn’t doubt you, Tommy.” +</p> + +<p> +Little Chandler smiled, looked confusedly at his glass and bit his lower lip +with three childishly white front teeth. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks awfully, old chap,” said Ignatius Gallaher, +“I’m sorry we didn’t meet earlier. But I must leave tomorrow +night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tonight, perhaps...?” +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +“O, in that case....” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” said Little Chandler, “the next time you come we +must have an evening together. That’s agreed now, isn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that’s agreed,” said Ignatius Gallaher. “Next +year if I come, <i>parole d’honneur</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“And to clinch the bargain,” said Little Chandler, +“we’ll just have one more now.” +</p> + +<p> +Ignatius Gallaher took out a large gold watch and looked at it. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it to be the last?” he said. “Because you know, I have an +a.p.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, yes, positively,” said Little Chandler. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, then,” said Ignatius Gallaher, “let us have +another one as a <i>deoc an doruis</i>—that’s good vernacular for a +small whisky, I believe.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The barman brought their drinks. Little Chandler pushed one glass towards his +friend and took up the other boldly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Some day you will,” said Little Chandler calmly. +</p> + +<p> +Ignatius Gallaher turned his orange tie and slate-blue eyes full upon his +friend. +</p> + +<p> +“You think so?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll put your head in the sack,” repeated Little Chandler +stoutly, “like everyone else if you can find the girl.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Little Chandler shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“But I’m in no hurry. They can wait. I don’t fancy tying +myself up to one woman, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +He imitated with his mouth the act of tasting and made a wry face. +</p> + +<p> +“Must get a bit stale, I should think,” he said. +</p> + +<hr class="small" /> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Here. Don’t waken him.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Hm!... +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<i>Hushed are the winds and still the evening gloom,<br /> +    Not e’en a Zephyr wanders through the grove,<br /> +Whilst I return to view my Margaret’s tomb<br /> +    And scatter flowers on the dust I love.</i> +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<i>Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,<br /> +    That clay where once....</i> +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Stop!” +</p> + +<p> +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!... +</p> + +<p> +The door was burst open and a young woman ran in, panting. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it? What is it?” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +The child, hearing its mother’s voice, broke out into a paroxysm of +sobbing. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s nothing, Annie ... it’s nothing.... He began to +cry....” +</p> + +<p> +She flung her parcels on the floor and snatched the child from him. +</p> + +<p> +“What have you done to him?” she cried, glaring into his face. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“It’s nothing.... He ... he began to cry.... I couldn’t ... I +didn’t do anything.... What?” +</p> + +<p> +Giving no heed to him she began to walk up and down the room, clasping the +child tightly in her arms and murmuring: +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>COUNTERPARTS</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +The bell rang furiously and, when Miss Parker went to the tube, a furious voice +called out in a piercing North of Ireland accent: +</p> + +<p> +“Send Farrington here!” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Parker returned to her machine, saying to a man who was writing at a desk: +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Alleyne wants you upstairs.” +</p> + +<p> +The man muttered “<i>Blast</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +He went heavily upstairs until he came to the second landing, where a door bore +a brass plate with the inscription <i>Mr Alleyne</i>. Here he halted, puffing +with labour and vexation, and knocked. The shrill voice cried: +</p> + +<p> +“Come in!” +</p> + +<p> +The man entered Mr Alleyne’s room. Simultaneously Mr Alleyne, a little +man wearing gold-rimmed glasses on a clean-shaven 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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But Mr Shelley said, sir——” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Mr Shelley said, sir....</i> Kindly attend to what I say and not to +what <i>Mr Shelley says, sir</i>. 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Eh? Are you going to stand there all day? Upon my word, Farrington, you +take things easy!” +</p> + +<p> +“I was waiting to see....” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, you needn’t wait to see. Go downstairs and do your +work.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: <i>In no case +shall the said Bernard Bodley be....</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all right, Mr Shelley,” said the man, pointing with his +finger to indicate the objective of his journey. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Here, Pat, give us a g.p., like a good fellow.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 absent-mindedness. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Alleyne has been calling for you,” said the chief clerk +severely. “Where were you?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +<i>“That’s all right: you can go.”</i> +</p> + +<p> +The man returned to the lower office and sat down again at his desk. He stared +intently at the incomplete phrase: <i>In no case shall the said Bernard Bodley +be</i> ... 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 +<i>Bernard Bernard</i> instead of <i>Bernard Bodley</i> and had to begin again +on a clean sheet. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 turned 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: +</p> + +<p> +“I know nothing about any other two letters,” he said stupidly. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>You—know—nothing</i>. 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?” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think, sir,” he said, “that that’s a +fair question to put to me.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<hr class="small" /> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>A crown!</i> 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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>“And here was my nabs, as cool as you +please,”</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>artiste</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>“O, pardon!”</i> 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 Apollinaris 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>“Go!”</i> +each was to try to bring down the other’s hand on to the table. +Farrington looked very serious and determined. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re not to put the weight of your body behind it. Play +fair,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s not playing fair?” said the other. +</p> + +<p> +“Come on again. The two best out of three.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! that’s the knack!” +</p> + +<p> +“What the hell do you know about it?” said Farrington fiercely, +turning on the man. “What do you put in your gab for?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +<br /> +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Pardon!</i> his fury nearly choked him. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Ada! Ada!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is that?” said the man, peering through the darkness. +</p> + +<p> +“Me, pa.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who are you? Charlie?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, pa. Tom.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s your mother?” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s out at the chapel.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right.... Did she think of leaving any dinner for +me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, pa. I——” +</p> + +<p> +“Light the lamp. What do you mean by having the place in darkness? Are +the other children in bed?” +</p> + +<p> +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: +<i>“At the chapel. At the chapel, if you please!”</i> When the lamp +was lit he banged his fist on the table and shouted: +</p> + +<p> +“What’s for my dinner?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m going ... to cook it, pa,” said the little boy. +</p> + +<p> +The man jumped up furiously and pointed to the fire. +</p> + +<p> +“On that fire! You let the fire out! By God, I’ll teach you to do +that again!” +</p> + +<p> +He took a step to the door and seized the walking-stick which was standing +behind it. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll teach you to let the fire out!” he said, rolling up his +sleeve in order to give his arm free play. +</p> + +<p> +The little boy cried <i>“O, pa!”</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“O, pa!” he cried. “Don’t beat me, pa! And I’ll +... I’ll say a <i>Hail Mary</i> for you.... I’ll say a <i>Hail +Mary</i> for you, pa, if you don’t beat me.... I’ll say a <i>Hail +Mary</i>....” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CLAY</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +<i>“Yes, my dear,”</i> and <i>“No, my dear.”</i> 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: +</p> + +<p> +“Maria, you are a veritable peace-maker!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>A Present from Belfast</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Mamma is mamma but Maria is my proper mother.” +</p> + +<p> +After the break-up at home the boys had got her that position in the <i>Dublin +by Lamplight</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 up 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Two-and-four, please.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Everybody said: <i>“O, here’s Maria!”</i> 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: +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks, Maria.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +<i>O, I know all about it!</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>“Do, please, Maria!”</i> 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 <i>“Now, +Maria!”</i> and Maria, blushing very much began to sing in a tiny +quavering voice. She sang <i>I Dreamt that I Dwelt</i>, and when she came to +the second verse she sang again: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<i>I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls<br /> +    With vassals and serfs at my side<br /> +And of all who assembled within those walls<br /> +    That I was the hope and the pride.<br /> +I had riches too great to count, could boast<br /> +    Of a high ancestral name,<br /> +But I also dreamt, which pleased me most,<br /> +    That you loved me still the same.</i> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>A PAINFUL CASE</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +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 <i>Maynooth Catechism</i>, 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 <i>Michael Kramer</i>, +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 <i>Bile Beans</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Duffy abhorred anything which betokened physical or mental disorder. A +mediæval 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 bank but, as these circumstances never +arose, his life rolled out evenly—an adventureless tale. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“What a pity there is such a poor house tonight! It’s so hard on +people to have to sing to empty benches.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: <i>Thus Spake Zarathustra</i> and <i>The Gay Science</i>. +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He walked along quickly through the November twilight, his stout hazel stick +striking the ground regularly, the fringe of the buff <i>Mail</i> 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 <i>Secreto</i>. This +was the paragraph: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +DEATH OF A LADY AT SYDNEY PARADE +</p> + +<p class="center"> +A PAINFUL CASE +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +<i>A juror</i>. “You saw the lady fall?” +</p> + +<p> +<i>Witness</i>. “Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Constable 57E corroborated. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +<br /> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Herald</i> and yawning. Now +and again a tram was heard swishing along the lonely road outside. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>IVY DAY IN THE COMMITTEE ROOM</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“That’s better now, Mr O’Connor.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Did Mr Tierney say when he’d be back?” he asked in a husky +falsetto. +</p> + +<p> +“He didn’t say.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr O’Connor put his cigarette into his mouth and began to search his +pockets. He took out a pack of thin pasteboard cards. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll get you a match,” said the old man. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind, this’ll do,” said Mr O’Connor. +</p> + +<p> +He selected one of the cards and read what was printed on it: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +MUNICIPAL ELECTIONS +</p> + +<hr class="small1" /> + +<p class="center"> +ROYAL EXCHANGE WARD<br /> +</p> + +<hr class="small1" /> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<hr class="small1" /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 in 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He replaced the cardboard wearily. +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s what ruins children,” said Mr O’Connor. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“What age is he?” said Mr O’Connor. +</p> + +<p> +“Nineteen,” said the old man. +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t you put him to something?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Hello! Is this a Freemasons’ meeting?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s that?” said the old man. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you doing in the dark?” asked a voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that you, Hynes?” asked Mr O’Connor. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. What are you doing in the dark?” said Mr Hynes advancing +into the light of the fire. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mat,” he said to Mr O’Connor, “how goes +it?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Hynes leaned against the mantelpiece and asked: +</p> + +<p> +“Has he paid you yet?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not yet,” said Mr O’Connor. “I hope to God he’ll +not leave us in the lurch tonight.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Hynes laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“O, he’ll pay you. Never fear,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope he’ll look smart about it if he means business,” said +Mr O’Connor. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you think, Jack?” said Mr Hynes satirically to the old +man. +</p> + +<p> +The old man returned to his seat by the fire, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“It isn’t but he has it, anyway. Not like the other tinker.” +</p> + +<p> +“What other tinker?” said Mr Hynes. +</p> + +<p> +“Colgan,” said the old man scornfully. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I think you’re right,” said Mr O’Connor. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, the working-classes should be represented,” said the +old man. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“How’s that?” said the old man. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Our man won’t vote for the address,” said Mr O’Connor. +“He goes in on the Nationalist ticket.” +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t he?” said Mr Hynes. “Wait till you see whether +he will or not. I know him. Is it Tricky Dicky Tierney?” +</p> + +<p> +“By God! perhaps you’re right, Joe,” said Mr O’Connor. +“Anyway, I wish he’d turn up with the spondulics.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“If this man was alive,” he said, pointing to the leaf, +“we’d have no talk of an address of welcome.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s true,” said Mr O’Connor. +</p> + +<p> +“Musha, God be with them times!” said the old man. “There was +some life in it then.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“No money, boys,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Sit down here, Mr Henchy,” said the old man, offering him his +chair. +</p> + +<p> +“O, don’t stir, Jack, don’t stir,” said Mr Henchy. +</p> + +<p> +He nodded curtly to Mr Hynes and sat down on the chair which the old man +vacated. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you serve Aungier Street?” he asked Mr O’Connor. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mr O’Connor, beginning to search his pockets for +memoranda. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you call on Grimes?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well? How does he stand?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why so?” +</p> + +<p> +“He asked me who the nominators were; and I told him. I mentioned Father +Burke’s name. I think it’ll be all right.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Henchy began to snuffle and to rub his hands over the fire at a terrific +speed. Then he said: +</p> + +<p> +“For the love of God, Jack, bring us a bit of coal. There must be some +left.” +</p> + +<p> +The old man went out of the room. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +the work going on properly I won’t forget you, you may be sure.’ Mean little tinker! ’Usha, how could he be anything else?” +</p> + +<p> +“What did I tell you, Mat?” said Mr Hynes. “Tricky Dicky +Tierney.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 shoeboy of hell! I suppose he forgets the time his little old father +kept the hand-me-down shop in Mary’s Lane.” +</p> + +<p> +“But is that a fact?” asked Mr O’Connor. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The old man returned with a few lumps of coal which he placed here and there on +the fire. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t help it,” said Mr Henchy. “I expect to find +the bailiffs in the hall when I go home.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Hynes laughed and, shoving himself away from the mantelpiece with the aid of +his shoulders, made ready to leave. +</p> + +<p> +“It’ll be all right when King Eddie comes,” he said. +“Well boys, I’m off for the present. See you later. ’Bye, +’bye.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“’Bye, Joe.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Henchy waited a few moments and then nodded in the direction of the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me,” he said across the fire, “what brings our friend +in here? What does he want?” +</p> + +<p> +“’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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Henchy snuffled vigorously and spat so copiously that he nearly put out the +fire, which uttered a hissing protest. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, poor Joe is a decent skin,” said Mr O’Connor. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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...?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no knowing,” said the old man. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr O’Connor nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a knock at the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in!” said Mr Henchy. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“O Father Keon!” said Mr Henchy, jumping up from his chair. +“Is that you? Come in!” +</p> + +<p> +“O, no, no, no!” said Father Keon quickly, pursing his lips as if +he were addressing a child. +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you come in and sit down?” +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s round at the <i>Black Eagle</i>,” said Mr Henchy. +“But won’t you come in and sit down a minute?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, thank you. It was just a little business matter,” said +Father Keon. “Thank you, indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +He retreated from the doorway and Mr Henchy, seizing one of the candlesticks, +went to the door to light him downstairs. +</p> + +<p> +“O, don’t trouble, I beg!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but the stairs is so dark.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, I can see.... Thank you, indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you right now?” +</p> + +<p> +“All right, thanks.... Thanks.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me, John,” said Mr O’Connor, lighting his cigarette +with another pasteboard card. +</p> + +<p> +“Hm?” +</p> + +<p> +“What he is exactly?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ask me an easier one,” said Mr Henchy. +</p> + +<p> +“Fanning and himself seem to me very thick. They’re often in +Kavanagh’s together. Is he a priest at all?” +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +“And how does he knock it out?” asked Mr O’Connor. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s another mystery.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he attached to any chapel or church or institution +or——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is there any chance of a drink itself?” asked Mr O’Connor. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m dry too,” said the old man. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why didn’t you remind him?” said Mr O’Connor. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr O’Connor laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“So far as owing money goes....” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“And make me your private secretary, John.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. And I’ll make Father Keon my private chaplain. We’ll +have a family party.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” said Mr Henchy and Mr O’Connor. +</p> + +<p> +“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?’” +</p> + +<p> +At this point there was a knock at the door, and a boy put in his head. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” said the old man. +</p> + +<p> +“From the <i>Black Eagle</i>,” said the boy, walking in sideways +and depositing a basket on the floor with a noise of shaken bottles. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Any bottles?” +</p> + +<p> +“What bottles?” said the old man. +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you let us drink them first?” said Mr Henchy. +</p> + +<p> +“I was told to ask for the bottles.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come back tomorrow,” said the old man. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The boy went out and Mr Henchy began to rub his hands cheerfully, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well, he’s not so bad after all. He’s as good as his +word, anyhow.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no tumblers,” said the old man. +</p> + +<p> +“O, don’t let that trouble you, Jack,” said Mr Henchy. +“Many’s the good man before now drank out of the bottle.” +</p> + +<p> +“Anyway, it’s better than nothing,” said Mr O’Connor. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Would you like a drink, boy?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you please, sir,” said the boy. +</p> + +<p> +The old man opened another bottle grudgingly, and handed it to the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“What age are you?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Seventeen,” said the boy. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the way it begins,” said the old man. +</p> + +<p> +“The thin edge of the wedge,” said Mr Henchy. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I did a good day’s work today,” said Mr Henchy, after +a pause. +</p> + +<p> +“That so, John?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hello, Crofton!” said Mr Henchy to the fat man. “Talk of the +devil....” +</p> + +<p> +“Where did the boose come from?” asked the young man. “Did +the cow calve?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, of course, Lyons spots the drink first thing!” said Mr +O’Connor, laughing. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that the way you chaps canvass,” said Mr Lyons, “and +Crofton and I out in the cold and rain looking for votes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, blast your soul,” said Mr Henchy, “I’d get more +votes in five minutes than you two’d get in a week.” +</p> + +<p> +“Open two bottles of stout, Jack,” said Mr O’Connor. +</p> + +<p> +“How can I?” said the old man, “when there’s no +corkscrew?” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait now, wait now!” said Mr Henchy, getting up quickly. +“Did you ever see this little trick?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Which is my bottle?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“This lad,” said Mr Henchy. +</p> + +<p> +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 Tierney. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I was just telling them, Crofton,” said Mr Henchy, “that we +got a good few votes today.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who did you get?” asked Mr Lyons. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what about the address to the King?” said Mr Lyons, after +drinking and smacking his lips. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But look here, John,” said Mr O’Connor. “Why should we +welcome the King of England? Didn’t Parnell himself....” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Crofton nodded his head. +</p> + +<p> +“But after all now,” said Mr Lyons argumentatively, “King +Edward’s life, you know, is not the very....” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all very fine,” said Mr Lyons. “But look at the +case of Parnell now.” +</p> + +<p> +“In the name of God,” said Mr Henchy, “where’s the +analogy between the two cases?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Our side of the house respects him, because he was a gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Hynes came in slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The old man handed him another bottle and he placed it on the hob. +</p> + +<p> +“Sit down, Joe,” said Mr O’Connor, “we’re just +talking about the Chief.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay!” said Mr Henchy. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Hynes sat on the side of the table near Mr Lyons but said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“O, Joe,” said Mr O’Connor suddenly. “Give us that +thing you wrote—do you remember? Have you got it on you?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, ay!” said Mr Henchy. “Give us that. Did you ever hear +that, Crofton? Listen to this now: splendid thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go on,” said Mr O’Connor. “Fire away, Joe.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Hynes did not seem to remember at once the piece to which they were alluding +but, after reflecting a while, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“O, that thing is it.... Sure, that’s old now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Out with it, man!” said Mr O’Connor. +</p> + +<p> +“’Sh, ’sh,” said Mr Henchy. “Now, Joe!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +THE DEATH OF PARNELL<br /> +6<i>th October</i> 1891 +</p> + +<p> +He cleared his throat once or twice and then began to recite: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +He is dead. Our Uncrowned King is dead.<br /> +    O, Erin, mourn with grief and woe<br /> +For he lies dead whom the fell gang<br /> +    Of modern hypocrites laid low.<br /><br /> + +He lies slain by the coward hounds<br /> +    He raised to glory from the mire;<br /> +And Erin’s hopes and Erin’s dreams<br /> +    Perish upon her monarch’s pyre.<br /><br /> + +In palace, cabin or in cot<br /> +    The Irish heart where’er it be<br /> +Is bowed with woe—for he is gone<br /> +    Who would have wrought her destiny.<br /><br /> + +He would have had his Erin famed,<br /> +    The green flag gloriously unfurled,<br /> +Her statesmen, bards and warriors raised<br /> +    Before the nations of the World.<br /><br /> + +He dreamed (alas, ’twas but a dream!)<br /> +    Of Liberty: but as he strove<br /> +To clutch that idol, treachery<br /> +    Sundered him from the thing he loved.<br /><br /> + +Shame on the coward, caitiff hands<br /> +    That smote their Lord or with a kiss<br /> +Betrayed him to the rabble-rout<br /> +    Of fawning priests—no friends of his.<br /><br /> + +May everlasting shame consume<br /> +    The memory of those who tried<br /> +To befoul and smear the exalted name<br /> +    Of one who spurned them in his pride.<br /><br /> + +He fell as fall the mighty ones,<br /> +    Nobly undaunted to the last,<br /> +And death has now united him<br /> +    With Erin’s heroes of the past.<br /><br /> + +No sound of strife disturb his sleep!<br /> +    Calmly he rests: no human pain<br /> +Or high ambition spurs him now<br /> +    The peaks of glory to attain.<br /><br /> + +They had their way: they laid him low.<br /> +    But Erin, list, his spirit may<br /> +Rise, like the PhÅ“nix from the flames,<br /> +    When breaks the dawning of the day,<br /><br /> + +The day that brings us Freedom’s reign.<br /> +    And on that day may Erin well<br /> +Pledge in the cup she lifts to Joy<br /> +    One grief—the memory of Parnell. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Pok! The cork flew out of Mr Hynes’ bottle, but Mr Hynes remained sitting +flushed and bareheaded on the table. He did not seem to have heard the +invitation. +</p> + +<p> +“Good man, Joe!” said Mr O’Connor, taking out his cigarette +papers and pouch the better to hide his emotion. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you think of that, Crofton?” cried Mr Henchy. +“Isn’t that fine? What?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Crofton said that it was a very fine piece of writing. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>A MOTHER</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +Mr Holohan, assistant secretary of the <i>Eire Abu</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 elder 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: +</p> + +<p> +“My good man is packing us off to Skerries for a few weeks.” +</p> + +<p> +If it was not Skerries it was Howth or Greystones. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>artistes</i> should go into capitals and what <i>artistes</i> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Now, help yourself, Mr Holohan!” +</p> + +<p> +And while he was helping himself she said: +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be afraid! Don’t be afraid of it!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 dressing-room every few minutes with reports from the box-office. The +<i>artistes</i> 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: +</p> + +<p> +“Well now, ladies and gentlemen. I suppose we’d better open the +ball.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Kearney rewarded his very flat final syllable with a quick stare of +contempt, and then said to her daughter encouragingly: +</p> + +<p> +“Are you ready, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And the <i>artistes</i>!” said Mrs Kearney. “Of course they +are doing their best, but really they are not good.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Holohan admitted that the <i>artistes</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But, of course, that doesn’t alter the contract,” she said. +“The contract was for four concerts.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“And who is the <i>Cometty</i> pray?” +</p> + +<p> +But she knew that it would not be ladylike to do that: so she was silent. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank you!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well! We did our best, the dear knows.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Kearney had to go back to the dressing-room. +</p> + +<p> +The <i>artistes</i> 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 <i>artiste</i>. He +had appeared in grand opera. One night, when an operatic <i>artiste</i> had +fallen ill, he had undertaken the part of the king in the opera of +<i>Maritana</i> 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 +<i>yous</i> 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: +</p> + +<p> +“Are you in it too?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mr Duggan. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Bell laughed at his fellow-sufferer, held out his hand and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Shake!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder where did they dig her up,” said Kathleen to Miss Healy. +“I’m sure I never heard of her.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Holohan, I want to speak to you for a moment,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’d better speak to Mr Fitzpatrick,” said Mr Holohan +distantly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>Freeman</i> man and Mr O’Madden Burke. The <i>Freeman</i> 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 <i>Freeman</i> 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 +<i>artistes</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“O’Madden Burke will write the notice,” he explained to Mr +Holohan, “and I’ll see it in.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t mind,” said Mr Hendrick. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +While Mr Holohan was entertaining the <i>Freeman</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“She won’t go on. She must get her eight guineas.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“She won’t go on without her money.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Have you seen Mrs Pat Campbell this week?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“This is four shillings short.” +</p> + +<p> +But Kathleen gathered in her skirt and said: <i>“Now, Mr Bell,”</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The first part of the concert was very successful except for Madam +Glynn’s item. The poor lady sang <i>Killarney</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>artistes</i> into +consideration. The stewards and the secretaries debated hotly as to what should +be done when the interval came. +</p> + +<p> +“I agree with Miss Beirne,” said Mr O’Madden Burke. +“Pay her nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>artistes</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m surprised at you, Mrs Kearney,” said Mr Holohan. +“I never thought you would treat us this way.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what way did you treat me?” asked Mrs Kearney. +</p> + +<p> +Her face was inundated with an angry colour and she looked as if she would +attack someone with her hands. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m asking for my rights,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“You might have some sense of decency,” said Mr Holohan. +</p> + +<p> +“Might I, indeed?... And when I ask when my daughter is going to be paid +I can’t get a civil answer.” +</p> + +<p> +She tossed her head and assumed a haughty voice: +</p> + +<p> +“You must speak to the secretary. It’s not my business. I’m a +great fellow fol-the-diddle-I-do.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you were a lady,” said Mr Holohan, walking away from her +abruptly. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Get a cab!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not done with you yet,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“But I’m done with you,” said Mr Holohan. +</p> + +<p> +Kathleen followed her mother meekly. Mr Holohan began to pace up and down the +room, in order to cool himself for he felt his skin on fire. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a nice lady!” he said. “O, she’s a nice +lady!” +</p> + +<p> +“You did the proper thing, Holohan,” said Mr O’Madden Burke, +poised upon his umbrella in approval. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>GRACE</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Was he by himself?” asked the manager. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir. There was two gentlemen with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“And where are they?” +</p> + +<p> +No one knew; a voice said: +</p> + +<p> +“Give him air. He’s fainted.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +His collar was unfastened and his necktie undone. He opened his 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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Who is the man? What’s his name and address?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re all right now?” asked the young man in the +cycling-suit. +</p> + +<p> +“Sha, ’s nothing,” said the injured man, trying to stand up. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Where do you live?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Where do you live?” repeated the constable. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Hallo, Tom, old man! What’s the trouble?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sha, ’s nothing,” said the man. +</p> + +<p> +The new-comer surveyed the deplorable figure before him and then turned to the +constable, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all right, constable. I’ll see him home.” +</p> + +<p> +The constable touched his helmet and answered: +</p> + +<p> +“All right, Mr Power!” +</p> + +<p> +“Come now, Tom,” said Mr Power, taking his friend by the arm. +“No bones broken. What? Can you walk?” +</p> + +<p> +The young man in the cycling-suit took the man by the other arm and the crowd +divided. +</p> + +<p> +“How did you get yourself into this mess?” asked Mr Power. +</p> + +<p> +“The gentleman fell down the stairs,” said the young man. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ ’ery ’uch o’liged to you, sir,” said +the injured man. +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“’ant we have a little...?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not now. Not now.” +</p> + +<p> +The three men left the bar and the crowd sifted through the doors into 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. +</p> + +<p> +When they came out into Grafton Street, Mr Power whistled for an outsider. The +injured man said again as well as he could: +</p> + +<p> +“I’ ’ery ’uch o’liged to you, sir. I hope +we’ll ’eet again. ’y na’e is Kernan.” +</p> + +<p> +The shock and the incipient pain had partly sobered him. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t mention it,” said the young man. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Another time,” said the young man. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I ’an’t, ’an,” he answered, “’y +’ongue is hurt.” +</p> + +<p> +“Show.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s ugly,” said Mr Power. +</p> + +<p> +“Sha, ’s nothing,” said Mr Kernan, closing his mouth and +pulling the collar of his filthy coat across his neck. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Power shook his head but said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Power stood up. +</p> + +<p> +“We were waiting for him to come home with the money. He never seems to +think he has a home at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She saw him to the door. The carman was stamping up and down the footpath, and +swinging his arms to warm himself. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s very kind of you to bring him home,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all,” said Mr Power. +</p> + +<p> +He got up on the car. As it drove off he raised his hat to her gaily. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll make a new man of him,” he said. “Good-night, +Mrs Kernan.” +</p> + +<hr class="small" /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +When the plot had been disclosed to her, Mrs Kernan had said: +</p> + +<p> +“I leave it all in your hands, Mr Cunningham.” +</p> + +<p> +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, she 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’m not seventy,” said the invalid. +</p> + +<p> +“God forbid,” said Mr Cunningham. +</p> + +<p> +“It doesn’t pain you now?” asked Mr M’Coy. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>The Irish Times</i> +and for <i>The Freeman’s Journal</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Pain? Not much,” answered Mr Kernan. “But it’s so +sickening. I feel as if I wanted to retch off.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the boose,” said Mr Cunningham firmly. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Mr Kernan. “I think I caught a cold on the car. +There’s something keeps coming into my throat, phlegm +or——” +</p> + +<p> +“Mucus.” said Mr M’Coy. +</p> + +<p> +“It keeps coming like from down in my throat; sickening thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes,” said Mr M’Coy, “that’s the +thorax.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well, all’s well that ends well.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m very much obliged to you, old man,” said the invalid. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Power waved his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Those other two fellows I was with——” +</p> + +<p> +“Who were you with?” asked Mr Cunningham. +</p> + +<p> +“A chap. I don’t know his name. Damn it now, what’s his name? +Little chap with sandy hair....” +</p> + +<p> +“And who else?” +</p> + +<p> +“Harford.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hm,” said Mr Cunningham. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>bona fide</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder where did he go to,” said Mr Kernan. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“All’s well that ends well.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Kernan changed the subject at once. +</p> + +<p> +“That was a decent young chap, that medical fellow,” he said. +“Only for him——” +</p> + +<p> +“O, only for him,” said Mr Power, “it might have been a case +of seven days, without the option of a fine.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“It happened that you were peloothered, Tom,” said Mr Cunningham +gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“True bill,” said Mr Kernan, equally gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose you squared the constable, Jack,” said Mr M’Coy. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Is this what we pay rates for?” he asked. “To feed and +clothe these ignorant bostooms ... and they’re nothing else.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Cunningham laughed. He was a Castle official only during office hours. +</p> + +<p> +“How could they be anything else, Tom?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +He assumed a thick provincial accent and said in a tone of command: +</p> + +<p> +“65, catch your cabbage!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He illustrated the story by grotesque gestures. +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>catch your cabbage</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +Everyone laughed again: but Mr Kernan was somewhat indignant still. He talked +of writing a letter to the papers. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Cunningham gave a qualified assent. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s like everything else in this world,” he said. +“You get some bad ones and you get some good ones.” +</p> + +<p> +“O yes, you get some good ones, I admit,” said Mr Kernan, +satisfied. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s better to have nothing to say to them,” said Mr +M’Coy. “That’s my opinion!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Kernan entered the room and, placing a tray on the table, said: +</p> + +<p> +“Help yourselves, gentlemen.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“And have you nothing for me, duckie?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, you! The back of my hand to you!” said Mrs Kernan tartly. +</p> + +<p> +Her husband called after her: +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing for poor little hubby!” +</p> + +<p> +He assumed such a comical face and voice that the distribution of the bottles +of stout took place amid general merriment. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“On Thursday night, you said, Jack.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thursday, yes,” said Mr Power. +</p> + +<p> +“Righto!” said Mr Cunningham promptly. +</p> + +<p> +“We can meet in M’Auley’s,” said Mr M’Coy. +“That’ll be the most convenient place.” +</p> + +<p> +“But we mustn’t be late,” said Mr Power earnestly, +“because it is sure to be crammed to the doors.” +</p> + +<p> +“We can meet at half-seven,” said Mr M’Coy. +</p> + +<p> +“Righto!” said Mr Cunningham. +</p> + +<p> +“Half-seven at M’Auley’s be it!” +</p> + +<p> +There was a short silence. Mr Kernan waited to see whether he would be taken +into his friends’ confidence. Then he asked: +</p> + +<p> +“What’s in the wind?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, it’s nothing,” said Mr Cunningham. “It’s only +a little matter that we’re arranging about for Thursday.” +</p> + +<p> +“The opera, is it?” said Mr Kernan. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” said Mr Cunningham in an evasive tone, “it’s +just a little ... spiritual matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“O,” said Mr Kernan. +</p> + +<p> +There was silence again. Then Mr Power said, point blank: +</p> + +<p> +“To tell you the truth, Tom, we’re going to make a retreat.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that’s it,” said Mr Cunningham, “Jack and I and +M’Coy here—we’re all going to wash the pot.” +</p> + +<p> +He uttered the metaphor with a certain homely energy and, encouraged by his own +voice, proceeded: +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I own up,” said Mr Power. +</p> + +<p> +“And I own up,” said Mr M’Coy. +</p> + +<p> +“So we’re going to wash the pot together,” said Mr +Cunningham. +</p> + +<p> +A thought seemed to strike him. He turned suddenly to the invalid and said: +</p> + +<p> +“D’ye know what, Tom, has just occurred to me? You might join in +and we’d have a four-handed reel.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good idea,” said Mr Power. “The four of us together.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“They’re the grandest order in the Church, Tom,” said Mr +Cunningham, with enthusiasm. “The General of the Jesuits stands next to +the Pope.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no mistake about it,” said Mr M’Coy, “if +you want a thing well done and no flies about it you go to a Jesuit. +They’re the boyos have influence. I’ll tell you a case in +point....” +</p> + +<p> +“The Jesuits are a fine body of men,” said Mr Power. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that so?” asked Mr M’Coy. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a fact,” said Mr Cunningham. “That’s +history.” +</p> + +<p> +“Look at their church, too,” said Mr Power. “Look at the +congregation they have.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Jesuits cater for the upper classes,” said Mr M’Coy. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course,” said Mr Power. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mr Kernan. “That’s why I have a feeling for +them. It’s some of those secular priests, ignorant, +bumptious——” +</p> + +<p> +“They’re all good men,” said Mr Cunningham, “each in +his own way. The Irish priesthood is honoured all the world over.” +</p> + +<p> +“O yes,” said Mr Power. +</p> + +<p> +“Not like some of the other priesthoods on the continent,” said Mr +M’Coy, “unworthy of the name.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you’re right,” said Mr Kernan, relenting. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“O, it’s just a retreat, you know,” said Mr Cunningham. +“Father Purdon is giving it. It’s for business men, you +know.” +</p> + +<p> +“He won’t be too hard on us, Tom,” said Mr Power +persuasively. +</p> + +<p> +“Father Purdon? Father Purdon?” said the invalid. +</p> + +<p> +“O, you must know him, Tom,” said Mr Cunningham stoutly. +“Fine jolly fellow! He’s a man of the world like ourselves.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, ... yes. I think I know him. Rather red face; tall.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the man.” +</p> + +<p> +“And tell me, Martin.... Is he a good preacher?” +</p> + +<p> +“Munno.... It’s not exactly a sermon, you know. It’s just +kind of a friendly talk, you know, in a common-sense way.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Kernan deliberated. Mr M’Coy said: +</p> + +<p> +“Father Tom Burke, that was the boy!” +</p> + +<p> +“O, Father Tom Burke,” said Mr Cunningham, “that was a born +orator. Did you ever hear him, Tom?” +</p> + +<p> +“Did I ever hear him!” said the invalid, nettled. “Rather! I +heard him....” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet they say he wasn’t much of a theologian,” said Mr +Cunningham. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that so?” said Mr M’Coy. +</p> + +<p> +“O, of course, nothing wrong, you know. Only sometimes, they say, he +didn’t preach what was quite orthodox.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! ... he was a splendid man,” said Mr M’Coy. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“The body,” said Mr Cunningham. +</p> + +<p> +“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! <i>The +Prisoner of the Vatican</i>, he called him. I remember Crofton saying to me +when we came out——” +</p> + +<p> +“But he’s an Orangeman, Crofton, isn’t he?” said Mr +Power. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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. <i>Kernan</i>, he said, <i>we worship at different altars</i>, he +said, <i>but our belief is the same</i>. Struck me as very well put.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s not much difference between us,” said Mr +M’Coy. +</p> + +<p> +“We both believe in——” +</p> + +<p> +He hesitated for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“... in the Redeemer. Only they don’t believe in the Pope and in +the mother of God.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, of course,” said Mr Cunningham quietly and effectively, +“our religion is <i>the</i> religion, the old, original faith.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a doubt of it,” said Mr Kernan warmly. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Kernan came to the door of the bedroom and announced: +</p> + +<p> +“Here’s a visitor for you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Fogarty.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, come in! come in!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“I wouldn’t doubt you, old man. Open that, Jack, will you?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I often heard he was one of the most intellectual men in Europe,” +said Mr Power. “I mean, apart from his being Pope.” +</p> + +<p> +“So he was,” said Mr Cunningham, “if not <i>the</i> most so. +His motto, you know, as Pope, was <i>Lux upon Lux—Light upon +Light</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” said Mr Fogarty eagerly. “I think you’re +wrong there. It was <i>Lux in Tenebris</i>, I think—<i>Light in +Darkness</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“O yes,” said Mr M’Coy, “<i>Tenebrae</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“Allow me,” said Mr Cunningham positively, “it was <i>Lux +upon Lux</i>. And Pius IX. his predecessor’s motto was <i>Crux upon +Crux</i>—that is, <i>Cross upon Cross</i>—to show the difference +between their two pontificates.” +</p> + +<p> +The inference was allowed. Mr Cunningham continued. +</p> + +<p> +“Pope Leo, you know, was a great scholar and a poet.” +</p> + +<p> +“He had a strong face,” said Mr Kernan. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mr Cunningham. “He wrote Latin poetry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that so?” said Mr Fogarty. +</p> + +<p> +Mr M’Coy tasted his whisky contentedly and shook his head with a double +intention, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“That’s no joke, I can tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“We didn’t learn that, Tom,” said Mr Power, following Mr +M’Coy’s example, “when we went to the penny-a-week +school.” +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite right,” said Mr Power. +</p> + +<p> +“No superfluities,” said Mr Fogarty. +</p> + +<p> +He enunciated the word and then drank gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“I remember reading,” said Mr Cunningham, “that one of Pope +Leo’s poems was on the invention of the photograph—in Latin, of +course.” +</p> + +<p> +“On the photograph!” exclaimed Mr Kernan. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mr Cunningham. +</p> + +<p> +He also drank from his glass. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you know,” said Mr M’Coy, “isn’t the +photograph wonderful when you come to think of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, of course,” said Mr Power, “great minds can see +things.” +</p> + +<p> +“As the poet says: <i>Great minds are very near to madness</i>,” +said Mr Fogarty. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +There was a silence. Mr Cunningham said: +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>ex cathedra</i> a word of false +doctrine. Now isn’t that an astonishing thing?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is,” said Mr Kernan. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, because when the Pope speaks <i>ex cathedra</i>,” Mr Fogarty +explained, “he is infallible.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mr Cunningham. +</p> + +<p> +“O, I know about the infallibility of the Pope. I remember I was younger +then.... Or was it that——?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that you were saying, Tom?” asked Mr M’Coy. +</p> + +<p> +“Papal infallibility,” said Mr Cunningham, “that was the +greatest scene in the whole history of the Church.” +</p> + +<p> +“How was that, Martin?” asked Mr Power. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Cunningham held up two thick fingers. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ha!” said Mr M’Coy. +</p> + +<p> +“And they were a German cardinal by the name of Dolling ... or Dowling +... or——” +</p> + +<p> +“Dowling was no German, and that’s a sure five,” said Mr +Power, laughing. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, this great German cardinal, whatever his name was, was one; and +the other was John MacHale.” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” cried Mr Kernan. “Is it John of Tuam?” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you sure of that now?” asked Mr Fogarty dubiously. “I +thought it was some Italian or American.” +</p> + +<p> +“John of Tuam,” repeated Mr Cunningham, “was the man.” +</p> + +<p> +He drank and the other gentlemen followed his lead. Then he resumed: +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>ex cathedra</i>. 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: +‘<i>Credo!</i>’” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>I believe!</i>” said Mr Fogarty. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Credo!</i>” said Mr Cunningham. “That showed the faith he +had. He submitted the moment the Pope spoke.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what about Dowling?” asked Mr M’Coy. +</p> + +<p> +“The German cardinal wouldn’t submit. He left the church.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I once saw John MacHale,” said Mr Kernan, “and I’ll +never forget it as long as I live.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned towards his wife to be confirmed. +</p> + +<p> +“I often told you that?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Kernan nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Kernan knitted his brows and, lowering his head like an angry bull, glared +at his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“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>I have you +properly taped, my lad</i>. He had an eye like a hawk.” +</p> + +<p> +“None of the Grays was any good,” said Mr Power. +</p> + +<p> +There was a pause again. Mr Power turned to Mrs Kernan and said with abrupt +joviality: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mrs Kernan, we’re going to make your man here a good holy +pious and God-fearing Roman Catholic.” +</p> + +<p> +He swept his arm round the company inclusively. +</p> + +<p> +“We’re all going to make a retreat together and confess our +sins—and God knows we want it badly.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t mind,” said Mr Kernan, smiling a little nervously. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Kernan thought it would be wiser to conceal her satisfaction. So she said: +</p> + +<p> +“I pity the poor priest that has to listen to your tale.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Kernan’s expression changed. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Cunningham intervened promptly. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll all renounce the devil,” he said, “together, not +forgetting his works and pomps.” +</p> + +<p> +“Get behind me, Satan!” said Mr Fogarty, laughing and looking at +the others. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Power said nothing. He felt completely out-generalled. But a pleased +expression flickered across his face. +</p> + +<p> +“All we have to do,” said Mr Cunningham, “is to stand up with +lighted candles in our hands and renew our baptismal vows.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, don’t forget the candle, Tom,” said Mr M’Coy, +“whatever you do.” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” said Mr Kernan. “Must I have a candle?” +</p> + +<p> +“O yes,” said Mr Cunningham. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +He shook his head with farcical gravity. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen to that!” said his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Everyone laughed heartily. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a nice Catholic for you!” said his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“No candles!” repeated Mr Kernan obdurately. “That’s +off!” +</p> + +<hr class="small" /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>The Freeman’s Journal</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +A powerful-looking figure, the upper part of which was draped with a white +surplice, was observed to be struggling up 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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +<br /> +</p> + +<p> +<i>“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.”</i> +</p> + +<p> +<br /> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I have verified my accounts. I find all well.” +</p> + +<p> +But if, as might happen, there were some discrepancies, to admit the truth, to +be frank and say like a man: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>THE DEAD</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll engage they did,” said Gabriel, “but they forget +that my wife here takes three mortal hours to dress herself.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Kate, here’s Mrs Conroy.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Here I am as right as the mail, Aunt Kate! Go on up. I’ll +follow,” called out Gabriel from the dark. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it snowing again, Mr Conroy?” asked Lily. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Lily,” he answered, “and I think we’re in for a +night of it.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me, Lily,” he said in a friendly tone, “do you still go +to school?” +</p> + +<p> +“O no, sir,” she answered. “I’m done schooling this +year and more.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, then,” said Gabriel gaily, “I suppose we’ll be +going to your wedding one of these fine days with your young man, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +The girl glanced back at him over her shoulder and said with great bitterness: +</p> + +<p> +“The men that is now is only all palaver and what they can get out of +you.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“O Lily,” he said, thrusting it into her hands, “it’s +Christmas-time, isn’t it? Just ... here’s a little....” +</p> + +<p> +He walked rapidly towards the door. +</p> + +<p> +“O no, sir!” cried the girl, following him. “Really, sir, I +wouldn’t take it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Christmas-time! Christmas-time!” said Gabriel, almost trotting to +the stairs and waving his hand to her in deprecation. +</p> + +<p> +The girl, seeing that he had gained the stairs, called out after him: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, thank you, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Gretta tells me you’re not going to take a cab back to Monkstown +tonight, Gabriel,” said Aunt Kate. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Aunt Kate frowned severely and nodded her head at every word. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite right, Gabriel, quite right,” she said. “You +can’t be too careful.” +</p> + +<p> +“But as for Gretta there,” said Gabriel, “she’d walk +home in the snow if she were let.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Conroy laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Goloshes!” said Mrs Conroy. “That’s the latest. +Whenever it’s wet underfoot I must put on my goloshes. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“And what are goloshes, Gabriel?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mrs Conroy. “Guttapercha things. We both have a +pair now. Gabriel says everyone wears them on the continent.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, on the continent,” murmured Aunt Julia, nodding her head +slowly. +</p> + +<p> +Gabriel knitted his brows and said, as if he were slightly angered: +</p> + +<p> +“It’s nothing very wonderful but Gretta thinks it very funny +because she says the word reminds her of Christy Minstrels.” +</p> + +<p> +“But tell me, Gabriel,” said Aunt Kate, with brisk tact. “Of +course, you’ve seen about the room. Gretta was saying....” +</p> + +<p> +“O, the room is all right,” replied Gabriel. “I’ve +taken one in the Gresham.” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure,” said Aunt Kate, “by far the best thing to do. +And the children, Gretta, you’re not anxious about them?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, for one night,” said Mrs Conroy. “Besides, Bessie will +look after them.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, I ask you,” she said almost testily, “where is Julia +going? Julia! Julia! Where are you going?” +</p> + +<p> +Julia, who had gone half way down one flight, came back and announced blandly: +</p> + +<p> +“Here’s Freddy.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +A tall wizen-faced man, with a stiff grizzled moustache and swarthy skin, who +was passing out with his partner said: +</p> + +<p> +“And may we have some refreshment, too, Miss Morkan?” +</p> + +<p> +“Julia,” said Aunt Kate summarily, “and here’s Mr +Browne and Miss Furlong. Take them in, Julia, with Miss Daly and Miss +Power.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“God help me,” he said, smiling, “it’s the +doctor’s orders.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“O, now, Mr Browne, I’m sure the doctor never ordered anything of +the kind.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Browne took another sip of his whisky and said, with sidling mimicry: +</p> + +<p> +“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.’” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +A red-faced young woman, dressed in pansy, came into the room, excitedly +clapping her hands and crying: +</p> + +<p> +“Quadrilles! Quadrilles!” +</p> + +<p> +Close on her heels came Aunt Kate, crying: +</p> + +<p> +“Two gentlemen and three ladies, Mary Jane!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Three ladies, Mary Jane,” said Aunt Kate. +</p> + +<p> +The two young gentlemen asked the ladies if they might have the pleasure, and +Mary Jane turned to Miss Daly. +</p> + +<p> +“O, Miss Daly, you’re really awfully good, after playing for the +last two dances, but really we’re so short of ladies tonight.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t mind in the least, Miss Morkan.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lovely voice, lovely voice!” said Aunt Kate. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter, Julia?” asked Aunt Kate anxiously. “Who +is it?” +</p> + +<p> +Julia, who was carrying in a column of table-napkins, turned to her sister and +said, simply, as if the question had surprised her: +</p> + +<p> +“It’s only Freddy, Kate, and Gabriel with him.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-evening, Freddy,” said Aunt Julia. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s not so bad, is he?” said Aunt Kate to Gabriel. +</p> + +<p> +Gabriel’s brows were dark but he raised them quickly and answered: +</p> + +<p> +“O, no, hardly noticeable.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Now, then, Teddy, I’m going to fill you out a good glass of +lemonade just to buck you up.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<hr class="small" /> + +<p> +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 keyboard 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Romeo and Juliet</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +When they had taken their places she said abruptly: +</p> + +<p> +“I have a crow to pluck with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“With me?” said Gabriel. +</p> + +<p> +She nodded her head gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” asked Gabriel, smiling at her solemn manner. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is G. C.?” answered Miss Ivors, turning her eyes upon him. +</p> + +<p> +Gabriel coloured and was about to knit his brows, as if he did not understand, +when she said bluntly: +</p> + +<p> +“O, innocent Amy! I have found out that you write for <i>The Daily +Express</i>. Now, aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should I be ashamed of myself?” asked Gabriel, blinking his +eyes and trying to smile. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +A look of perplexity appeared on Gabriel’s face. It was true that he +wrote a literary column every Wednesday in <i>The Daily Express</i>, 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 Webb’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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, I was only joking. Come, we cross now.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Her people are,” said Gabriel shortly. +</p> + +<p> +“But you will come, won’t you?” said Miss Ivors, laying her +warm hand eagerly on his arm. +</p> + +<p> +“The fact is,” said Gabriel, “I have just arranged to +go——” +</p> + +<p> +“Go where?” asked Miss Ivors. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you know, every year I go for a cycling tour with some fellows and +so——” +</p> + +<p> +“But where?” asked Miss Ivors. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we usually go to France or Belgium or perhaps Germany,” said +Gabriel awkwardly. +</p> + +<p> +“And why do you go to France and Belgium,” said Miss Ivors, +“instead of visiting your own land?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Gabriel, “it’s partly to keep in touch +with the languages and partly for a change.” +</p> + +<p> +“And haven’t you your own language to keep in touch +with—Irish?” asked Miss Ivors. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Gabriel, “if it comes to that, you know, Irish +is not my language.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And haven’t you your own land to visit,” continued Miss +Ivors, “that you know nothing of, your own people, and your own +country?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, to tell you the truth,” retorted Gabriel suddenly, +“I’m sick of my own country, sick of it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” asked Miss Ivors. +</p> + +<p> +Gabriel did not answer for his retort had heated him. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” repeated Miss Ivors. +</p> + +<p> +They had to go visiting together and, as he had not answered her, Miss Ivors +said warmly: +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, you’ve no answer.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“West Briton!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He saw his wife making her way towards him through the waltzing couples. When +she reached him she said into his ear: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” said Gabriel. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s sending in the younger ones first as soon as this waltz is +over so that we’ll have the table to ourselves.” +</p> + +<p> +“Were you dancing?” asked Gabriel. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I was. Didn’t you see me? What row had you with Molly +Ivors?” +</p> + +<p> +“No row. Why? Did she say so?” +</p> + +<p> +“Something like that. I’m trying to get that Mr D’Arcy to +sing. He’s full of conceit, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +His wife clasped her hands excitedly and gave a little jump. +</p> + +<p> +“O, do go, Gabriel,” she cried. “I’d love to see Galway +again.” +</p> + +<p> +“You can go if you like,” said Gabriel coldly. +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him for a moment, then turned to Mrs Malins and said: +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a nice husband for you, Mrs Malins.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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—<i>Arrayed for the Bridal</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Julia Morkan, my latest discovery!” +</p> + +<p> +He was laughing very heartily at this himself when Freddy Malins turned to him +and said: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Neither did I,” said Mr Browne. “I think her voice has +greatly improved.” +</p> + +<p> +Aunt Julia shrugged her shoulders and said with meek pride: +</p> + +<p> +“Thirty years ago I hadn’t a bad voice as voices go.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, isn’t it for the honour of God, Aunt Kate?” asked Mary +Jane, twisting round on the piano-stool and smiling. +</p> + +<p> +Aunt Kate turned fiercely on her niece and said: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Aunt Kate, you’re giving scandal to Mr Browne who is of the +other persuasion.” +</p> + +<p> +Aunt Kate turned to Mr Browne, who was grinning at this allusion to his +religion, and said hastily: +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +“And besides, Aunt Kate,” said Mary Jane, “we really are all +hungry and when we are hungry we are all very quarrelsome.” +</p> + +<p> +“And when we are thirsty we are also quarrelsome,” added Mr Browne. +</p> + +<p> +“So that we had better go to supper,” said Mary Jane, “and +finish the discussion afterwards.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But only for ten minutes, Molly,” said Mrs Conroy. “That +won’t delay you.” +</p> + +<p> +“To take a pick itself,” said Mary Jane, “after all your +dancing.” +</p> + +<p> +“I really couldn’t,” said Miss Ivors. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid you didn’t enjoy yourself at all,” said Mary +Jane hopelessly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ever so much, I assure you,” said Miss Ivors, “but you +really must let me run off now.” +</p> + +<p> +“But how can you get home?” asked Mrs Conroy. +</p> + +<p> +“O, it’s only two steps up the quay.” +</p> + +<p> +Gabriel hesitated a moment and said: +</p> + +<p> +“If you will allow me, Miss Ivors, I’ll see you home if you are +really obliged to go.” +</p> + +<p> +But Miss Ivors broke away from them. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you’re the comical girl, Molly,” said Mrs Conroy +frankly. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Beannacht libh</i>,” cried Miss Ivors, with a laugh, as she ran +down the staircase. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At the moment Aunt Kate came toddling out of the supper-room, almost wringing +her hands in despair. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Here I am, Aunt Kate!” cried Gabriel, with sudden animation, +“ready to carve a flock of geese, if necessary.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Furlong, what shall I send you?” he asked. “A wing or a +slice of the breast?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just a small slice of the breast.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Higgins, what for you?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, anything at all, Mr Conroy.” +</p> + +<p> +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 they were time enough so that, at last, Freddy +Malins stood up and, capturing Aunt Kate, plumped her down on her chair amid +general laughter. +</p> + +<p> +When everyone had been well served Gabriel said, smiling: +</p> + +<p> +“Now, if anyone wants a little more of what vulgar people call stuffing +let him or her speak.” +</p> + +<p> +A chorus of voices invited him to begin his own supper and Lily came forward +with three potatoes which she had reserved for him. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” said Gabriel amiably, as he took another preparatory +draught, “kindly forget my existence, ladies and gentlemen, for a few +minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you heard him?” he asked Mr Bartell D’Arcy across the +table. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” answered Mr Bartell D’Arcy carelessly. +</p> + +<p> +“Because,” Freddy Malins explained, “now I’d be curious +to hear your opinion of him. I think he has a grand voice.” +</p> + +<p> +“It takes Teddy to find out the really good things,” said Mr Browne +familiarly to the table. +</p> + +<p> +“And why couldn’t he have a voice too?” asked Freddy Malins +sharply. “Is it because he’s only a black?” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Mignon</i>. 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 <i>Let me like a Soldier fall</i>, +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 <i>prima +donna</i> and pull her themselves through the streets to her hotel. Why did +they never play the grand old operas now, he asked, <i>Dinorah, Lucrezia +Borgia?</i> Because they could not get the voices to sing them: that was why. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well,” said Mr Bartell D’Arcy, “I presume there +are as good singers today as there were then.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where are they?” asked Mr Browne defiantly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Maybe so,” said Mr Browne. “But I may tell you I doubt it +strongly.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, I’d give anything to hear Caruso sing,” said Mary Jane. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who was he, Miss Morkan?” asked Mr Bartell D’Arcy politely. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Strange,” said Mr Bartell D’Arcy. “I never even heard +of him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, Miss Morkan is right,” said Mr Browne. “I remember +hearing of old Parkinson but he’s too far back for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“A beautiful pure sweet mellow English tenor,” said Aunt Kate with +enthusiasm. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I hope, Miss Morkan,” said Mr Browne, “that I’m +brown enough for you because, you know, I’m all brown.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, most people give some donation to the monastery when they +leave.” said Mary Jane. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish we had an institution like that in our Church,” said Mr +Browne candidly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the rule of the order,” said Aunt Kate firmly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but why?” asked Mr Browne. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“I like that idea very much but wouldn’t a comfortable spring bed +do them as well as a coffin?” +</p> + +<p> +“The coffin,” said Mary Jane, “is to remind them of their +last end.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“They are very good men, the monks, very pious men.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He began: +</p> + +<p> +“Ladies and Gentlemen, +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no!” said Mr Browne. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Ladies and Gentlemen, +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hear, hear!” said Mr Browne loudly. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>camaraderie</i>, and as the guests +of—what shall I call them?—the Three Graces of the Dublin musical +world.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“He says we are the Three Graces, Aunt Julia,” said Mary Jane. +</p> + +<p> +Aunt Julia did not understand but she looked up, smiling, at Gabriel, who +continued in the same vein: +</p> + +<p> +“Ladies and Gentlemen, +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +All the guests stood up, glass in hand, and turning towards the three seated +ladies, sang in unison, with Mr Browne as leader: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +For they are jolly gay fellows,<br /> +For they are jolly gay fellows,<br /> +For they are jolly gay fellows,<br /> +Which nobody can deny. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Unless he tells a lie,<br /> +Unless he tells a lie. +</p> + +<p> +Then, turning once more towards their hostesses, they sang: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +For they are jolly gay fellows,<br /> +For they are jolly gay fellows,<br /> +For they are jolly gay fellows,<br /> +Which nobody can deny. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<hr class="small" /> + +<p> +The piercing morning air came into the hall where they were standing so that +Aunt Kate said: +</p> + +<p> +“Close the door, somebody. Mrs Malins will get her death of cold.” +</p> + +<p> +“Browne is out there, Aunt Kate,” said Mary Jane. +</p> + +<p> +“Browne is everywhere,” said Aunt Kate, lowering her voice. +</p> + +<p> +Mary Jane laughed at her tone. +</p> + +<p> +“Really,” she said archly, “he is very attentive.” +</p> + +<p> +“He has been laid on here like the gas,” said Aunt Kate in the same +tone, “all during the Christmas.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed herself this time good-humouredly and then added quickly: +</p> + +<p> +“But tell him to come in, Mary Jane, and close the door. I hope to +goodness he didn’t hear me.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Teddy will have all the cabs in Dublin out,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Gabriel advanced from the little pantry behind the office, struggling into his +overcoat and, looking round the hall, said: +</p> + +<p> +“Gretta not down yet?” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s getting on her things, Gabriel,” said Aunt Kate. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s playing up there?” asked Gabriel. +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody. They’re all gone.” +</p> + +<p> +“O no, Aunt Kate,” said Mary Jane. “Bartell D’Arcy and +Miss O’Callaghan aren’t gone yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Someone is fooling at the piano anyhow,” said Gabriel. +</p> + +<p> +Mary Jane glanced at Gabriel and Mr Browne and said with a shiver: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“We used to have a very good horse and trap at home,” said Aunt +Julia sadly. +</p> + +<p> +“The never-to-be-forgotten Johnny,” said Mary Jane, laughing. +</p> + +<p> +Aunt Kate and Gabriel laughed too. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what was wonderful about Johnny?” asked Mr Browne. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“O now, Gabriel,” said Aunt Kate, laughing, “he had a starch +mill.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Lord have mercy on his soul,” said Aunt Kate compassionately. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Everyone laughed, even Mrs Malins, at Gabriel’s manner and Aunt Kate +said: +</p> + +<p> +“O now, Gabriel, he didn’t live in Back Lane, really. Only the mill +was there.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Gabriel paced in a circle round the hall in his goloshes amid the laughter of +the others. +</p> + +<p> +“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!’” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I could only get one cab,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“O, we’ll find another along the quay,” said Gabriel. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Aunt Kate. “Better not keep Mrs Malins standing +in the draught.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Malins was helped down the front steps by her son and Mr Browne and, after +many manÅ“uvres, 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: +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know Trinity College?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” said the cabman. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, drive bang up against Trinity College gates,” said Mr +Browne, “and then we’ll tell you where to go. You understand +now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” said the cabman. +</p> + +<p> +“Make like a bird for Trinity College.” +</p> + +<p> +“Right, sir,” said the cabman. +</p> + +<p> +The horse was whipped up and the cab rattled off along the quay amid a chorus +of laughter and adieus. +</p> + +<p> +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 +terracotta 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. <i>Distant Music</i> he would call +the picture if he were a painter. +</p> + +<p> +The hall-door was closed; and Aunt Kate, Aunt Julia and Mary Jane came down the +hall, still laughing. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, isn’t Freddy terrible?” said Mary Jane. +“He’s really terrible.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +O, the rain falls on my heavy locks<br /> +And the dew wets my skin,<br /> +My babe lies cold.... +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“O do, Mary Jane,” said Aunt Kate. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“O, what a pity!” she cried. “Is he coming down, +Gretta?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, Mr D’Arcy,” said Aunt Kate, “now that was a great +fib to tell.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t you see that I’m as hoarse as a crow?” said Mr +D’Arcy roughly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s the weather,” said Aunt Julia, after a pause. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, everybody has colds,” said Aunt Kate readily, +“everybody.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I love the look of snow,” said Aunt Julia sadly. +</p> + +<p> +“So do I,” said Miss O’Callaghan. “I think Christmas is +never really Christmas unless we have the snow on the ground.” +</p> + +<p> +“But poor Mr D’Arcy doesn’t like the snow,” said Aunt +Kate, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr D’Arcy,” she said, “what is the name of that song +you were singing?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s called <i>The Lass of Aughrim</i>,” said Mr +D’Arcy, “but I couldn’t remember it properly. Why? Do you +know it?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>The Lass of Aughrim</i>,” she repeated. “I couldn’t +think of the name.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a very nice air,” said Mary Jane. “I’m +sorry you were not in voice tonight.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Mary Jane,” said Aunt Kate, “don’t annoy Mr +D’Arcy. I won’t have him annoyed.” +</p> + +<p> +Seeing that all were ready to start she shepherded them to the door, where +good-night was said: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, good-night, Aunt Kate, and thanks for the pleasant evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, Gabriel. Good-night, Gretta!” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, Aunt Kate, and thanks ever so much. Good-night, Aunt +Julia.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, good-night, Gretta, I didn’t see you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, Mr D’Arcy. Good-night, Miss O’Callaghan.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, Miss Morkan.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, all. Safe home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night. Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Is the fire hot, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +But the man could not hear with the noise of the furnace. It was just as well. +He might have answered rudely. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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 their room in the hotel, then they would be +alone together. He would call her softly: +</p> + +<p> +“Gretta!” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +As the cab drove across O’Connell Bridge Miss O’Callaghan said: +</p> + +<p> +“They say you never cross O’Connell Bridge without seeing a white +horse.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see a white man this time,” said Gabriel. +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” asked Mr Bartell D’Arcy. +</p> + +<p> +Gabriel pointed to the statue, on which lay patches of snow. Then he nodded +familiarly to it and waved his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, Dan,” he said gaily. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“A prosperous New Year to you, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“The same to you,” said Gabriel cordially. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Eight,” said Gabriel. +</p> + +<p> +The porter pointed to the tap of the electric-light and began a muttered +apology but Gabriel cut him short. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Gretta!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You looked tired,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I am a little,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t feel ill or weak?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, tired: that’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“By the way, Gretta!” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“You know that poor fellow Malins?” he said quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. What about him?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“When did you lend him the pound?” she asked, after a pause. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“O, at Christmas, when he opened that little Christmas-card shop in Henry +Street.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You are a very generous person, Gabriel,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He stood, holding her head between his hands. Then, slipping one arm swiftly +about her body and drawing her towards him, he said softly: +</p> + +<p> +“Gretta, dear, what are you thinking about?” +</p> + +<p> +She did not answer nor yield wholly to his arm. He said again, softly: +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me what it is, Gretta. I think I know what is the matter. Do I +know?” +</p> + +<p> +She did not answer at once. Then she said in an outburst of tears: +</p> + +<p> +“O, I am thinking about that song, <i>The Lass of Aughrim</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“What about the song? Why does that make you cry?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Gretta?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I am thinking about a person long ago who used to sing that song.” +</p> + +<p> +“And who was the person long ago?” asked Gabriel, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“It was a person I used to know in Galway when I was living with my +grandmother,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Someone you were in love with?” he asked ironically. +</p> + +<p> +“It was a young boy I used to know,” she answered, “named +Michael Furey. He used to sing that song, <i>The Lass of Aughrim</i>. He was +very delicate.” +</p> + +<p> +Gabriel was silent. He did not wish her to think that he was interested in this +delicate boy. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“O then, you were in love with him?” said Gabriel. +</p> + +<p> +“I used to go out walking with him,” she said, “when I was in +Galway.” +</p> + +<p> +A thought flew across Gabriel’s mind. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps that was why you wanted to go to Galway with that Ivors +girl?” he said coldly. +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him and asked in surprise: +</p> + +<p> +“What for?” +</p> + +<p> +Her eyes made Gabriel feel awkward. He shrugged his shoulders and said: +</p> + +<p> +“How do I know? To see him, perhaps.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked away from him along the shaft of light towards the window in +silence. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“What was he?” asked Gabriel, still ironically. +</p> + +<p> +“He was in the gasworks,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He tried to keep up his tone of cold interrogation, but his voice when he spoke +was humble and indifferent. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose you were in love with this Michael Furey, Gretta,” he +said. +</p> + +<p> +“I was great with him at that time,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“And what did he die of so young, Gretta? Consumption, was it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think he died for me,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She paused for a moment and sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well; and then?” asked Gabriel. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She paused for a moment to get her voice under control and then went on: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And did you not tell him to go back?” asked Gabriel. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And did he go home?” asked Gabriel. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.<br /><br /> +</p> + +<p> +She was fast asleep. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>Arrayed for the Bridal</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DUBLINERS ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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