diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old/dblnr10.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/dblnr10.txt | 8553 |
1 files changed, 8553 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/old/dblnr10.txt b/old/dblnr10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6879493 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/dblnr10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8553 @@ +****The Project Gutenberg Etext of Dubliners, by James Joyce**** + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + +*It must legally be the first thing seen when opening the book.* +In fact, our legal advisors said we can't even change margins. + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. We need your donations. + + +Title: Dubliners + +Author: James Joyce + +September, 2001 [Etext #2814] +[Yes, we are about one year ahead of schedule.] + + +****The Project Gutenberg Etext of Dubliners, by James Joyce**** +******This file should be named dblnr10.txt or dblnr10.zip****** + +Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, dblnr11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, dblnr10a.txt + + +Prepared by David Reed haradda@aol.com or davidr@inconnect.com + +Project Gutenberg Etexts are usually created from multiple editions, +all of which are in the Public Domain in the United States, unless a +copyright notice is included. Therefore, we usually do NOT keep any +of these books in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +We are now trying to release all our books one month in advance +of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing. + +Please note: neither this list nor its contents are final till +midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. +The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at +Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A +preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment +and editing by those who wish to do so. To be sure you have an +up to date first edition [xxxxx10x.xxx] please check file sizes +in the first week of the next month. Since our ftp program has +a bug in it that scrambles the date [tried to fix and failed] a +look at the file size will have to do, but we will try to see a +new copy has at least one byte more or less. + + +Information about Project Gutenberg (one page) + +We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The +time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours +to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright +searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. This +projected audience is one hundred million readers. If our value +per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2 +million dollars per hour this year as we release thirty-six text +files per month, or 432 more Etexts in 1999 for a total of 2000+ +If these reach just 10% of the computerized population, then the +total should reach over 200 billion Etexts given away this year. + +The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext +Files by December 31, 2001. [10,000 x 100,000,000 = 1 Trillion] +This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers, +which is only ~5% of the present number of computer users. + +At our revised rates of production, we will reach only one-third +of that goal by the end of 2001, or about 3,333 Etexts unless we +manage to get some real funding; currently our funding is mostly +from Michael Hart's salary at Carnegie-Mellon University, and an +assortment of sporadic gifts; this salary is only good for a few +more years, so we are looking for something to replace it, as we +don't want Project Gutenberg to be so dependent on one person. + +We need your donations more than ever! + + +All donations should be made to "Project Gutenberg/CMU": and are +tax deductible to the extent allowable by law. (CMU = Carnegie- +Mellon University). + +For these and other matters, please mail to: + +Project Gutenberg +P. O. Box 2782 +Champaign, IL 61825 + +When all other email fails. . .try our Executive Director: +Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com> +hart@pobox.com forwards to hart@prairienet.org and archive.org +if your mail bounces from archive.org, I will still see it, if +it bounces from prairienet.org, better resend later on. . . . + +We would prefer to send you this information by email. + +****** + +To access Project Gutenberg etexts, use any Web browser +to view http://promo.net/pg. This site lists Etexts by +author and by title, and includes information about how +to get involved with Project Gutenberg. You could also +download our past Newsletters, or subscribe here. This +is one of our major sites, please email hart@pobox.com, +for a more complete list of our various sites. + +To go directly to the etext collections, use FTP or any +Web browser to visit a Project Gutenberg mirror (mirror +sites are available on 7 continents; mirrors are listed +at http://promo.net/pg). + +Mac users, do NOT point and click, typing works better. + +Example FTP session: + +ftp metalab.unc.edu +login: anonymous +password: your@login +cd pub/docs/books/gutenberg +cd etext90 through etext99 or etext00 through etext01, etc. +dir [to see files] +get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files] +GET GUTINDEX.?? [to get a year's listing of books, e.g., GUTINDEX.99] +GET GUTINDEX.ALL [to get a listing of ALL books] + +*** + +**Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor** + +(Three Pages) + + +***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START*** +Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers. +They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with +your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from +someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our +fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement +disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how +you can distribute copies of this etext if you want to. + +*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT +By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept +this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive +a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by +sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person +you got it from. If you received this etext on a physical +medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request. + +ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS +This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG- +tm etexts, is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor +Michael S. Hart through the Project Gutenberg Association at +Carnegie-Mellon University (the "Project"). Among other +things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright +on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and +distribute it in the United States without permission and +without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth +below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext +under the Project's "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark. + +To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable +efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain +works. Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any +medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other +things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged +disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer +codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. + +LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES +But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below, +[1] the Project (and any other party you may receive this +etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including +legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR +UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT, +INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE +OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE +POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES. + +If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of +receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) +you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that +time to the person you received it from. If you received it +on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and +such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement +copy. If you received it electronically, such person may +choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to +receive it electronically. + +THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS +TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A +PARTICULAR PURPOSE. + +Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or +the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the +above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you +may have other legal rights. + +INDEMNITY +You will indemnify and hold the Project, its directors, +officers, members and agents harmless from all liability, cost +and expense, including legal fees, that arise directly or +indirectly from any of the following that you do or cause: +[1] distribution of this etext, [2] alteration, modification, +or addition to the etext, or [3] any Defect. + +DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm" +You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by +disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this +"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, +or: + +[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this + requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the + etext or this "small print!" statement. You may however, + if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable + binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form, + including any form resulting from conversion by word pro- + cessing or hypertext software, but only so long as + *EITHER*: + + [*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and + does *not* contain characters other than those + intended by the author of the work, although tilde + (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may + be used to convey punctuation intended by the + author, and additional characters may be used to + indicate hypertext links; OR + + [*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at + no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent + form by the program that displays the etext (as is + the case, for instance, with most word processors); + OR + + [*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at + no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the + etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC + or other equivalent proprietary form). + +[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this + "Small Print!" statement. + +[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the + net profits you derive calculated using the method you + already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon + University" within the 60 days following each + date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) + your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, +scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty +free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution +you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg +Association / Carnegie-Mellon University". + +We are planning on making some changes in our donation structure +in 2000, so you might want to email me, hart@pobox.com beforehand. + + + + +*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +Prepared by David Reed haradda@aol.com or davidr@inconnect.com + + + + + +Dubliners + +by James Joyce + + + + +CONTENTS + + +The Sisters +An Encounter +Araby +Eveline +After the Race +Two Gallants +The Boarding House +A Little Cloud +Counterparts +Clay +A Painful Case +Ivy Day in the Committee Room +A Mother +Grace +The Dead + + + + +DUBLINERS + + + +THE SISTERS + +THERE was no hope for him this time: it was the third stroke. +Night after night I had passed the house (it was vacation time) and +studied the lighted square of window: and night after night I had +found it lighted in the same way, faintly and evenly. If he was +dead, I thought, I would see the reflection of candles on the +darkened blind for I knew that two candles must be set at the head +of a corpse. He had often said to me: "I am not long for this +world," and I had thought his words idle. Now I knew they were +true. Every night as I gazed up at the window I said softly to +myself the word paralysis. It had always sounded strangely in my +ears, like the word gnomon in the Euclid and the word simony in +the Catechism. But now it sounded to me like the name of some +maleficent and sinful being. It filled me with fear, and yet I longed +to be nearer to it and to look upon its deadly work. + +Old Cotter was sitting at the fire, smoking, when I came +downstairs to supper. While my aunt was ladling out my stirabout +he said, as if returning to some former remark of his: + +"No, I wouldn't say he was exactly... but there was something +queer... there was something uncanny about him. I'll tell you my +opinion...." + +He began to puff at his pipe, no doubt arranging his opinion in his +mind. Tiresome old fool! When we knew him first he used to be +rather interesting, talking of faints and worms; but I soon grew +tired of him and his endless stories about the distillery. + +"I have my own theory about it," he said. "I think it was one of +those ... peculiar cases .... But it's hard to say...." + +He began to puff again at his pipe without giving us his theory. My +uncle saw me staring and said to me: + +"Well, so your old friend is gone, you'll be sorry to hear." + +"Who?" said I. + +"Father Flynn." + +"Is he dead?" + +"Mr. Cotter here has just told us. He was passing by the house." + +I knew that I was under observation so I continued eating as if the +news had not interested me. My uncle explained to old Cotter. + +"The youngster and he were great friends. The old chap taught him +a great deal, mind you; and they say he had a great wish for him." + +"God have mercy on his soul," said my aunt piously. + +Old Cotter looked at me for a while. I felt that his little beady +black eyes were examining me but I would not satisfy him by +looking up from my plate. He returned to his pipe and finally spat +rudely into the grate. + +"I wouldn't like children of mine," he said, "to have too much to +say to a man like that." + +"How do you mean, Mr. Cotter?" asked my aunt. + +"What I mean is," said old Cotter, "it's bad for children. My idea is: +let a young lad run about and play with young lads of his own age +and not be... Am I right, Jack?" + +"That's my principle, too," said my uncle. "Let him learn to box his +corner. That's what I'm always saying to that Rosicrucian there: +take exercise. Why, when I was a nipper every morning of my life +I had a cold bath, winter and summer. And that's what stands to me +now. Education is all very fine and large.... Mr. Cotter might take a +pick of that leg mutton," he added to my aunt. + +"No, no, not for me," said old Cotter. + +My aunt brought the dish from the safe and put it on the table. + +"But why do you think it's not good for children, Mr. Cotter?" she +asked. + +"It's bad for children," said old Cotter, "because their mind are so +impressionable. When children see things like that, you know, it +has an effect...." + +I crammed my mouth with stirabout for fear I might give utterance +to my anger. Tiresome old red-nosed imbecile! + +It was late when I fell asleep. Though I was angry with old Cotter +for alluding to me as a child, I puzzled my head to extract meaning +from his unfinished sentences. In the dark of my room I imagined +that I saw again the heavy grey face of the paralytic. I drew the +blankets over my head and tried to think of Christmas. But the grey +face still followed me. It murmured, and I understood that it +desired to confess something. I felt my soul receding into some +pleasant and vicious region; and there again I found it waiting for +me. It began to confess to me in a murmuring voice and I +wondered why it smiled continually and why the lips were so +moist with spittle. But then I remembered that it had died of +paralysis and I felt that I too was smiling feebly as if to absolve the +simoniac of his sin. + +The next morning after breakfast I went down to look at the little +house in Great Britain Street. It was an unassuming shop, +registered under the vague name of Drapery . The drapery +consisted mainly of children's bootees and umbrellas; and on +ordinary days a notice used to hang in the window, saying: +Umbrellas Re-covered . No notice was visible now for the shutters +were up. A crape bouquet was tied to the doorknocker with ribbon. +Two poor women and a telegram boy were reading the card pinned +on the crape. I also approached and read: + +July 1st, 1895 +The Rev. James Flynn (formerly of S. Catherine's Church, +Meath Street), aged sixty-five years. +R. I. P. + +The reading of the card persuaded me that he was dead and I was +disturbed to find myself at check. Had he not been dead I would +have gone into the little dark room behind the shop to find him +sitting in his arm-chair by the fire, nearly smothered in his +great-coat. Perhaps my aunt would have given me a packet of High +Toast for him and this present would have roused him from his +stupefied doze. It was always I who emptied the packet into his +black snuff-box for his hands trembled too much to allow him to +do this without spilling half the snuff about the floor. Even as he +raised his large trembling hand to his nose little clouds of smoke +dribbled through his fingers over the front of his coat. It may have +been these constant showers of snuff which gave his ancient +priestly garments their green faded look for the red handkerchief, +blackened, as it always was, with the snuff-stains of a week, with +which he tried to brush away the fallen grains, was quite +inefficacious. + +I wished to go in and look at him but I had not the courage to +knock. I walked away slowly along the sunny side of the street, +reading all the theatrical advertisements in the 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 Post Office Directory and as closely +printed as the law notices in the newspaper, elucidating all these +intricate questions. Often when I thought of this I could make no +answer or only a very foolish and halting one upon which he used +to smile and nod his head twice or thrice. Sometimes he used to +put me through the responses of the Mass which he had made me +learn by heart; and, as I pattered, he used to smile pensively and +nod his head, now and then pushing huge pinches of snuff up each +nostril alternately. When he smiled he used to uncover his big +discoloured teeth and let his tongue lie upon his lower lip -- a habit +which had made me feel uneasy in the beginning of our +acquaintance before I knew him well. + +As I walked along in the sun I remembered old Cotter's words and +tried to remember what had happened afterwards in the dream. I +remembered that I had noticed long velvet curtains and a swinging +lamp of antique fashion. I felt that I had been very far away, in +some land where the customs were strange -- in Persia, I thought.... +But I could not remember the end of the dream. + +In the evening my aunt took me with her to visit the house of +mourning. It was after sunset; but the window-panes of the houses +that looked to the west reflected the tawny gold of a great bank of +clouds. Nannie received us in the hall; and, as it would have been +unseemly to have shouted at her, my aunt shook hands with her for +all. The old woman pointed upwards interrogatively and, on my +aunt's nodding, proceeded to toil up the narrow staircase before us, +her bowed head being scarcely above the level of the banister-rail. +At the first landing she stopped and beckoned us forward +encouragingly towards the open door of the dead-room. My aunt +went in and the old woman, seeing that I hesitated to enter, began +to beckon to me again repeatedly with her hand. + +I went in on tiptoe. The room through the lace end of the blind was +suffused with dusky golden light amid which the candles looked +like pale thin flames. He had been coffined. Nannie gave the lead +and we three knelt down at the foot of the bed. I pretended to pray +but I could not gather my thoughts because the old woman's +mutterings distracted me. I noticed how clumsily her skirt was +hooked at the back and how the heels of her cloth boots were +trodden down all to one side. The fancy came to me that the old +priest was smiling as he lay there in his coffin. + +But no. When we rose and went up to the head of the bed I saw +that he was not smiling. There he lay, solemn and copious, vested +as for the altar, his large hands loosely retaining a chalice. His face +was very truculent, grey and massive, with black cavernous +nostrils and circled by a scanty white fur. There was a heavy odour +in the room -- the flowers. + +We crossed ourselves and came away. In the little room downstairs +we found Eliza seated in his arm-chair in state. I groped my way +towards my usual chair in the corner while Nannie went to the +sideboard and brought out a decanter of sherry and some +wine-glasses. She set these on the table and invited us to take a +little glass of wine. Then, at her sister's bidding, she filled out the +sherry into the glasses and passed them to us. She pressed me to +take some cream crackers also but I declined because I thought I +would make too much noise eating them. She seemed to be +somewhat disappointed at my refusal and went over quietly to the +sofa where she sat down behind her sister. No one spoke: we all +gazed at the empty fireplace. + +My aunt waited until Eliza sighed and then said: + +"Ah, well, he's gone to a better world." + +Eliza sighed again and bowed her head in assent. My aunt fingered +the stem of her wine-glass before sipping a little. + +"Did he... peacefully?" she asked. + +"Oh, quite peacefully, ma'am," said Eliza. "You couldn't tell when +the breath went out of him. He had a beautiful death, God be +praised." + +"And everything...?" + +"Father O'Rourke was in with him a Tuesday and anointed him and +prepared him and all." + +"He knew then?" + +"He was quite resigned." + +"He looks quite resigned," said my aunt. + +"That's what the woman we had in to wash him said. She said he +just looked as if he was asleep, he looked that peaceful and +resigned. No one would think he'd make such a beautiful corpse." + +"Yes, indeed," said my aunt. + +She sipped a little more from her glass and said: + +"Well, Miss Flynn, at any rate it must be a great comfort for you to +know that you did all you could for him. You were both very kind +to him, I must say." + +Eliza smoothed her dress over her knees. + +"Ah, poor James!" she said. "God knows we done all we could, as +poor as we are -- we wouldn't see him want anything while he was +in it." + +Nannie had leaned her head against the sofa-pillow and seemed +about to fall asleep. + +"There's poor Nannie," said Eliza, looking at her, "she's wore out. +All the work we had, she and me, getting in the woman to wash +him and then laying him out and then the coffin and then arranging +about the Mass in the chapel. Only for Father O'Rourke I don't +know what we'd done at all. It was him brought us all them flowers +and them two candlesticks out of the chapel and wrote out the +notice for the Freeman's General and took charge of all the papers +for the cemetery and poor James's insurance." + +"Wasn't that good of him?" said my aunt + +Eliza closed her eyes and shook her head slowly. + +"Ah, there's no friends like the old friends," she said, "when all is +said and done, no friends that a body can trust." + +"Indeed, that's true," said my aunt. "And I'm sure now that he's +gone to his eternal reward he won't forget you and all your +kindness to him." + +"Ah, poor James!" said Eliza. "He was no great trouble to us. You +wouldn't hear him in the house any more than now. Still, I know +he's gone and all to that...." + +"It's when it's all over that you'll miss him," said my aunt. + +"I know that," said Eliza. "I won't be bringing him in his cup of +beef-tea any me, nor you, ma'am, sending him his snuff. Ah, poor +James!" + +She stopped, as if she were communing with the past and then said +shrewdly: + +"Mind you, I noticed there was something queer coming over him +latterly. Whenever I'd bring in his soup to him there I'd find him +with his breviary fallen to the floor, lying back in the chair and his +mouth open." + +She laid a finger against her nose and frowned: then she continued: + +"But still and all he kept on saying that before the summer was +over he'd go out for a drive one fine day just to see the old house +again where we were all born down in Irishtown and take me and +Nannie with him. If we could only get one of them new-fangled +carriages that makes no noise that Father O'Rourke told him about, +them with the rheumatic wheels, for the day cheap -- he said, at +Johnny Rush's over the way there and drive out the three of us +together of a Sunday evening. He had his mind set on that.... Poor +James!" + +"The Lord have mercy on his soul!" said my aunt. + +Eliza took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes with it. Then +she put it back again in her pocket and gazed into the empty grate +for some time without speaking. + +"He was too scrupulous always," she said. "The duties of the +priesthood was too much for him. And then his life was, you night +say, crossed." + +"Yes," said my aunt. "He was a disappointed man. You could see +that." + +A silence took possession of the little room and, under cover of it, +I approached the table and tasted my sherry and then returned +quietly to my chair in the comer. Eliza seemed to have fallen into a +deep revery. We waited respectfully for her to break the silence: +and after a long pause she said slowly: + +"It was that chalice he broke.... That was the beginning of it. Of +course, they say it was all right, that it contained nothing, I mean. +But still.... They say it was the boy's fault. But poor James was so +nervous, God be merciful to him!" + +"And was that it?" said my aunt. "I heard something...." + +Eliza nodded. + +"That affected his mind," she said. "After that he began to mope by +himself, talking to no one and wandering about by himself. So one +night he was wanted for to go on a call and they couldn't find him +anywhere. They looked high up and low down; and still they +couldn't see a sight of him anywhere. So then the clerk suggested +to try the chapel. So then they got the keys and opened the chapel +and the clerk and Father O'Rourke and another priest that was +there brought in a light for to look for him.... And what do you +think but there he was, sitting up by himself in the dark in his +confession-box, wide- awake and laughing-like softly to himself?" + +She stopped suddenly as if to listen. I too listened; but there was +no sound in the house: and I knew that the old priest was lying still +in his coffin as we had seen him, solemn and truculent in death, an +idle chalice on his breast. + +Eliza resumed: + +"Wide-awake and laughing-like to himself.... So then, of course, +when they saw that, that made them think that there was something +gone wrong with him...." + +AN ENCOUNTER + +IT WAS Joe Dillon who introduced the Wild West to us. He had a +little library made up of old numbers of The Union Jack , Pluck +and The Halfpenny Marvel . Every evening after school we met in +his back garden and arranged Indian battles. He and his fat young +brother Leo, the idler, held the loft of the stable while we tried to +carry it by storm; or we fought a pitched battle on the grass. But, +however well we fought, we never won siege or battle and all our +bouts ended with Joe Dillon's war dance of victory. His parents +went to eight- o'clock mass every morning in Gardiner Street and +the peaceful odour of Mrs. Dillon was prevalent in the hall of the +house. But he played too fiercely for us who were younger and +more timid. He looked like some kind of an Indian when he +capered round the garden, an old tea-cosy on his head, beating a +tin with his fist and yelling: + +"Ya! yaka, yaka, yaka!" + +Everyone was incredulous when it was reported that he had a +vocation for the priesthood. Nevertheless it was true. + +A spirit of unruliness diffused itself among us and, under its +influence, differences of culture and constitution were waived. We +banded ourselves together, some boldly, some in jest and some +almost in fear: and of the number of these latter, the reluctant +Indians who were afraid to seem studious or lacking in robustness, +I was one. The adventures related in the literature of the Wild +West were remote from my nature but, at least, they opened doors +of escape. I liked better some American detective stories which +were traversed from time to time by unkempt fierce and beautiful +girls. Though there was nothing wrong in these stories and though +their intention was sometimes literary they were circulated secretly +at school. One day when Father Butler was hearing the four pages +of Roman History clumsy Leo Dillon was discovered with a copy +of The Halfpenny Marvel . + +"This page or this page? This page Now, Dillon, up! 'Hardly had +the day' ... Go on! What day? 'Hardly had the day dawned' ... Have +you studied it? What have you there in your pocket?" + +Everyone's heart palpitated as Leo Dillon handed up the paper and +everyone assumed an innocent face. Father Butler turned over the +pages, frowning. + +"What is this rubbish?" he said. "The Apache Chief! Is this what +you read instead of studying your Roman History? Let me not find +any more of this wretched stuff in this college. The man who wrote +it, I suppose, was some wretched fellow who writes these things +for a drink. I'm surprised at boys like you, educated, reading such +stuff. I could understand it if you were ... National School boys. +Now, Dillon, I advise you strongly, get at your work or..." + +This rebuke during the sober hours of school paled much of the +glory of the Wild West for me and the confused puffy face of Leo +Dillon awakened one of my consciences. But when the restraining +influence of the school was at a distance I began to hunger again +for wild sensations, for the escape which those chronicles of +disorder alone seemed to offer me. The mimic warfare of the +evening became at last as wearisome to me as the routine of school +in the morning because I wanted real adventures to happen to +myself. But real adventures, I reflected, do not happen to people +who remain at home: they must be sought abroad. + +The summer holidays were near at hand when I made up my mind +to break out of the weariness of schoollife for one day at least. +With Leo Dillon and a boy named Mahony I planned a day's +miching. Each of us saved up sixpence. We were to meet at ten in +the morning on the Canal Bridge. Mahony's big sister was to write +an excuse for him and Leo Dillon was to tell his brother to say he +was sick. We arranged to go along the Wharf Road until we came +to the ships, then to cross in the ferryboat and walk out to see the +Pigeon House. Leo Dillon was afraid we might meet Father Butler +or someone out of the college; but Mahony asked, very sensibly, +what would Father Butler be doing out at the Pigeon House. We +were reassured: and I brought the first stage of the plot to an end +by collecting sixpence from the other two, at the same time +showing them my own sixpence. When we were making the last +arrangements on the eve we were all vaguely excited. We shook +hands, laughing, and Mahony said: + +"Till tomorrow, mates!" + +That night I slept badly. In the morning I was firstcomer to the +bridge as I lived nearest. I hid my books in the long grass near the +ashpit at the end of the garden where nobody ever came and +hurried along the canal bank. It was a mild sunny morning in the +first week of June. I sat up on the coping of the bridge admiring +my frail canvas shoes which I had diligently pipeclayed overnight +and watching the docile horses pulling a tramload of business +people up the hill. All the branches of the tall trees which lined the +mall were gay with little light green leaves and the sunlight slanted +through them on to the water. The granite stone of the bridge was +beginning to be warm and I began to pat it with my hands in time +to an air in my head. I was very happy. + +When I had been sitting there for five or ten minutes I saw +Mahony's grey suit approaching. He came up the hill, smiling, and +clambered up beside me on the bridge. While we were waiting he +brought out the catapult which bulged from his inner pocket and +explained some improvements which he had made in it. I asked +him why he had brought it and he told me he had brought it to +have some gas with the birds. Mahony used slang freely, and spoke +of Father Butler as Old Bunser. We waited on for a quarter of an +hour more but still there was no sign of Leo Dillon. Mahony, at +last, jumped down and said: + +"Come along. I knew Fatty'd funk it." + +"And his sixpence...?" I said. + +"That's forfeit," said Mahony. "And so much the better for us -- a +bob and a tanner instead of a bob." + +We walked along the North Strand Road till we came to the Vitriol +Works and then turned to the right along the Wharf Road. Mahony +began to play the Indian as soon as we were out of public sight. He +chased a crowd of ragged girls, brandishing his unloaded catapult +and, when two ragged boys began, out of chivalry, to fling stones +at us, he proposed that we should charge them. I objected that the +boys were too small and so we walked on, the ragged troop +screaming after us: "Swaddlers! Swaddlers!" thinking that we were +Protestants because Mahony, who was dark-complexioned, wore +the silver badge of a cricket club in his cap. When we came to the +Smoothing Iron we arranged a siege; but it was a failure because +you must have at least three. We revenged ourselves on Leo Dillon +by saying what a funk he was and guessing how many he would +get at three o'clock from Mr. Ryan. + +We came then near the river. We spent a long time walking about +the noisy streets flanked by high stone walls, watching the working +of cranes and engines and often being shouted at for our +immobility by the drivers of groaning carts. It was noon when we +reached the quays and as all the labourers seemed to be eating +their lunches, we bought two big currant buns and sat down to eat +them on some metal piping beside the river We pleased ourselves +with the spectacle of Dublin's commerce -- the barges signalled +from far away by their curls of woolly smoke, the brown fishing +fleet beyond Ringsend, the big white sailingvessel which was +being discharged on the opposite quay. Mahony said it would be +right skit to run away to sea on one of those big ships and even I, +looking at the high masts, saw, or imagined, the geography which +had been scantily dosed to me at school gradually taking substance +under my eyes. School and home seemed to recede from us and +their influences upon us seemed to wane. + +We crossed the Liffey in the ferryboat, paying our toll to be +transported in the company of two labourers and a little Jew with a +bag. We were serious to the point of solemnity, but once during the +short voyage our eyes met and we laughed. When we landed we +watched the discharging of the graceful threemaster which we had +observed from the other quay. Some bystander said that she was a +Norwegian vessel. I went to the stern and tried to decipher the +legend upon it but, failing to do so, I came back and examined the +foreign sailors to see had any of them green eyes for I had some +confused notion.... The sailors' eyes were blue and grey and even +black. The only sailor whose eyes could have been called green +was a tall man who amused the crowd on the quay by calling out +cheerfully every time the planks fell: + +"All right! All right!" + +When we were tired of this sight we wandered slowly into +Ringsend. The day had grown sultry, and in the windows of the +grocers' shops musty biscuits lay bleaching. We bought some +biscuits and chocolate which we ate sedulously as we wandered +through the squalid streets where the families of the fishermen +live. We could find no dairy and so we went into a huckster's shop +and bought a bottle of raspberry lemonade each. Refreshed by this, +Mahony chased a cat down a lane, but the cat escaped into a wide +field. We both felt rather tired and when we reached the field we +made at once for a sloping bank over the ridge of which we could +see the Dodder. + +It was too late and we were too tired to carry out our project of +visiting the Pigeon House. We had to be home before four o'clock +lest our adventure should be discovered. Mahony looked +regretfully at his catapult and I had to suggest going home by train +before he regained any cheerfulness. The sun went in behind some +clouds and left us to our jaded thoughts and the crumbs of our +provisions. + +There was nobody but ourselves in the field. When we had lain on +the bank for some time without speaking I saw a man approaching +from the far end of the field. I watched him lazily as I chewed one +of those green stems on which girls tell fortunes. He came along +by the bank slowly. He walked with one hand upon his hip and in +the other hand he held a stick with which he tapped the turf lightly. +He was shabbily dressed in a suit of greenish-black and wore what +we used to call a jerry hat with a high crown. He seemed to be +fairly old for his moustache was ashen-grey. When he passed at +our feet he glanced up at us quickly and then continued his way. +We followed him with our eyes and saw that when he had gone on +for perhaps fifty paces he turned about and began to retrace his +steps. He walked towards us very slowly, always tapping the +ground with his stick, so slowly that I thought he was looking for +something in the grass. + +He stopped when he came level with us and bade us goodday. 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 gready 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: + +"Ah, I can see you are a bookworm like myself. Now," he added, +pointing to Mahony who was regarding us with open eyes, "he is +different; he goes in for games." + +He said he had all Sir Walter Scott's works and all Lord Lytton's +works at home and never tired of reading them. "Of course," he +said, "there were some of Lord Lytton's works which boys couldn't +read." Mahony asked why couldn't boys read them -- a question +which agitated and pained me because I was afraid the man would +think I was as stupid as Mahony. The man, however, only smiled. I +saw that he had great gaps in his mouth between his yellow teeth. +Then he asked us which of us had the most sweethearts. Mahony +mentioned lightly that he had three totties. The man asked me how +many I had. I answered that I had none. He did not believe me and +said he was sure I must have one. I was silent. + +"Tell us," said Mahony pertly to the man, "how many have you +yourself?" + +The man smiled as before and said that when he was our age he +had lots of sweethearts. + +"Every boy," he said, "has a little sweetheart." + +His attitude on this point struck me as strangely liberal in a man of +his age. In my heart I thought that what he said about boys and +sweethearts was reasonable. But I disliked the words in his mouth +and I wondered why he shivered once or twice as if he feared +something or felt a sudden chill. As he proceeded I noticed that his +accent was good. He began to speak to us about girls, saying what +nice soft hair they had and how soft their hands were and how all +girls were not so good as they seemed to be if one only knew. +There was nothing he liked, he said, so much as looking at a nice +young girl, at her nice white hands and her beautiful soft hair. He +gave me the impression that he was repeating something which he +had learned by heart or that, magnetised by some words of his own +speech, his mind was slowly circling round and round in the same +orbit. At times he spoke as if he were simply alluding to some fact +that everybody knew, and at times he lowered his voice and spoke +mysteriously as if he were telling us something secret which he did +not wish others to overhear. He repeated his phrases over and over +again, varying them and surrounding them with his monotonous +voice. I continued to gaze towards the foot of the slope, listening +to him. + +After a long while his monologue paused. He stood up slowly, +saying that he had to leave us for a minute or so, a few minutes, +and, without changing the direction of my gaze, I saw him walking +slowly away from us towards the near end of the field. We +remained silent when he had gone. After a silence of a few +minutes I heard Mahony exclaim: + +"I say! Look what he's doing!" + +As I neither answered nor raised my eyes Mahony exclaimed +again: + +"I say... He's a queer old josser!" + +In case he asks us for our names," I said "let you be Murphy and I'll +be Smith." + +We said nothing further to each other. I was still considering +whether I would go away or not when the man came back and sat +down beside us again. Hardly had he sat down when Mahony, +catching sight of the cat which had escaped him, sprang up and +pursued her across the field. The man and I watched the chase. The +cat escaped once more and Mahony began to throw stones at the +wall she had escaladed. Desisting from this, he began to wander +about the far end of the field, aimlessly. + +After an interval the man spoke to me. He said that my friend was +a very rough boy and asked did he get whipped often at school. I +was going to reply indignantly that we were not National School +boys to be whipped, as he called it; but I remained silent. He began +to speak on the subject of chastising boys. His mind, as if +magnetised again by his speech, seemed to circle slowly round and +round its new centre. He said that when boys were that kind they +ought to be whipped and well whipped. When a boy was rough and +unruly there was nothing would do him any good but a good sound +whipping. A slap on the hand or a box on the ear was no good: +what he wanted was to get a nice warm whipping. I was surprised +at this sentiment and involuntarily glanced up at his face. As I did +so I met the gaze of a pair of bottle-green eyes peering at me from +under a twitching forehead. I turned my eyes away again. + +The man continued his monologue. He seemed to have forgotten +his recent liberalism. He said that if ever he found a boy talking to +girls or having a girl for a sweetheart he would whip him and whip +him; and that would teach him not to be talking to girls. And if a +boy had a girl for a sweetheart and told lies about it then he would +give him such a whipping as no boy ever got in this world. He said +that there was nothing in this world he would like so well as that. +He described to me how he would whip such a boy as if he were +unfolding some elaborate mystery. He would love that, he said, +better than anything in this world; and his voice, as he led me +monotonously through the mystery, grew almost affectionate and +seemed to plead with me that I should understand him. + +I waited till his monologue paused again. Then I stood up abruptly. +Lest I should betray my agitation I delayed a few moments +pretending to fix my shoe properly and then, saying that I was +obliged to go, I bade him good-day. I went up the slope calmly but +my heart was beating quickly with fear that he would seize me by +the ankles. When I reached the top of the slope I turned round and, +without looking at him, called loudly across the field: + +"Murphy!" + +My voice had an accent of forced bravery in it and I was ashamed +of my paltry stratagem. I had to call the name again before +Mahony saw me and hallooed in answer. How my heart beat as he +came running across the field to me! He ran as if to bring me aid. +And I was penitent; for in my heart I had always despised him a +little. + +ARABY + +NORTH RICHMOND STREET being blind, was a quiet street +except at the hour when the Christian Brothers' School set the boys +free. An uninhabited house of two storeys stood at the blind end, +detached from its neighbours in a square ground The other houses +of the street, conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one +another with brown imperturbable faces + +The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back +drawing-room. Air, musty from having been long enclosed, hung +in all the rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen was +littered with old useless papers. Among these I found a few +paper-covered books, the pages of which were curled and damp: +The Abbot, by Walter Scott, The Devout Communnicant and The +Memoirs of Vidocq. I liked the last best because its leaves were +yellow. The wild garden behind the house contained a central +apple-tree and a few straggling bushes under one of which I found +the late tenant's rusty bicycle-pump. He had been a very charitable +priest; in his will he had left all his money to institutions and the +furniture of his house to his sister. + +When the short days of winter came dusk fell before we had well +eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown +sombre. The space of sky above us was the colour of +ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted +their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our +bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street. The career +of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes behind the +houses where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from the +cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where +odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark odorous stables where a +coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from +the buckled harness. When we returned to the street light from the +kitchen windows had filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning +the corner we hid in the shadow until we had seen him safely +housed. Or if Mangan's sister came out on the doorstep to call her +brother in to his tea we watched her from our shadow peer up and +down the street. We waited to see whether she would remain or go +in and, if she remained, we left our shadow and walked up to +Mangan's steps resignedly. She was waiting for us, her figure +defined by the light from the half-opened door. Her brother always +teased her before he obeyed and I stood by the railings looking at +her. Her dress swung as she moved her body and the soft rope of +her hair tossed from side to side. + +Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watching her +door. The blind was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so +that I could not be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my +heart leaped. I ran to the hall, seized my books and followed her. I +kept her brown figure always in my eye and, when we came near +the point at which our ways diverged, I quickened my pace and +passed her. This happened morning after morning. I had never +spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name +was like a summons to all my foolish blood. + +Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to +romance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I +had to go to carry some of the parcels. We walked through the +flaring streets, jostled by drunken men and bargaining women, +amid the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who +stood on guard by the barrels of pigs' cheeks, the nasal chanting of +street-singers, who sang a come-all-you about O'Donovan Rossa, +or a ballad about the troubles in our native land. These noises +converged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I +bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Her name sprang +to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I +myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I +could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to +pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did +not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to +her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body +was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers +running upon the wires. + +One evening I went into the back drawing-room in which the priest +had died. It was a dark rainy evening and there was no sound in the +house. Through one of the broken panes I heard the rain impinge +upon the earth, the fine incessant needles of water playing in the +sodden beds. Some distant lamp or lighted window gleamed below +me. I was thankful that I could see so little. All my senses seemed +to desire to veil themselves and, feeling that I was about to slip +from them, I pressed the palms of my hands together until they +trembled, murmuring: "O love! O love!" many times. + +At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to me +I was so confused that I did not know what to answer. She asked +me was I going to Araby. I forgot whether I answered yes or no. It +would be a splendid bazaar, she said she would love to go. + +"And why can't you?" I asked. + +While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round and round her +wrist. She could not go, she said, because there would be a retreat +that week in her convent. Her brother and two other boys were +fighting for their caps and I was alone at the railings. She held one +of the spikes, bowing her head towards me. The light from the +lamp opposite our door caught the white curve of her neck, lit up +her hair that rested there and, falling, lit up the hand upon the +railing. It fell over one side of her dress and caught the white +border of a petticoat, just visible as she stood at ease. + +"It's well for you," she said. + +"If I go," I said, "I will bring you something." + +What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping +thoughts after that evening! I wished to annihilate the tedious +intervening days. I chafed against the work of school. At night in +my bedroom and by day in the classroom her image came between +me and the page I strove to read. The syllables of the word Araby +were called to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated +and cast an Eastern enchantment over me. I asked for leave to go +to the bazaar on Saturday night. My aunt was surprised and hoped +it was not some Freemason affair. I answered few questions in +class. I watched my master's face pass from amiability to +sternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call my +wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the +serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and my +desire, seemed to me child's play, ugly monotonous child's play. + +On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that I wished to go to +the bazaar in the evening. He was fussing at the hallstand, looking +for the hat-brush, and answered me curtly: + +"Yes, boy, I know." + +As he was in the hall I could not go into the front parlour and lie at +the window. I left the house in bad humour and walked slowly +towards the school. The air was pitilessly raw and already my heart +misgave me. + +When I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home. +Still it was early. I sat staring at the clock for some time and. when +its ticking began to irritate me, I left the room. I mounted the +staircase and gained the upper part of the house. The high cold +empty gloomy rooms liberated me and I went from room to room +singing. From the front window I saw my companions playing +below in the street. Their cries reached me weakened and +indistinct and, leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I looked +over at the dark house where she lived. I may have stood there for +an hour, seeing nothing but the brown-clad figure cast by my +imagination, touched discreetly by the lamplight at the curved +neck, at the hand upon the railings and at the border below the +dress. + +When I came downstairs again I found Mrs. Mercer sitting at the +fire. She was an old garrulous woman, a pawnbroker's widow, who +collected used stamps for some pious purpose. I had to endure the +gossip of the tea-table. The meal was prolonged beyond an hour +and still my uncle did not come. Mrs. Mercer stood up to go: she +was sorry she couldn't wait any longer, but it was after eight +o'clock and she did not like to be out late as the night air was bad +for her. When she had gone I began to walk up and down the +room, clenching my fists. My aunt said: + +"I'm afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our Lord." + +At nine o'clock I heard my uncle's latchkey in the halldoor. I heard +him talking to himself and heard the hallstand rocking when it had +received the weight of his overcoat. I could interpret these signs. +When he was midway through his dinner I asked him to give me +the money to go to the bazaar. He had forgotten. + +"The people are in bed and after their first sleep now," he said. + +I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically: + +"Can't you give him the money and let him go? You've kept him +late enough as it is." + +My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten. He said he +believed in the old saying: "All work and no play makes Jack a +dull boy." He asked me where I was going and, when I had told +him a second time he asked me did I know The Arab's Farewell to +his Steed. When I left the kitchen he was about to recite the +opening lines of the piece to my aunt. + +I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down Buckingham +Street towards the station. The sight of the streets thronged with +buyers and glaring with gas recalled to me the purpose of my +journey. I took my seat in a third-class carriage of a deserted train. +After an intolerable delay the train moved out of the station +slowly. It crept onward among ruinous house and over the +twinkling river. At Westland Row Station a crowd of people +pressed to the carriage doors; but the porters moved them back, +saying that it was a special train for the bazaar. I remained alone in +the bare carriage. In a few minutes the train drew up beside an +improvised wooden platform. I passed out on to the road and saw +by the lighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutes to ten. In front +of me was a large building which displayed the magical name. + +I could not find any sixpenny entrance and, fearing that the bazaar +would be closed, I passed in quickly through a turnstile, handing a +shilling to a weary-looking man. I found myself in a big hall +girdled at half its height by a gallery. Nearly all the stalls were +closed and the greater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognised +a silence like that which pervades a church after a service. I +walked into the centre of the bazaar timidly. A few people were +gathered about the stalls which were still open. Before a curtain, +over which the words Cafe Chantant were written in coloured +lamps, two men were counting money on a salver. I listened to the +fall of the coins. + +Remembering with difficulty why I had come I went over to one of +the stalls and examined porcelain vases and flowered tea- sets. At +the door of the stall a young lady was talking and laughing with +two young gentlemen. I remarked their English accents and +listened vaguely to their conversation. + +"O, I never said such a thing!" + +"O, but you did!" + +"O, but I didn't!" + +"Didn't she say that?" + +"Yes. I heard her." + +"0, there's a ... fib!" + +Observing me the young lady came over and asked me did I wish +to buy anything. The tone of her voice was not encouraging; she +seemed to have spoken to me out of a sense of duty. I looked +humbly at the great jars that stood like eastern guards at either side +of the dark entrance to the stall and murmured: + +"No, thank you." + +The young lady changed the position of one of the vases and went +back to the two young men. They began to talk of the same +subject. Once or twice the young lady glanced at me over her +shoulder. + +I lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay was useless, to +make my interest in her wares seem the more real. Then I turned +away slowly and walked down the middle of the bazaar. I allowed +the two pennies to fall against the sixpence in my pocket. I heard a +voice call from one end of the gallery that the light was out. The +upper part of the hall was now completely dark. + +Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and +derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger. + +EVELINE + +SHE sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue. +Her head was leaned against the window curtains and in her +nostrils was the odour of dusty cretonne. She was tired. + +Few people passed. The man out of the last house passed on his +way home; she heard his footsteps clacking along the concrete +pavement and afterwards crunching on the cinder path before the +new red houses. One time there used to be a field there in which +they used to play every evening with other people's children. Then +a man from Belfast bought the field and built houses in it -- not +like their little brown houses but bright brick houses with shining +roofs. The children of the avenue used to play together in that field +-- the Devines, the Waters, the Dunns, little Keogh the cripple, she +and her brothers and sisters. Ernest, however, never played: he was +too grown up. Her father used often to hunt them in out of the field +with his blackthorn stick; but usually little Keogh used to keep nix +and call out when he saw her father coming. Still they seemed to +have been rather happy then. Her father was not so bad then; and +besides, her mother was alive. That was a long time ago; she and +her brothers and sisters were all grown up her mother was dead. +Tizzie Dunn was dead, too, and the Waters had gone back to +England. Everything changes. Now she was going to go away like +the others, to leave her home. + +Home! She looked round the room, reviewing all its familiar +objects which she had dusted once a week for so many years, +wondering where on earth all the dust came from. Perhaps she +would never see again those familiar objects from which she had +never dreamed of being divided. And yet during all those years she +had never found out the name of the priest whose yellowing +photograph hung on the wall above the broken harmonium beside +the coloured print of the promises made to Blessed Margaret Mary +Alacoque. He had been a school friend of her father. Whenever he +showed the photograph to a visitor her father used to pass it with a +casual word: + +"He is in Melbourne now." + +She had consented to go away, to leave her home. Was that wise? +She tried to weigh each side of the question. In her home anyway +she had shelter and food; she had those whom she had known all +her life about her. O course she had to work hard, both in the +house and at business. What would they say of her in the Stores +when they found out that she had run away with a fellow? Say she +was a fool, perhaps; and her place would be filled up by +advertisement. Miss Gavan would be glad. She had always had an +edge on her, especially whenever there were people listening. + +"Miss Hill, don't you see these ladies are waiting?" + +"Look lively, Miss Hill, please." + +She would not cry many tears at leaving the Stores. + +But in her new home, in a distant unknown country, it would not +be like that. Then she would be married -- she, Eveline. People +would treat her with respect then. She would not be treated as her +mother had been. Even now, though she was over nineteen, she +sometimes felt herself in danger of her father's violence. She knew +it was that that had given her the palpitations. When they were +growing up he had never gone for her like he used to go for Harry +and Ernest, because she was a girl but latterly he had begun to +threaten her and say what he would do to her only for her dead +mother's sake. And no 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 on 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 hr charge went to school regularly +and got their meals regularly. It was hard work -- a hard life -- but +now that she was about to leave it she did not find it a wholly +undesirable life. + +She was about to explore another life with Frank. Frank was very +kind, manly, open-hearted. She was to go away with him by the +night-boat to be his wife and to live with him in Buenos Ayres +where he had a home waiting for her. How well she remembered +the first time she had seen him; he was lodging in a house on the +main road where she used to visit. It seemed a few weeks ago. He +was standing at the gate, his peaked cap pushed back on his head +and his hair tumbled forward over a face of bronze. Then they had +come to know each other. He used to meet her outside the Stores +every evening and see her home. He took her to see The Bohemian +Girl and she felt elated as she sat in an unaccustomed part of the +theatre with him. He was awfully fond of music and sang a little. +People knew that they were courting and, when he sang about the +lass that loves a sailor, she always felt pleasantly confused. He +used to call her Poppens out of fun. First of all it had been an +excitement for her to have a fellow and then she had begun to like +him. He had tales of distant countries. He had started as a deck boy +at a pound a month on a ship of the Allan Line going out to +Canada. He told her the names of the ships he had been on and the +names of the different services. He had sailed through the Straits +of Magellan and he told her stories of the terrible Patagonians. He +had fallen on his feet in Buenos Ayres, he said, and had come over +to the old country just for a holiday. Of course, her father had +found out the affair and had forbidden her to have anything to say +to him. + +"I know these sailor chaps," he said. + +One day he had quarrelled with Frank and after that she had to +meet her lover secretly. + +The evening deepened in the avenue. The white of two letters in +her lap grew indistinct. One was to Harry; the other was to her +father. Ernest had been her favourite but she liked Harry too. Her +father was becoming old lately, she noticed; he would miss her. +Sometimes he could be very nice. Not long before, when she had +been laid up for a day, he had read her out a ghost story and made +toast for her at the fire. Another day, when their mother was alive, +they had all gone for a picnic to the Hill of Howth. She +remembered her father putting on her mothers bonnet to make the +children laugh. + +Her time was running out but she continued to sit by the window, +leaning her head against the window curtain, inhaling the odour of +dusty cretonne. Down far in the avenue she could hear a street +organ playing. She knew the air Strange that it should come that +very night to remind her of the promise to her mother, her promise +to keep the home together as long as she could. She remembered +the last night of her mother's illness; she was again in the close +dark room at the other side of the hall and outside she heard a +melancholy air of Italy. The organ-player had been ordered to go +away and given sixpence. She remembered her father strutting +back into the sickroom saying: + +"Damned Italians! coming over here!" + +As she mused the pitiful vision of her mother's life laid its spell on +the very quick of her being -- that life of commonplace sacrifices +closing in final craziness. She trembled as she heard again her +mother's voice saying constantly with foolish insistence: + +"Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!" + +She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. Escape! She must +escape! Frank would save her. He would give her life, perhaps +love, too. But she wanted to live. Why should she be unhappy? She +had a right to happiness. Frank would take her in his arms, fold her +in his arms. He would save her. + +She stood among the swaying crowd in the station at the North +Wall. He held her hand and she knew that he was speaking to her, +saying something about the passage over and over again. The +station was full of soldiers with brown baggages. Through the wide +doors of the sheds she caught a glimpse of the black mass of the +boat, lying in beside the quay wall, with illumined portholes. She +answered nothing. She felt her cheek pale and cold and, out of a +maze of distress, she prayed to God to direct her, to show her what +was her duty. The boat blew a long mournful whistle into the mist. +If she went, tomorrow she would be on the sea with Frank, +steaming towards Buenos Ayres. Their passage had been booked. +Could she still draw back after all he had done for her? Her +distress awoke a nausea in her body and she kept moving her lips +in silent fervent prayer. + +A bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize her hand: + +"Come!" + +All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawing +her into them: he would drown her. She gripped with both hands at +the iron railing. + +"Come!" + +No! No! No! It was impossible. Her hands clutched the iron in +frenzy. Amid the seas she sent a cry of anguish. + +"Eveline! Evvy!" + +He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was +shouted at to go on but he still called to her. She set her white face +to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign +of love or farewell or recognition. + +AFTER THE RACE + +THE cars came scudding in towards Dublin, running evenly like +pellets in the groove of the Naas Road. At the crest of the hill at +Inchicore sightseers had gathered in clumps to watch the cars +careering homeward and through this channel of poverty and +inaction the Continent sped its wealth and industry. Now and again +the clumps of people raised the cheer of the gratefully oppressed. +Their sympathy, however, was for the blue cars -- the cars of their +friends, the French. + +The French, moreover, were virtual victors. Their team had +finished solidly; they had been placed second and third and the +driver of the winning German car was reported a Belgian. Each +blue car, therefore, received a double measure of welcome as it +topped the crest of the hill and each cheer of welcome was +acknowledged with smiles and nods by those in the car. In one of +these trimly built cars was a party of four young men whose spirits +seemed to be at present well above the level of successful +Gallicism: in fact, these four young men were almost hilarious. +They were Charles Segouin, the owner of the car; Andre Riviere, a +young electrician of Canadian birth; a huge Hungarian named +Villona and a neatly groomed young man named Doyle. Segouin +was in good humour because he had unexpectedly received some +orders in advance (he was about to start a motor establishment in +Paris) and Riviere was in good humour because he was to be +appointed manager of the establishment; these two young men +(who were cousins) were also in good humour because of the +success of the French cars. Villona was in good humour because +he had had a very satisfactory luncheon; and besides he was an +optimist by nature. The fourth member of the party, however, was +too excited to be genuinely happy. + +He was about twenty-six years of age, with a soft, light brown +moustache and rather innocent-looking grey eyes. His father, who +had begun life as an advanced Nationalist, had modified his views +early. He had made his money as a butcher in Kingstown and by +opening shops in Dublin and in the suburbs he had made his +money many times over. He had also been fortunate enough to +secure some of the police contracts and in the end he had become +rich enough to be alluded to in the Dublin newspapers as a +merchant prince. He had sent his son to England to be educated in +a big Catholic college and had afterwards sent him to Dublin +University to study law. Jimmy did not study very earnestly and +took to bad courses for a while. He had money and he was popular; +and he divided his time curiously between musical and motoring +circles. Then he had been sent for a term to Cambridge to see a +little life. His father, remonstrative, but covertly proud of the +excess, had paid his bills and brought him home. It was at +Cambridge that he had met Segouin. They were not much more +than acquaintances as yet but Jimmy found great pleasure in the +society of one who had seen so much of the world and was reputed +to own some of the biggest hotels in France. Such a person (as his +father agreed) was well worth knowing, even if he had not been +the charming companion he was. Villona was entertaining also -- a +brilliant pianist -- but, unfortunately, very poor. + +The car ran on merrily with its cargo of hilarious youth. The two +cousins sat on the front seat; Jimmy and his Hungarian friend sat +behind. Decidedly Villona was in excellent spirits; he kept up a +deep bass hum of melody for miles of the road The Frenchmen +flung their laughter and light words over their shoulders and often +Jimmy had to strain forward to catch the quick phrase. This was +not altogether pleasant for him, as he had nearly always to make a +deft guess at the meaning and shout back a suitable answer in the +face of a high wind. Besides Villona's humming would confuse +anybody; the noise of the car, too. + +Rapid motion through space elates one; so does notoriety; so does +the possession of money. These were three good reasons for +Jimmy's excitement. He had been seen by many of his friends that +day in the company of these Continentals. At the control Segouin +had presented him to one of the French competitors and, in answer +to his confused murmur of compliment, the swarthy face of the +driver had disclosed a line of shining white teeth. It was pleasant +after that honour to return to the profane world of spectators amid +nudges and significant looks. Then as to money -- he really had a +great sum under his control. Segouin, perhaps, would not think it a +great sum but Jimmy who, in spite of temporary errors, was at +heart the inheritor of solid instincts knew well with what difficulty +it had been got together. This knowledge had previously kept his +bills within the limits of reasonable recklessness, and if he had +been so conscious of the labour latent in money when there had +been question merely of some freak of the higher intelligence, how +much more so now when he was about to stake the greater part of +his substance! It was a serious thing for him. + +Of course, the investment was a good one and Segouin had +managed to give the impression that it was by a favour of +friendship the mite of Irish money was to be included in the capital +of the concern. Jimmy had a respect for his father's shrewdness in +business matters and in this case it had been his father who had +first suggested the investment; money to be made in the motor +business, pots of money. Moreover Segouin had the unmistakable +air of wealth. Jimmy set out to translate into days' work that lordly +car in which he sat. How smoothly it ran. In what style they had +come careering along the country roads! The journey laid a +magical finger on the genuine pulse of life and gallantly the +machinery of human nerves strove to answer the bounding courses +of the swift blue animal. + +They drove down Dame Street. The street was busy with unusual +traffic, loud with the horns of motorists and the gongs of impatient +tram-drivers. Near the Bank Segouin drew up and Jimmy and his +friend alighted. A little knot of people collected on the footpath to +pay homage to the snorting motor. The party was to dine together +that evening in Segouin's hotel and, meanwhile, Jimmy and his +friend, who was staying with him, were to go home to dress. The +car steered out slowly for Grafton Street while the two young men +pushed their way through the knot of gazers. They walked +northward with a curious feeling of disappointment in the exercise, +while the city hung its pale globes of light above them in a haze of +summer evening. + +In Jimmy's house this dinner had been pronounced an occasion. A +certain pride mingled with his parents' trepidation, a certain +eagerness, also, to play fast and loose for the names of great +foreign cities have at least this virtue. Jimmy, too, looked very +well when he was dressed and, as he stood in the hall giving a last +equation to the bows of his dress tie, his father may have felt even +commercially satisfied at having secured for his son qualities often +unpurchaseable. His father, therefore, was unusually friendly with +Villona and his manner expressed a real respect for foreign +accomplishments; but this subtlety of his host was probably lost +upon the Hungarian, who was beginning to have a sharp desire for +his dinner. + +The dinner was excellent, exquisite. Segouin, Jimmy decided, had +a very refined taste. The party was increased by a young +Englishman named Routh whom Jimmy had seen with Segouin at +Cambridge. The young men supped in a snug room lit by electric +candle lamps. They talked volubly and with little reserve. Jimmy, +whose imagination was kindling, conceived the lively youth of the +Frenchmen twined elegantly upon the firm framework of the +Englishman's manner. A graceful image of his, he thought, and a +just one. He admired the dexterity with which their host directed +the conversation. The five young men had various tastes and their +tongues had been loosened. Villona, with immense respect, began +to discover to the mildly surprised Englishman the beauties of the +English madrigal, deploring the loss of old instruments. Riviere, +not wholly ingenuously, undertook to explain to Jimmy the +triumph of the French mechanicians. The resonant voice of the +Hungarian was about to prevail in ridicule of the spurious lutes of +the romantic painters when Segouin shepherded his party into +politics. Here was congenial ground for all. Jimmy, under generous +influences, felt the buried zeal of his father wake to life within +him: he aroused the torpid Routh at last. The room grew doubly +hot and Segouin's task grew harder each moment: there was even +danger of personal spite. The alert host at an opportunity lifted his +glass to Humanity and, when the toast had been drunk, he threw +open a window significantly. + +That night the city wore the mask of a capital. The five young men +strolled along Stephen's Green in a faint cloud of aromatic smoke. +They talked loudly and gaily and their cloaks dangled from their +shoulders. The people made way for them. At the corner of +Grafton Street a short fat man was putting two handsome ladies on +a car in charge of another fat man. The car drove off and the short +fat man caught sight of the party. + +"Andre." + +"It's Farley!" + +A torrent of talk followed. Farley was an American. No one knew +very well what the talk was about. Villona and Riviere were the +noisiest, but all the men were excited. They got up on a car, +squeezing themselves together amid much laughter. They drove by +the crowd, blended now into soft colours, to a music of merry +bells. They took the train at Westland Row and in a few seconds, +as it seemed to Jimmy, they were walking out of Kingstown +Station. The ticket-collector saluted Jimmy; he was an old man: + +"Fine night, sir!" + +It was a serene summer night; the harbour lay like a darkened +mirror at their feet. They proceeded towards it with linked arms, +singing Cadet Roussel in chorus, stamping their feet at every: + +"Ho! Ho! Hohe, vraiment!" + +They got into a rowboat at the slip and made out for the +American's yacht. There was to be supper, music, cards. Villona +said with conviction: + +"It is delightful!" + +There was a yacht piano in the cabin. Villona played a waltz for +Farley and Riviere, Farley acting as cavalier and Riviere as lady. +Then an impromptu square dance, the men devising original +figures. What merriment! Jimmy took his part with a will; this was +seeing life, at least. Then Farley got out of breath and cried "Stop!" +A man brought in a light supper, and the young men sat down to it +for form's sake. They drank, however: it was Bohemian. They +drank Ireland, England, France, Hungary, the United States of +America. Jimmy made a speech, a long speech, Villona saying: +"Hear! hear!" whenever there was a pause. There was a great +clapping of hands when he sat down. It must have been a good +speech. Farley clapped him on the back and laughed loudly. What +jovial fellows! What good company they were! + +Cards! cards! The table was cleared. Villona returned quietly to his +piano and played voluntaries for them. The other men played game +after game, flinging themselves boldly into the adventure. They +drank the health of the Queen of Hearts and of the Queen of +Diamonds. Jimmy felt obscurely the lack of an audience: the wit +was flashing. Play ran very high and paper began to pass. Jimmy +did not know exactly who was winning but he knew that he was +losing. But it was his own fault for he frequently mistook his cards +and the other men had to calculate his I.O.U.'s for him. They were +devils of fellows but he wished they would stop: it was getting late. +Someone gave the toast of the yacht The Belle of Newport and +then someone proposed one great game for a finish. + +The piano had stopped; Villona must have gone up on deck. It was +a terrible game. They stopped just before the end of it to drink for +luck. Jimmy understood that the game lay between Routh and +Segouin. What excitement! Jimmy was excited too; he would lose, +of course. How much had he written away? The men rose to their +feet to play the last tricks. talking and gesticulating. Routh won. +The cabin shook with the young men's cheering and the cards were +bundled together. They began then to gather in what they had won. +Farley and Jimmy were the heaviest losers. + +He knew that he would regret in the morning but at present he was +glad of the rest, glad of the dark stupor that would cover up his +folly. He leaned his elbows on the table and rested his head +between his hands, counting the beats of his temples. The cabin +door opened and he saw the Hungarian standing in a shaft of grey +light: + +"Daybreak, gentlemen!" + +TWO GALLANTS + +THE grey warm evening of August had descended upon the city +and a mild warm air, a memory of summer, circulated in the +streets. The streets, shuttered for the repose of Sunday, swarmed +with a gaily coloured crowd. Like illumined pearls the lamps +shone from the summits of their tall poles upon the living texture +below which, changing shape and hue unceasingly, sent up into the +warm grey evening air an unchanging unceasing murmur. + +Two young men came down the hill of Rutland Square. On of +them was just bringing a long monologue to a close. The other, +who walked on the verge of the path and was at times obliged to +step on to the road, owing to his companion's rudeness, wore an +amused listening face. He was squat and ruddy. A yachting cap +was shoved far back from his forehead and the narrative to which +he listened made constant waves of expression break forth over his +face from the corners of his nose and eyes and mouth. Little jets of +wheezing laughter followed one another out of his convulsed body. +His eyes, twinkling with cunning enjoyment, glanced at every +moment towards his companion's face. Once or twice he +rearranged the light waterproof which he had slung over one +shoulder in toreador fashion. His breeches, his white rubber shoes +and his jauntily slung waterproof expressed youth. But his figure +fell into rotundity at the waist, his hair was scant and grey and his +face, when the waves of expression had passed over it, had a +ravaged look. + +When he was quite sure that the narrative had ended he laughed +noiselessly for fully half a minute. Then he said: + +"Well!... That takes the biscuit!" + +His voice seemed winnowed of vigour; and to enforce his words he +added with humour: + +"That takes the solitary, unique, and, if I may so call it, recherche +biscuit! " + +He became serious and silent when he had said this. His tongue +was tired for he had been talking all the afternoon in a +public-house in Dorset Street. Most people considered Lenehan a +leech but, in spite of this reputation, his adroitness and eloquence +had always prevented his friends from forming any general policy +against him. He had a brave manner of coming up to a party of +them in a bar and of holding himself nimbly at the borders of the +company until he was included in a round. He was a sporting +vagrant armed with a vast stock of stories, limericks and riddles. +He was insensitive to all kinds of discourtesy. No one knew how +he achieved the stern task of living, but his name was vaguely +associated with racing tissues. + +"And where did you pick her up, Corley?" he asked. + +Corley ran his tongue swiftly along his upper lip. + +"One night, man," he said, "I was going along Dame Street and I +spotted a fine tart under Waterhouse's clock and said good- night, +you know. So we went for a walk round by the canal and she told +me she was a slavey in a house in Baggot Street. I put my arm +round her and squeezed her a bit that night. Then next Sunday, +man, I met her by appointment. We vent out to Donnybrook and I +brought her into a field there. She told me she used to go with a +dairyman.... It was fine, man. Cigarettes every night she'd bring me +and paying the tram out and back. And one night she brought me +two bloody fine cigars -- O, the real cheese, you know, that the old +fellow used to smoke.... I was afraid, man, she'd get in the family +way. But she's up to the dodge." + +"Maybe she thinks you'll marry her," said Lenehan. + +"I told her I was out of a job," said Corley. "I told her I was in +Pim's. She doesn't know my name. I was too hairy to tell her that. +But she thinks I'm a bit of class, you know." + +Lenehan laughed again, noiselessly. + +"Of all the good ones ever I heard," he said, "that emphatically +takes the biscuit." + +Corley's stride acknowledged the compliment. The swing of his +burly body made his friend execute a few light skips from the path +to the roadway and back again. Corley was the son of an inspector +of police and he had inherited his father's frame and gut. He +walked with his hands by his sides, holding himself erect and +swaying his head from side to side. His head was large, globular +and oily; it sweated in all weathers; and his large round hat, set +upon it sideways, looked like a bulb which had grown out of +another. He always stared straight before him as if he were on +parade and, when he wished to gaze after someone in the street, it +was necessary for him to move his body from the hips. At present +he was about town. Whenever any job was vacant a friend was +always ready to give him the hard word. He was often to be seen +walking with policemen in plain clothes, talking earnestly. He +knew the inner side of all affairs and was fond of delivering final +judgments. He spoke without listening to the speech of his +companions. His conversation was mainly about himself what he +had said to such a person and what such a person had said to him +and what he had said to settle the matter. When he reported these +dialogues he aspirated the first letter of his name after the manner +of Florentines. + +Lenehan offered his friend a cigarette. As the two young men +walked on through the crowd Corley occasionally turned to smile +at some of the passing girls but Lenehan's gaze was fixed on the +large faint moon circled with a double halo. He watched earnestly +the passing of the grey web of twilight across its face. At length he +said: + +"Well... tell me, Corley, I suppose you'll be able to pull it off all +right, eh?" + +Corley closed one eye expressively as an answer. + +"Is she game for that?" asked Lenehan dubiously. "You can never +know women." + +"She's all right," said Corley. "I know the way to get around her, +man. She's a bit gone on me." + +"You're what I call a gay Lothario," said Lenehan. "And the proper +kind of a Lothario, too!" + +A shade of mockery relieved the servility of his manner. To save +himself he had the habit of leaving his flattery open to the +interpretation of raillery. But Corley had not a subtle mind. + +"There's nothing to touch a good slavey," he affirmed. "Take my +tip for it." + +"By one who has tried them all," said Lenehan. + +"First I used to go with girls, you know," said Corley, unbosoming; +"girls off the South Circular. I used to take them out, man, on the +tram somewhere and pay the tram or take them to a band or a play +at the theatre or buy them chocolate and sweets or something that +way. I used to spend money on them right enough," he added, in a +convincing tone, as if he was conscious of being disbelieved. + +But Lenehan could well believe it; he nodded gravely. + +"I know that game," he said, "and it's a mug's game." + +"And damn the thing I ever got out of it," said Corley. + +"Ditto here," said Lenehan. + +"Only off of one of them," said Corley. + +He moistened his upper lip by running his tongue along it. The +recollection brightened his eyes. He too gazed at the pale disc of +the moon, now nearly veiled, and seemed to meditate. + +She was... a bit of all right," he said regretfully. + +He was silent again. Then he added: + +"She's on the turf now. I saw her driving down Earl Street one +night with two fellows with her on a car." + +"I suppose that's your doing," said Lenehan. + +"There was others at her before me," said Corley philosophically. + +This time Lenehan was inclined to disbelieve. He shook his head +to and fro and smiled. + +"You know you can't kid me, Corley," he said. + +"Honest to God!" said Corley. "Didn't she tell me herself?" + +Lenehan made a tragic gesture. + +"Base betrayer!" he said. + +As they passed along the railings of Trinity College, Lenehan +skipped out into the road and peered up at the clock. + +"Twenty after," he said. + +"Time enough," said Corley. "She'll be there all right. I always let +her wait a bit." + +Lenehan laughed quietly. + +'Ecod! Corley, you know how to take them," he said. + +"I'm up to all their little tricks," Corley confessed. + +"But tell me," said Lenehan again, "are you sure you can bring it +off all right? You know it's a ticklish job. They're damn close on +that point. Eh? ... What?" + +His bright, small eyes searched his companion's face for +reassurance. Corley swung his head to and fro as if to toss aside an +insistent insect, and his brows gathered. + +"I'll pull it off," he said. "Leave it to me, can't you?" + +Lenehan said no more. He did not wish to ruffle his friend's +temper, to be sent to the devil and told that his advice was not +wanted. A little tact was necessary. But Corley's brow was soon +smooth again. His thoughts were running another way. + +"She's a fine decent tart," he said, with appreciation; "that's what +she is." + +They walked along Nassau Street and then turned into Kildare +Street. Not far from the porch of the club a harpist stood in the +roadway, playing to a little ring of listeners. He plucked at the +wires heedlessly, glancing quickly from time to time at the face of +each new-comer and from time to time, wearily also, at the sky. +His harp, too, heedless that her coverings had fallen about her +knees, seemed weary alike of the eyes of strangers and of her +master's hands. One hand played in the bass the melody of Silent, +O Moyle, while the other hand careered in the treble after each +group of notes. The notes of the air sounded deep and full. + +The two young men walked up the street without speaking, the +mournful music following them. When they reached Stephen's +Green they crossed the road. Here the noise of trams, the lights and +the crowd released them from their silence. + +"There she is!" said Corley. + +At the corner of Hume Street a young woman was standing. She +wore a blue dress and a white sailor hat. She stood on the +curbstone, swinging a sunshade in one hand. Lenehan grew lively. + +"Let's have a look at her, Corley," he said. + +Corley glanced sideways at his friend and an unpleasant grin +appeared on his face. + +"Are you trying to get inside me?" he asked. + +"Damn it!" said Lenehan boldly, "I don't want an introduction. All I +want is to have a look at her. I'm not going to eat her." + +"O ... A look at her?" said Corley, more amiably. "Well... I'll tell +you what. I'll go over and talk to her and you can pass by." + +"Right!" said Lenehan. + +Corley had already thrown one leg over the chains when Lenehan +called out: + +"And after? Where will we meet?" + +"Half ten," answered Corley, bringing over his other leg. + +"Where?" + +"Corner of Merrion Street. We'll be coming back." + +"Work it all right now," said Lenehan in farewell. + +Corley did not answer. He sauntered across the road swaying his +head from side to side. His bulk, his easy pace, and the solid sound +of his boots had something of the conqueror in them. He +approached the young woman and, without saluting, began at once +to converse with her. She swung her umbrella more quickly and +executed half turns on her heels. Once or twice when he spoke to +her at close quarters she laughed and bent her head. + +Lenehan observed them for a few minutes. Then he walked rapidly +along beside the chains at some distance and crossed the road +obliquely. As he approached Hume Street corner he found the air +heavily scented and his eyes made a swift anxious scrutiny of the +young woman's appearance. She had her Sunday finery on. Her +blue serge skirt was held at the waist by a belt of black leather. +The great silver buckle of her belt seemed to depress the centre of +her body, catching the light stuff of her white blouse like a clip. +She wore a short black jacket with mother-of-pearl buttons and a +ragged black boa. The ends of her tulle collarette had been +carefully disordered and a big bunch of red flowers was pinned in +her bosom stems upwards. Lenehan's eyes noted approvingly her +stout short muscular body. rank rude health glowed in her face, on +her fat red cheeks and in her unabashed blue eyes. Her features +were blunt. She had broad nostrils, a straggling mouth which lay +open in a contented leer, and two projecting front teeth. As he +passed Lenehan took off his cap and, after about ten seconds, +Corley returned a salute to the air. This he did by raising his hand +vaguely and pensively changing the angle of position of his hat. + +Lenehan walked as far as the Shelbourne Hotel where he halted +and waited. After waiting for a little time he saw them coming +towards him and, when they turned to the right, he followed them, +stepping lightly in his white shoes, down one side of Merrion +Square. As he walked on slowly, timing his pace to theirs, he +watched Corley's head which turned at every moment towards the +young woman's face like a big ball revolving on a pivot. He kept +the pair in view until he had seen them climbing the stairs of the +Donnybrook tram; then he turned about and went back the way he +had come. + +Now that he was alone his face looked older. His gaiety seemed to +forsake him and, as he came by the railings of the Duke's Lawn, he +allowed his hand to run along them. The air which the harpist had +played began to control his movements His softly padded feet +played the melody while his fingers swept a scale of variations idly +along the railings after each group of notes. + +He walked listlessly round Stephen's Green and then down Grafton +Street. Though his eyes took note of many elements of the crowd +through which he passed they did so morosely. He found trivial all +that was meant to charm him and did not answer the glances which +invited him to be bold. He knew that he would have to speak a +great deal, to invent and to amuse and his brain and throat were +too dry for such a task. The problem of how he could pass the +hours till he met Corley again troubled him a little. He could think +of no way of passing them but to keep on walking. He turned to the +left when he came to the corner of Rutland Square and felt more at +ease in the dark quiet street, the sombre look of which suited his +mood. He paused at last before the window of a poor-looking shop +over which the words Refreshment Bar were printed in white +letters. On the glass of the window were two flying inscriptions: +Ginger Beer and Ginger Ale. A cut ham was exposed on a great +blue dish while near it on a plate lay a segment of very light +plum-pudding. He eyed this food earnestly for some time and then, +after glancing warily up and down the street, went into the shop +quickly. + +He was hungry for, except some biscuits which he had asked two +grudging curates to bring him, he had eaten nothing since +breakfast-time. He sat down at an uncovered wooden table +opposite two work-girls and a mechanic. A slatternly girl waited +on him. + +"How much is a plate of peas?" he asked. + +"Three halfpence, sir," said the girl. + +"Bring me a plate of peas," he said, "and a bottle of ginger beer." + +He spoke roughly in order to belie his air of gentility for his entry +had been followed by a pause of talk. His face was heated. To +appear natural he pushed his cap back on his head and planted his +elbows on the table. The mechanic and the two work-girls +examined him point by point before resuming their conversation in +a subdued voice. The girl brought him a plate of grocer's hot peas, +seasoned with pepper and vinegar, a fork and his ginger beer. He +ate his food greedily and found it so good that he made a note of +the shop mentally. When he had eaten all the peas he sipped his +ginger beer and sat for some time thinking of Corley's adventure. +In his imagination he beheld the pair of lovers walking along some +dark road; he heard Corley's voice in deep energetic gallantries and +saw again the leer of the young woman's mouth. This vision made +him feel keenly his own poverty of purse and spirit. He was tired +of knocking about, of pulling the devil by the tail, of shifts and +intrigues. He would be thirty-one in November. Would he never +get a good job? Would he never have a home of his own? He +thought how pleasant it would be to have a warm fire to sit by and +a good dinner to sit down to. He had walked the streets long +enough with friends and with girls. He knew what those friends +were worth: he knew the girls too. Experience had embittered his +heart against the world. But all hope had not left him. He felt +better after having eaten than he had felt before, less weary of his +life, less vanquished in spirit. He might yet be able to settle down +in some snug corner and live happily if he could only come across +some good simple-minded girl with a little of the ready. + +He paid twopence halfpenny to the slatternly girl and went out of +the shop to begin his wandering again. He went into Capel Street +and walked along towards the City Hall. Then he turned into Dame +Street. At the corner of George's Street he met two friends of his +and stopped to converse with them. He was glad that he could rest +from all his walking. His friends asked him had he seen Corley and +what was the latest. He replied that he had spent the day with +Corley. His friends talked very little. They looked vacantly after +some figures in the crowd and sometimes made a critical remark. +One said that he had seen Mac an hour before in Westmoreland +Street. At this Lenehan said that he had been with Mac the night +before in Egan's. The young man who had seen Mac in +Westmoreland Street asked was it true that Mac had won a bit over +a billiard match. Lenehan did not know: he said that Holohan had +stood them drinks in Egan's. + +He left his friends at a quarter to ten and went up George's Street. +He turned to the left at the City Markets and walked on into +Grafton Street. The crowd of girls and young men had thinned and +on his way up the street he heard many groups and couples bidding +one another good-night. He went as far as the clock of the College +of Surgeons: it was on the stroke of ten. He set off briskly along +the northern side of the Green hurrying for fear Corley should +return too soon. When he reached the corner of Merrion Street he +took his stand in the shadow of a lamp and brought out one of the +cigarettes which he had reserved and lit it. He leaned against the +lamp-post and kept his gaze fixed on the part from which he +expected to see Corley and the young woman return. + +His mind became active again. He wondered had Corley managed +it successfully. He wondered if he had asked her yet or if he would +leave it to the last. He suffered all the pangs and thrills of his +friend's situation as well as those of his own. But the memory of +Corley's slowly revolving head calmed him somewhat: he was sure +Corley would pull it off all right. All at once the idea struck him +that perhaps Corley had seen her home by another way and given +him the slip. His eyes searched the street: there was no sign of +them. Yet it was surely half-an-hour since he had seen the clock of +the College of Surgeons. Would Corley do a thing like that? He lit +his last cigarette and began to smoke it nervously. He strained his +eyes as each tram stopped at the far corner of the square. They +must have gone home by another way. The paper of his cigarette +broke and he flung it into the road with a curse. + +Suddenly he saw them coming towards him. He started with +delight and keeping close to his lamp-post tried to read the result +in their walk. They were walking quickly, the young woman taking +quick short steps, while Corley kept beside her with his long stride. +They did not seem to be speaking. An intimation of the result +pricked him like the point of a sharp instrument. He knew Corley +would fail; he knew it was no go. + +They turned down Baggot Street and he followed them at once, +taking the other footpath. When they stopped he stopped too. They +talked for a few moments and then the young woman went down +the steps into the area of a house. Corley remained standing at the +edge of the path, a little distance from the front steps. Some +minutes passed. Then the hall-door was opened slowly and +cautiously. A woman came running down the front steps and +coughed. Corley turned and went towards her. His broad figure hid +hers from view for a few seconds and then she reappeared running +up the steps. The door closed on her and Corley began to walk +swiftly towards Stephen's Green. + +Lenehan hurried on in the same direction. Some drops of light rain +fell. He took them as a warning and, glancing back towards the +house which the young woman had entered to see that he was not +observed, he ran eagerly across the road. Anxiety and his swift run +made him pant. He called out: + +"Hallo, Corley!" + +Corley turned his head to see who had called him, and then +continued walking as before. Lenehan ran after him, settling the +waterproof on his shoulders with one hand. + +"Hallo, Corley!" he cried again. + +He came level with his friend and looked keenly in his face. He +could see nothing there. + +"Well?" he said. "Did it come off?" + +They had reached the corner of Ely Place. Still without answering, +Corley swerved to the left and went up the side street. His features +were composed in stern calm. Lenehan kept up with his friend, +breathing uneasily. He was baffled and a note of menace pierced +through his voice. + +"Can't you tell us?" he said. "Did you try her?" + +Corley halted at the first lamp and stared grimly before him. Then +with a grave gesture he extended a hand towards the light and, +smiling, opened it slowly to the gaze of his disciple. A small gold +coin shone in the palm. + +THE BOARDING HOUSE + +MRS. MOONEY was a butcher's daughter. She was a woman who +was quite able to keep things to herself: a determined woman. She +had married her father's foreman and opened a butcher's shop near +Spring Gardens. But as soon as his father-in-law was dead Mr. +Mooney began to go to the devil. He drank, plundered the till, ran +headlong into debt. It was no use making him take the pledge: he +was sure to break out again a few days after. By fighting his wife +in the presence of customers and by buying bad meat he ruined his +business. One night he went for his wife with the cleaver and she +had to sleep a neighbour's house. + +After that they lived apart. She went to the priest and got a +separation from him with care of the children. She would give him +neither money nor food nor house-room; and so he was obliged to +enlist himself as a sheriff's man. He was a shabby stooped little +drunkard with a white face and a white moustache white eyebrows, +pencilled above his little eyes, which were veined and raw; and all +day long he sat in the bailiff's room, waiting to be put on a job. +Mrs. Mooney, who had taken what remained of her money out of +the butcher business and set up a boarding house in Hardwicke +Street, was a big imposing woman. Her house had a floating +population made up of tourists from Liverpool and the Isle of Man +and, occasionally, artistes from the music halls. Its resident +population was made up of clerks from the city. She governed the +house cunningly and firmly, knew when to give credit, when to be +stern and when to let things pass. All the resident young men spoke +of her as The Madam. + + +Mrs. Mooney's young men paid fifteen shillings a week for board +and lodgings (beer or stout at dinner excluded). They shared in +common tastes and occupations and for this reason they were very +chummy with one another. They discussed with one another the +chances of favourites and outsiders. Jack Mooney, the Madam's +son, who was clerk to a commission agent in Fleet Street, had the +reputation of being a hard case. He was fond of using soldiers' +obscenities: usually he came home in the small hours. When he +met his friends he had always a good one to tell them and he was +always sure to be on to a good thing-that is to say, a likely horse or +a likely artiste. He was also handy with the mits and sang comic +songs. On Sunday nights there would often be a reunion in Mrs. +Mooney's front drawing-room. The music-hall artistes would +oblige; and Sheridan played waltzes and polkas and vamped +accompaniments. Polly Mooney, the Madam's daughter, would +also sing. She sang: + + I'm a ... naughty girl. + You needn't sham: + You know I am. + +Polly was a slim girl of nineteen; she had light soft hair and a +small full mouth. Her eyes, which were grey with a shade of green +through them, had a habit of glancing upwards when she spoke +with anyone, which made her look like a little perverse madonna. +Mrs. Mooney had first sent her daughter to be a typist in a +corn-factor's office but, as a disreputable sheriff's man used to +come every other day to the office, asking to be allowed to say a +word to his daughter, she had taken her daughter home again and +set her to do housework. As Polly was very lively the intention was +to give her the run of the young men. Besides young men like to +feel that there is a young woman not very far away. Polly, of +course, flirted with the young men but Mrs. Mooney, who was a +shrewd judge, knew that the young men were only passing the time +away: none of them meant business. Things went on so for a long +time and Mrs. Mooney began to think of sending Polly back to +typewriting when she noticed that something was going on +between Polly and one of the young men. She watched the pair and +kept her own counsel. + +Polly knew that she was being watched, but still her mother's +persistent silence could not be misunderstood. There had been no +open complicity between mother and daughter, no open +understanding but, though people in the house began to talk of the +affair, still Mrs. Mooney did not intervene. Polly began to grow a +little strange in her manner and the young man was evidently +perturbed. At last, when she judged it to be the right moment, Mrs. +Mooney intervened. She dealt with moral problems as a cleaver +deals with meat: and in this case she had made up her mind. + +It was a bright Sunday morning of early summer, promising heat, +but with a fresh breeze blowing. All the windows of the boarding +house were open and the lace curtains ballooned gently towards +the street beneath the raised sashes. The belfry of George's Church +sent out constant peals and worshippers, singly or in groups, +traversed the little circus before the church, revealing their purpose +by their self-contained demeanour no less than by the little +volumes in their gloved hands. Breakfast was over in the boarding +house and the table of the breakfast-room was covered with plates +on which lay yellow streaks of eggs with morsels of bacon-fat and +bacon-rind. Mrs. Mooney sat in the straw arm-chair and watched +the servant Mary remove the breakfast things. She mad Mary +collect the crusts and pieces of broken bread to help to make +Tuesday's bread- pudding. When the table was cleared, the broken +bread collected, the sugar and butter safe under lock and key, she +began to reconstruct the interview which she had had the night +before with Polly. Things were as she had suspected: she had been +frank in her questions and Polly had been frank in her answers. +Both had been somewhat awkward, of course. She had been made +awkward by her not wishing to receive the news in too cavalier a +fashion or to seem to have connived and Polly had been made +awkward not merely because allusions of that kind always made +her awkward but also because she did not wish it to be thought that +in her wise innocence she had divined the intention behind her +mother's tolerance. + +Mrs. Mooney glanced instinctively at the little gilt clock on the +mantelpiece as soon as she had become aware through her revery +that the bells of George's Church had stopped ringing. It was +seventeen minutes past eleven: she would have lots of time to have +the matter out with Mr. Doran and then catch short twelve at +Marlborough Street. She was sure she would win. To begin with +she had all the weight of social opinion on her side: she was an +outraged mother. She had allowed him to live beneath her roof, +assuming that he was a man of honour and he had simply abused +her hospitality. He was thirty-four or thirty-five years of age, so +that youth could not be pleaded as his excuse; nor could ignorance +be his excuse since he was a man who had seen something of the +world. He had simply taken advantage of Polly's youth and +inexperience: that was evident. The question was: What reparation +would he make? + +There must be reparation made in such case. It is all very well for +the man: he can go his ways as if nothing had happened, having +had his moment of pleasure, but the girl has to bear the brunt. +Some mothers would be content to patch up such an affair for a +sum of money; she had known cases of it. But she would not do so. +For her only one reparation could make up for the loss of her +daughter's honour: marriage. + +She counted all her cards again before sending Mary up to Doran's +room to say that she wished to speak with him. She felt sure she +would win. He was a serious young man, not rakish or loud-voiced +like the others. If it had been Mr. Sheridan or Mr. Meade or +Bantam Lyons her task would have been much harder. She did not +think he would face publicity. All the lodgers in the house knew +something of the affair; details had been invented by some. +Besides, he had been employed for thirteen years in a great +Catholic wine-merchant's office and publicity would mean for +him, perhaps, the loss of his job. Whereas if he agreed all might be +well. She knew he had a good screw for one thing and she +suspected he had a bit of stuff put by. + +Nearly the half-hour! She stood up and surveyed herself in the +pier-glass. The decisive expression of her great florid face satisfied +her and she thought of some mothers she knew who could not get +their daughters off their hands. + +Mr. Doran was very anxious indeed this Sunday morning. He had +made two attempts to shave but his hand had been so unsteady that +he had been obliged to desist. Three days' reddish beard fringed his +jaws and every two or three minutes a mist gathered on his glasses +so that he had to take them off and polish them with his +pocket-handkerchief. The recollection of his confession of the +night before was a cause of acute pain to him; the priest had drawn +out every ridiculous detail of the affair and in the end had so +magnified his sin that he was almost thankful at being afforded a +loophole of reparation. The harm was done. What could he do now +but marry her or run away? He could not brazen it out. The affair +would be sure to be talked of and his employer would be certain to +hear of it. Dublin is such a small city: everyone knows everyone +else's business. He felt his heart leap warmly in his throat as he +heard in his excited imagination old Mr. Leonard calling out in his +rasping voice: "Send Mr. Doran here, please." + +All his long years of service gone for nothing! All his industry and +diligence thrown away! As a young man he had sown his wild oats, +of course; he had boasted of his free-thinking and denied the +existence of God to his companions in public- houses. But that was +all passed and done with... nearly. He still bought a copy of +Reynolds's Newspaper every week but he attended to his religious +duties and for nine-tenths of the year lived a regular life. He had +money enough to settle down on; it was not that. But the family +would look down on her. First of all there was her disreputable +father and then her mother's boarding house was beginning to get a +certain fame. He had a notion that he was being had. He could +imagine his friends talking of the affair and laughing. She was a +little vulgar; some times she said "I seen" and "If I had've known." +But what would grammar matter if he really loved her? He could +not make up his mind whether to like her or despise her for what +she had done. Of course he had done it too. His instinct urged him +to remain free, not to marry. Once you are married you are done +for, it said. + +While he was sitting helplessly on the side of the bed in shirt and +trousers she tapped lightly at his door and entered. She told him +all, that she had made a clean breast of it to her mother and that +her mother would speak with him that morning. She cried and +threw her arms round his neck, saying: + +"O Bob! Bob! What am I to do? What am I to do at all?" + +She would put an end to herself, she said. + +He comforted her feebly, telling her not to cry, that it would be all +right, never fear. He felt against his shirt the agitation of her +bosom. + +It was not altogether his fault that it had happened. He +remembered well, with the curious patient memory of the celibate, +the first casual caresses her dress, her breath, her fingers had given +him. Then late one night as he was undressing for she had tapped +at his door, timidly. She wanted to relight her candle at his for hers +had been blown out by a gust. It was her bath night. She wore a +loose open combing- jacket of printed flannel. Her white instep +shone in the opening of her furry slippers and the blood glowed +warmly behind her perfumed skin. From her hands and wrists too +as she lit and steadied her candle a faint perfume arose. + +On nights when he came in very late it was she who warmed up his +dinner. He scarcely knew what he was eating feeling her beside +him alone, at night, in the sleeping house. And her thoughtfulness! +If the night was anyway cold or wet or windy there was sure to be +a little tumbler of punch ready for him. Perhaps they could be +happy together.... + +They used to go upstairs together on tiptoe, each with a candle, +and on the third landing exchange reluctant goodnights. They used +to kiss. He remembered well her eyes, the touch of her hand and +his delirium.... + +But delirium passes. He echoed her phrase, applying it to himself: +"What am I to do?" The instinct of the celibate warned him to hold +back. But the sin was there; even his sense of honour told him that +reparation must be made for such a sin. + +While he was sitting with her on the side of the bed Mary came to +the door and said that the missus wanted to see him in the parlour. +He stood up to put on his coat and waistcoat, more helpless than +ever. When he was dressed he went over to her to comfort her. It +would be all right, never fear. He left her crying on the bed and +moaning softly: "O my God!" + +Going down the stairs his glasses became so dimmed with +moisture that he had to take them off and polish them. He longed +to ascend through the roof and fly away to another country where +he would never hear again of his trouble, and yet a force pushed +him downstairs step by step. The implacable faces of his employer +and of the Madam stared upon his discomfiture. On the last flight +of stairs he passed Jack Mooney who was coming up from the +pantry nursing two bottles of Bass. They saluted coldly; and the +lover's eyes rested for a second or two on a thick bulldog face and +a pair of thick short arms. When he reached the foot of the +staircase he glanced up and saw Jack regarding him from the door +of the return-room. + +Suddenly he remembered the night when one of the musichall +artistes, a little blond Londoner, had made a rather free allusion to +Polly. The reunion had been almost broken up on account of Jack's +violence. Everyone tried to quiet him. The music-hall artiste, a +little paler than usual, kept smiling and saying that there was no +harm meant: but Jack kept shouting at him that if any fellow tried +that sort of a game on with his sister he'd bloody well put his teeth +down his throat, so he would. + +Polly sat for a little time on the side of the bed, crying. Then she +dried her eyes and went over to the looking-glass. She dipped the +end of the towel in the water-jug and refreshed her eyes with the +cool water. She looked at herself in profile and readjusted a +hairpin above her ear. Then she went back to the bed again and sat +at the foot. She regarded the pillows for a long time and the sight +of them awakened in her mind secret, amiable memories. She +rested the nape of her neck against the cool iron bed-rail and fell +into a reverie. There was no longer any perturbation visible on her +face. + +She waited on patiently, almost cheerfully, without alarm. her +memories gradually giving place to hopes and visions of the +future. Her hopes and visions were so intricate that she no longer +saw the white pillows on which her gaze was fixed or remembered +that she was waiting for anything. + +At last she heard her mother calling. She started to her feet and ran +to the banisters. + +"Polly! Polly!" + +"Yes, mamma?" + +"Come down, dear. Mr. Doran wants to speak to you." + +Then she remembered what she had been waiting for. + +A LITTLE CLOUD + +EIGHT years before he had seen his friend off at the North Wall +and wished him godspeed. Gallaher had got on. You could tell that +at once by his travelled air, his well-cut tweed suit, and fearless +accent. Few fellows had talents like his and fewer still could +remain unspoiled by such success. Gallaher's heart was in the right +place and he had deserved to win. It was something to have a +friend like that. + +Little Chandler's thoughts ever since lunch-time had been of his +meeting with Gallaher, of Gallaher's invitation and of the great city +London where Gallaher lived. He was called Little Chandler +because, though he was but slightly under the average stature, he +gave one the idea of being a little man. His hands were white and +small, his frame was fragile, his voice was quiet and his manners +were refined. He took the greatest care of his fair silken hair and +moustache and used perfume discreetly on his handkerchief. The +half-moons of his nails were perfect and when he smiled you +caught a glimpse of a row of childish white teeth. + +As he sat at his desk in the King's Inns he thought what changes +those eight years had brought. The friend whom he had known +under a shabby and necessitous guise had become a brilliant figure +on the London Press. He turned often from his tiresome writing to +gaze out of the office window. The glow of a late autumn sunset +covered the grass plots and walks. It cast a shower of kindly +golden dust on the untidy nurses and decrepit old men who +drowsed on the benches; it flickered upon all the moving figures -- +on the children who ran screaming along the gravel paths and on +everyone who passed through the gardens. He watched the scene +and thought of life; and (as always happened when he thought of +life) he became sad. A gentle melancholy took possession of him. +He felt how useless it was to struggle against fortune, this being +the burden of wisdom which the ages had bequeathed to him. + +He remembered the books of poetry upon his shelves at home. He +had bought them in his bachelor days and many an evening, as he +sat in the little room off the hall, he had been tempted to take one +down from the bookshelf and read out something to his wife. But +shyness had always held him back; and so the books had remained +on their shelves. At times he repeated lines to himself and this +consoled him. + +When his hour had struck he stood up and took leave of his desk +and of his fellow-clerks punctiliously. He emerged from under the +feudal arch of the King's Inns, a neat modest figure, and walked +swiftly down Henrietta Street. The golden sunset was waning and +the air had grown sharp. A horde of grimy children populated the +street. They stood or ran in the roadway or crawled up the steps +before the gaping doors or squatted like mice upon the thresholds. +Little Chandler gave them no thought. He picked his way deftly +through all that minute vermin-like life and under the shadow of +the gaunt spectral mansions in which the old nobility of Dublin +had roystered. No memory of the past touched him, for his mind +was full of a present joy. + +He had never been in Corless's but he knew the value of the name. +He knew that people went there after the theatre to eat oysters and +drink liqueurs; and he had heard that the waiters there spoke +French and German. Walking swiftly by at night he had seen cabs +drawn up before the door and richly dressed ladies, escorted by +cavaliers, alight and enter quickly. They wore noisy dresses and +many wraps. Their faces were powdered and they caught up their +dresses, when they touched earth, like alarmed Atalantas. He had +always passed without turning his head to look. It was his habit to +walk swiftly in the street even by day and whenever he found +himself in the city late at night he hurried on his way +apprehensively and excitedly. Sometimes, however, he courted the +causes of his fear. He chose the darkest and narrowest streets and, +as he walked boldly forward, the silence that was spread about his +footsteps troubled him, the wandering, silent figures troubled him; +and at times a sound of low fugitive laughter made him tremble +like a leaf. + +He turned to the right towards Capel Street. Ignatius Gallaher on +the London Press! Who would have thought it possible eight years +before? Still, now that he reviewed the past, Little Chandler could +remember many signs of future greatness in his friend. People used +to say that Ignatius Gallaher was wild Of course, he did mix with a +rakish set of fellows at that time. drank freely and borrowed +money on all sides. In the end he had got mixed up in some shady +affair, some money transaction: at least, that was one version of his +flight. But nobody denied him talent. There was always a certain... +something in Ignatius Gallaher that impressed you in spite of +yourself. Even when he was out at elbows and at his wits' end for +money he kept up a bold face. Little Chandler remembered (and +the remembrance brought a slight flush of pride to his cheek) one +of Ignatius Gallaher's sayings when he was in a tight corner: + +"Half time now, boys," he used to say light-heartedly. "Where's my +considering cap?" + +That was Ignatius Gallaher all out; and, damn it, you couldn't but +admire him for it. + +Little Chandler quickened his pace. For the first time in his life he +felt himself superior to the people he passed. For the first time his +soul revolted against the dull inelegance of Capel Street. There +was no doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go +away. You could do nothing in Dublin. As he crossed Grattan +Bridge he looked down the river towards the lower quays and +pitied the poor stunted houses. They seemed to him a band of +tramps, huddled together along the riverbanks, their old coats +covered with dust and soot, stupefied by the panorama of sunset +and waiting for the first chill of night bid them arise, shake +themselves and begone. He wondered whether he could write a +poem to express his idea. Perhaps Gallaher might be able to get it +into some London paper for him. Could he write something +original? He was not sure what idea he wished to express but the +thought that a poetic moment had touched him took life within +him like an infant hope. He stepped onward bravely. + +Every step brought him nearer to London, farther from his own +sober inartistic life. A light began to tremble on the horizon of his +mind. He was not so old -- thirty-two. His temperament might be +said to be just at the point of maturity. There were so many +different moods and impressions that he wished to express in +verse. He felt them within him. He tried weigh his soul to see if it +was a poet's soul. Melancholy was the dominant note of his +temperament, he thought, but it was a melancholy tempered by +recurrences of faith and resignation and simple joy. If he could +give expression to it in a book of poems perhaps men would listen. +He would never be popular: he saw that. He could not sway the +crowd but he might appeal to a little circle of kindred minds. The +English critics, perhaps, would recognise him as one of the Celtic +school by reason of the melancholy tone of his poems; besides +that, he would put in allusions. He began to invent sentences and +phrases from the notice which his book would get. "Mr. Chandler +has the gift of easy and graceful verse." ... "wistful sadness +pervades these poems." ... "The Celtic note." It was a pity his name +was not more Irish-looking. Perhaps it would be better to insert his +mother's name before the surname: Thomas Malone Chandler, or +better still: T. Malone Chandler. He would speak to Gallaher about +it. + +He pursued his revery so ardently that he passed his street and had +to turn back. As he came near Corless's his former agitation began +to overmaster him and he halted before the door in indecision. +Finally he opened the door and entered. + +The light and noise of the bar held him at the doorways for a few +moments. He looked about him, but his sight was confused by the +shining of many red and green wine-glasses The bar seemed to him +to be full of people and he felt that the people were observing him +curiously. He glanced quickly to right and left (frowning slightly to +make his errand appear serious), but when his sight cleared a little +he saw that nobody had turned to look at him: and there, sure +enough, was Ignatius Gallaher leaning with his back against the +counter and his feet planted far apart. + +"Hallo, Tommy, old hero, here you are! What is it to be? What will +you have? I'm taking whisky: better stuff than we get across the +water. Soda? Lithia? No mineral? I'm the same Spoils the +flavour.... Here, garcon, bring us two halves of malt whisky, like a +good fellow.... Well, and how have you been pulling along since I +saw you last? Dear God, how old we're getting! Do you see any +signs of aging in me -- eh, what? A little grey and thin on the top -- +what?" + +Ignatius Gallaher took off his hat and displayed a large closely +cropped head. His face was heavy, pale and cleanshaven. His eyes, +which were of bluish slate-colour, relieved his unhealthy pallor +and shone out plainly above the vivid orange tie he wore. Between +these rival features the lips appeared very long and shapeless and +colourless. He bent his head and felt with two sympathetic fingers +the thin hair at the crown. Little Chandler shook his head as a +denial. Ignatius Galaher put on his hat again. + +"It pulls you down," be said, "Press life. Always hurry and scurry, +looking for copy and sometimes not finding it: and then, always to +have something new in your stuff. Damn proofs and printers, I say, +for a few days. I'm deuced glad, I can tell you, to get back to the +old country. Does a fellow good, a bit of a holiday. I feel a ton +better since I landed again in dear dirty Dublin.... Here you are, +Tommy. Water? Say when." + +Little Chandler allowed his whisky to be very much diluted. + +"You don't know what's good for you, my boy," said Ignatius +Gallaher. "I drink mine neat." + +"I drink very little as a rule," said Little Chandler modestly. "An +odd half-one or so when I meet any of the old crowd: that's all." + +"Ah well," said Ignatius Gallaher, cheerfully, "here's to us and to +old times and old acquaintance." + +They clinked glasses and drank the toast. + +"I met some of the old gang today," said Ignatius Gallaher. "O'Hara +seems to be in a bad way. What's he doing?" + +"Nothing, said Little Chandler. "He's gone to the dogs." + +"But Hogan has a good sit, hasn't he?" + +"Yes; he's in the Land Commission." + +"I met him one night in London and he seemed to be very flush.... +Poor O'Hara! Boose, I suppose?" + +"Other things, too," said Little Chandler shortly. + +Ignatius Gallaher laughed. + +"Tommy," he said, "I see you haven't changed an atom. You're the +very same serious person that used to lecture me on Sunday +mornings when I had a sore head and a fur on my tongue. You'd +want to knock about a bit in the world. Have you never been +anywhere even for a trip?" + +"I've been to the Isle of Man," said Little Chandler. + +Ignatius Gallaher laughed. + +"The Isle of Man!" he said. "Go to London or Paris: Paris, for +choice. That'd do you good." + +"Have you seen Paris?" + +"I should think I have! I've knocked about there a little." + +"And is it really so beautiful as they say?" asked Little Chandler. + +He sipped a little of his drink while Ignatius Gallaher finished his +boldly. + +"Beautiful?" said Ignatius Gallaher, pausing on the word and on +the flavour of his drink. "It's not so beautiful, you know. Of course, +it is beautiful.... But it's the life of Paris; that's the thing. Ah, there's +no city like Paris for gaiety, movement, excitement...." + +Little Chandler finished his whisky and, after some trouble, +succeeded in catching the barman's eye. He ordered the same +again. + +"I've been to the Moulin Rouge," Ignatius Gallaher continued when +the barman had removed their glasses, "and I've been to all the +Bohemian cafes. Hot stuff! Not for a pious chap like you, +Tommy." + +Little Chandler said nothing until the barman returned with two +glasses: then he touched his friend's glass lightly and reciprocated +the former toast. He was beginning to feel somewhat disillusioned. +Gallaher's accent and way of expressing himself did not please +him. There was something vulgar in his friend which he had not +observed before. But perhaps it was only the result of living in +London amid the bustle and competition of the Press. The old +personal charm was still there under this new gaudy manner. And, +after all, Gallaher had lived, he had seen the world. Little Chandler +looked at his friend enviously. + +"Everything in Paris is gay," said Ignatius Gallaher. "They believe +in enjoying life -- and don't you think they're right? If you want to +enjoy yourself properly you must go to Paris. And, mind you, +they've a great feeling for the Irish there. When they heard I was +from Ireland they were ready to eat me, man." + +Little Chandler took four or five sips from his glass. + +"Tell me," he said, "is it true that Paris is so... immoral as they +say?" + +Ignatius Gallaher made a catholic gesture with his right arm. + +"Every place is immoral," he said. "Of course you do find spicy +bits in Paris. Go to one of the students' balls, for instance. That's +lively, if you like, when the cocottes begin to let themselves loose. +You know what they are, I suppose?" + +"I've heard of them," said Little Chandler. + +Ignatius Gallaher drank off his whisky and shook his had. + +"Ah," he said, "you may say what you like. There's no woman like +the Parisienne -- for style, for go." + +"Then it is an immoral city," said Little Chandler, with timid +insistence -- "I mean, compared with London or Dublin?" + +"London!" said Ignatius Gallaher. "It's six of one and half-a-dozen +of the other. You ask Hogan, my boy. I showed him a bit about +London when he was over there. He'd open your eye.... I say, +Tommy, don't make punch of that whisky: liquor up." + +"No, really...." + +"O, come on, another one won't do you any harm. What is it? The +same again, I suppose?" + +"Well... all right." + +"Francois, the same again.... Will you smoke, Tommy?" + +Ignatius Gallaher produced his cigar-case. The two friends lit their +cigars and puffed at them in silence until their drinks were served. + +"I'll tell you my opinion," said Ignatius Gallaher, emerging after +some time from the clouds of smoke in which he had taken refuge, +"it's a rum world. Talk of immorality! I've heard of cases -- what +am I saying? -- I've known them: cases of... immorality...." + +Ignatius Gallaher puffed thoughtfully at his cigar and then, in a +calm historian's tone, he proceeded to sketch for his friend some +pictures of the corruption which was rife abroad. He summarised +the vices of many capitals and seemed inclined to award the palm +to Berlin. Some things he could not vouch for (his friends had told +him), but of others he had had personal experience. He spared +neither rank nor caste. He revealed many of the secrets of religious +houses on the Continent and described some of the practices which +were fashionable in high society and ended by telling, with details, +a story about an English duchess -- a story which he knew to be +true. Little Chandler as astonished. + +"Ah, well," said Ignatius Gallaher, "here we are in old jog- along +Dublin where nothing is known of such things." + +"How dull you must find it," said Little Chandler, "after all the +other places you've seen!" + +Well," said Ignatius Gallaher, "it's a relaxation to come over here, +you know. And, after all, it's the old country, as they say, isn't it? +You can't help having a certain feeling for it. That's human +nature.... But tell me something about yourself. Hogan told me you +had... tasted the joys of connubial bliss. Two years ago, wasn't it?" + +Little Chandler blushed and smiled. + +"Yes," he said. "I was married last May twelve months." + +"I hope it's not too late in the day to offer my best wishes," said +Ignatius Gallaher. "I didn't know your address or I'd have done so +at the time." + +He extended his hand, which Little Chandler took. + +"Well, Tommy," he said, "I wish you and yours every joy in life, +old chap, and tons of money, and may you never die till I shoot +you. And that's the wish of a sincere friend, an old friend. You +know that?" + +"I know that," said Little Chandler. + +"Any youngsters?" said Ignatius Gallaher. + +Little Chandler blushed again. + +"We have one child," he said. + +"Son or daughter?" + +"A little boy." + +Ignatius Gallaher slapped his friend sonorously on the back. + +"Bravo," he said, "I wouldn't doubt you, Tommy." + +Little Chandler smiled, looked confusedly at his glass and bit his +lower lip with three childishly white front teeth. + +"I hope you'll spend an evening with us," he said, "before you go +back. My wife will be delighted to meet you. We can have a little +music and----" + +"Thanks awfully, old chap," said Ignatius Gallaher, "I'm sorry we +didn't meet earlier. But I must leave tomorrow night." + +"Tonight, perhaps...?" + +"I'm awfully sorry, old man. You see I'm over here with another +fellow, clever young chap he is too, and we arranged to go to a +little card-party. Only for that..." + +"O, in that case..." + +"But who knows?" said Ignatius Gallaher considerately. "Next year +I may take a little skip over here now that I've broken the ice. It's +only a pleasure deferred." + +"Very well," said Little Chandler, "the next time you come we +must have an evening together. That's agreed now, isn't it?" + +"Yes, that's agreed," said Ignatius Gallaher. "Next year if I come, +parole d'honneur." + +"And to clinch the bargain," said Little Chandler, "we'll just have +one more now." + +Ignatius Gallaher took out a large gold watch and looked a it. + +"Is it to be the last?" he said. "Because you know, I have an a.p." + +"O, yes, positively," said Little Chandler. + +"Very well, then," said Ignatius Gallaher, "let us have another one +as a deoc an doruis -- that's good vernacular for a small whisky, I +believe." + +Little Chandler ordered the drinks. The blush which had risen to +his face a few moments before was establishing itself. A trifle +made him blush at any time: and now he felt warm and excited. +Three small whiskies had gone to his head and Gallaher's strong +cigar had confused his mind, for he was a delicate and abstinent +person. The adventure of meeting Gallaher after eight years, of +finding himself with Gallaher in Corless's surrounded by lights and +noise, of listening to Gallaher's stories and of sharing for a brief +space Gallaher's vagrant and triumphant life, upset the equipoise of +his sensitive nature. He felt acutely the contrast between his own +life and his friend's and it seemed to him unjust. Gallaher was his +inferior in birth and education. He was sure that he could do +something better than his friend had ever done, or could ever do, +something higher than mere tawdry journalism if he only got the +chance. What was it that stood in his way? His unfortunate timidity +He wished to vindicate himself in some way, to assert his +manhood. He saw behind Gallaher's refusal of his invitation. +Gallaher was only patronising him by his friendliness just as he +was patronising Ireland by his visit. + +The barman brought their drinks. Little Chandler pushed one glass +towards his friend and took up the other boldly. + +"Who knows?" he said, as they lifted their glasses. "When you +come next year I may have the pleasure of wishing long life and +happiness to Mr. and Mrs. Ignatius Gallaher." + +Ignatius Gallaher in the act of drinking closed one eye expressively +over the rim of his glass. When he had drunk he smacked his lips +decisively, set down his glass and said: + +"No blooming fear of that, my boy. I'm going to have my fling first +and see a bit of life and the world before I put my head in the sack +-- if I ever do." + +"Some day you will," said Little Chandler calmly. + +Ignatius Gallaher turned his orange tie and slate-blue eyes full +upon his friend. + +"You think so?" he said. + +"You'll put your head in the sack," repeated Little Chandler stoutly, +"like everyone else if you can find the girl." + +He had slightly emphasised his tone and he was aware that he had +betrayed himself; but, though the colour had heightened in his +cheek, he did not flinch from his friend's gaze. Ignatius Gallaher +watched him for a few moments and then said: + +"If ever it occurs, you may bet your bottom dollar there'll be no +mooning and spooning about it. I mean to marry money. She'll +have a good fat account at the bank or she won't do for me." + +Little Chandler shook his head. + +"Why, man alive," said Ignatius Gallaher, vehemently, "do you +know what it is? I've only to say the word and tomorrow I can have +the woman and the cash. You don't believe it? Well, I know it. +There are hundreds -- what am I saying? -- thousands of rich +Germans and Jews, rotten with money, that'd only be too glad.... +You wait a while my boy. See if I don't play my cards properly. +When I go about a thing I mean business, I tell you. You just wait." + +He tossed his glass to his mouth, finished his drink and laughed +loudly. Then he looked thoughtfully before him and said in a +calmer tone: + +"But I'm in no hurry. They can wait. I don't fancy tying myself up +to one woman, you know." + +He imitated with his mouth the act of tasting and made a wry face. + +"Must get a bit stale, I should think," he said. + +Little Chandler sat in the room off the hall, holding a child in his +arms. To save money they kept no servant but Annie's young sister +Monica came for an hour or so in the morning and an hour or so in +the evening to help. But Monica had gone home long ago. It was a +quarter to nine. Little Chandler had come home late for tea and, +moreover, he had forgotten to bring Annie home the parcel of +coffee from Bewley's. Of course she was in a bad humour and gave +him short answers. She said she would do without any tea but +when it came near the time at which the shop at the corner closed +she decided to go out herself for a quarter of a pound of tea and +two pounds of sugar. She put the sleeping child deftly in his arms +and said: + +"Here. Don't waken him." + +A little lamp with a white china shade stood upon the table and its +light fell over a photograph which was enclosed in a frame of +crumpled horn. It was Annie's photograph. Little Chandler looked +at it, pausing at the thin tight lips. She wore the pale blue summer +blouse which he had brought her home as a present one Saturday. +It had cost him ten and elevenpence; but what an agony of +nervousness it had cost him! How he had suffered that day, waiting +at the shop door until the shop was empty, standing at the counter +and trying to appear at his ease while the girl piled ladies' blouses +before him, paying at the desk and forgetting to take up the odd +penny of his change, being called back by the cashier, and finally, +striving to hide his blushes as he left the shop by examining the +parcel to see if it was securely tied. When he brought the blouse +home Annie kissed him and said it was very pretty and stylish; but +when she heard the price she threw the blouse on the table and said +it was a regular swindle to charge ten and elevenpence for it. At +first she wanted to take it back but when she tried it on she was +delighted with it, especially with the make of the sleeves, and +kissed him and said he was very good to think of her. + +Hm!... + +He looked coldly into the eyes of the photograph and they +answered coldly. Certainly they were pretty and the face itself was +pretty. But he found something mean in it. Why was it so +unconscious and ladylike? The composure of the eyes irritated +him. They repelled him and defied him: there was no passion in +them, no rapture. He thought of what Gallaher had said about rich +Jewesses. Those dark Oriental eyes, he thought, how full they are +of passion, of voluptuous longing!... Why had he married the eyes +in the photograph? + +He caught himself up at the question and glanced nervously round +the room. He found something mean in the pretty furniture which +he had bought for his house on the hire system. Annie had chosen +it herself and it reminded hi of her. It too was prim and pretty. A +dull resentment against his life awoke within him. Could he not +escape from his little house? Was it too late for him to try to live +bravely like Gallaher? Could he go to London? There was the +furniture still to be paid for. If he could only write a book and get +it published, that might open the way for him. + +A volume of Byron's poems lay before him on the table. He opened +it cautiously with his left hand lest he should waken the child and +began to read the first poem in the book: + +Hushed are the winds and still the evening gloom, + +Not e'en a Zephyr wanders through the grove, + +Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb + +And scatter flowers on tbe dust I love. + +He paused. He felt the rhythm of the verse about him in the room. +How melancholy it was! Could he, too, write like that, express the +melancholy of his soul in verse? There were so many things he +wanted to describe: his sensation of a few hours before on Grattan +Bridge, for example. If he could get back again into that mood.... + +The child awoke and began to cry. He turned from the page and +tried to hush it: but it would not be hushed. He began to rock it to +and fro in his arms but its wailing cry grew keener. He rocked it +faster while his eyes began to read the second stanza: + +Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, + +That clay where once... + +It was useless. He couldn't read. He couldn't do anything. The +wailing of the child pierced the drum of his ear. It was useless, +useless! He was a prisoner for life. His arms trembled with anger +and suddenly bending to the child's face he shouted: + +"Stop!" + +The child stopped for an instant, had a spasm of fright and began +to scream. He jumped up from his chair and walked hastily up and +down the room with the child in his arms. It began to sob +piteously, losing its breath for four or five seconds, and then +bursting out anew. The thin walls of the room echoed the sound. +He tried to soothe it but it sobbed more convulsively. He looked at +the contracted and quivering face of the child and began to be +alarmed. He counted seven sobs without a break between them and +caught the child to his breast in fright. If it died!... + +The door was burst open and a young woman ran in, panting. + +"What is it? What is it?" she cried. + +The child, hearing its mother's voice, broke out into a paroxysm of +sobbing. + +"It's nothing, Annie ... it's nothing.... He began to cry..." + +She flung her parcels on the floor and snatched the child from him. + +"What have you done to him?" she cried, glaring into his face. + +Little Chandler sustained for one moment the gaze of her eyes and +his heart closed together as he met the hatred in them. He began to +stammer: + +"It's nothing.... He ... he began to cry.... I couldn't ... I didn't do +anything.... What?" + +Giving no heed to him she began to walk up and down the room, +clasping the child tightly in her arms and murmuring: + +"My little man! My little mannie! Was 'ou frightened, love?... +There now, love! There now!... Lambabaun! Mamma's little lamb +of the world!... There now!" + +Little Chandler felt his cheeks suffused with shame and he stood +back out of the lamplight. He listened while the paroxysm of the +child's sobbing grew less and less; and tears of remorse started to +his eyes. + +COUNTERPARTS + +THE bell rang furiously and, when Miss Parker went to the tube, a +furious voice called out in a piercing North of Ireland accent: + +"Send Farrington here!" + +Miss Parker returned to her machine, saying to a man who was +writing at a desk: + +"Mr. Alleyne wants you upstairs." + +The man muttered "Blast him!" under his breath and pushed back +his chair to stand up. When he stood up he was tall and of great +bulk. He had a hanging face, dark wine-coloured, with fair +eyebrows and moustache: his eyes bulged forward slightly and the +whites of them were dirty. He lifted up the counter and, passing by +the clients, went out of the office with a heavy step. + +He went heavily upstairs until he came to the second landing, +where a door bore a brass plate with the inscription Mr. Alleyne. +Here he halted, puffing with labour and vexation, and knocked. +The shrill voice cried: + +"Come in!" + +The man entered Mr. Alleyne's room. Simultaneously Mr. Alleyne, +a little man wearing gold-rimmed glasses on a cleanshaven face, +shot his head up over a pile of documents. The head itself was so +pink and hairless it seemed like a large egg reposing on the papers. +Mr. Alleyne did not lose a moment: + +"Farrington? What is the meaning of this? Why have I always to +complain of you? May I ask you why you haven't made a copy of +that contract between Bodley and Kirwan? I told you it must be +ready by four o'clock." + +"But Mr. Shelley said, sir----" + +"Mr. Shelley said, sir .... Kindly attend to what I say and not to +what Mr. Shelley says, sir. You have always some excuse or +another for shirking work. Let me tell you that if the contract is not +copied before this evening I'll lay the matter before Mr. Crosbie.... +Do you hear me now?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Do you hear me now?... Ay and another little matter! I might as +well be talking to the wall as talking to you. Understand once for +all that you get a half an hour for your lunch and not an hour and a +half. How many courses do you want, I'd like to know.... Do you +mind me now?" + +"Yes, sir." + +Mr. Alleyne bent his head again upon his pile of papers. The man +stared fixedly at the polished skull which directed the affairs of +Crosbie & Alleyne, gauging its fragility. A spasm of rage gripped +his throat for a few moments and then passed, leaving after it a +sharp sensation of thirst. The man recognised the sensation and felt +that he must have a good night's drinking. The middle of the month +was passed and, if he could get the copy done in time, Mr. Alleyne +might give him an order on the cashier. He stood still, gazing +fixedly at the head upon the pile of papers. Suddenly Mr. Alleyne +began to upset all the papers, searching for something. Then, as if +he had been unaware of the man's presence till that moment, he +shot up his head again, saying: + +"Eh? Are you going to stand there all day? Upon my word, +Farrington, you take things easy!" + +"I was waiting to see..." + +"Very good, you needn't wait to see. Go downstairs and do your +work." + +The man walked heavily towards the door and, as he went out of +the room, he heard Mr. Alleyne cry after him that if the contract +was not copied by evening Mr. Crosbie would hear of the matter. + +He returned to his desk in the lower office and counted the sheets +which remained to be copied. He took up his pen and dipped it in +the ink but he continued to stare stupidly at the last words he had +written: In no case shall the said Bernard Bodley be... The evening +was falling and in a few minutes they would be lighting the gas: +then he could write. He felt that he must slake the thirst in his +throat. He stood up from his desk and, lifting the counter as before, +passed out of the office. As he was passing out the chief clerk +looked at him inquiringly. + +"It's all right, Mr. Shelley," said the man, pointing with his finger +to indicate the objective of his journey. + +The chief clerk glanced at the hat-rack, but, seeing the row +complete, offered no remark. As soon as he was on the landing the +man pulled a shepherd's plaid cap out of his pocket, put it on his +head and ran quickly down the rickety stairs. From the street door +he walked on furtively on the inner side of the path towards the +corner and all at once dived into a doorway. He was now safe in +the dark snug of O'Neill's shop, and filling up the little window +that looked into the bar with his inflamed face, the colour of dark +wine or dark meat, he called out: + +"Here, Pat, give us a g.p.. like a good fellow." + +The curate brought him a glass of plain porter. The man drank it at +a gulp and asked for a caraway seed. He put his penny on the +counter and, leaving the curate to grope for it in the gloom, +retreated out of the snug as furtively as he had entered it. + +Darkness, accompanied by a thick fog, was gaining upon the dusk +of February and the lamps in Eustace Street had been lit. The man +went up by the houses until he reached the door of the office, +wondering whether he could finish his copy in time. On the stairs a +moist pungent odour of perfumes saluted his nose: evidently Miss +Delacour had come while he was out in O'Neill's. He crammed his +cap back again into his pocket and re-entered the office, assuming +an air of absentmindedness. + +"Mr. Alleyne has been calling for you," said the chief clerk +severely. "Where were you?" + +The man glanced at the two clients who were standing at the +counter as if to intimate that their presence prevented him from +answering. As the clients were both male the chief clerk allowed +himself a laugh. + +"I know that game," he said. "Five times in one day is a little bit... +Well, you better look sharp and get a copy of our correspondence +in the Delacour case for Mr. Alleyne." + +This address in the presence of the public, his run upstairs and the +porter he had gulped down so hastily confused the man and, as he +sat down at his desk to get what was required, he realised how +hopeless was the task of finishing his copy of the contract before +half past five. The dark damp night was coming and he longed to +spend it in the bars, drinking with his friends amid the glare of gas +and the clatter of glasses. He got out the Delacour correspondence +and passed out of the office. He hoped Mr. Alleyne would not +discover that the last two letters were missing. + +The moist pungent perfume lay all the way up to Mr. Alleyne's +room. Miss Delacour was a middle-aged woman of Jewish +appearance. Mr. Alleyne was said to be sweet on her or on her +money. She came to the office often and stayed a long time when +she came. She was sitting beside his desk now in an aroma of +perfumes, smoothing the handle of her umbrella and nodding the +great black feather in her hat. Mr. Alleyne had swivelled his chair +round to face her and thrown his right foot jauntily upon his left +knee. The man put the correspondence on the desk and bowed +respectfully but neither Mr. Alleyne nor Miss Delacour took any +notice of his bow. Mr. Alleyne tapped a finger on the +correspondence and then flicked it towards him as if to say: "That's +all right: you can go." + +The man returned to the lower office and sat down again at his +desk. He stared intently at the incomplete phrase: In no case shall +the said Bernard Bodley be... and thought how strange it was that +the last three words began with the same letter. The chief clerk +began to hurry Miss Parker, saying she would never have the +letters typed in time for post. The man listened to the clicking of +the machine for a few minutes and then set to work to finish his +copy. But his head was not clear and his mind wandered away to +the glare and rattle of the public-house. It was a night for hot +punches. He struggled on with his copy, but when the clock struck +five he had still fourteen pages to write. Blast it! He couldn't finish +it in time. He longed to execrate aloud, to bring his fist down on +something violently. He was so enraged that he wrote Bernard +Bernard instead of Bernard Bodley and had to begin again on a +clean sheet. + +He felt strong enough to clear out the whole office singlehanded. +His body ached to do something, to rush out and revel in violence. +All the indignities of his life enraged him.... Could he ask the +cashier privately for an advance? No, the cashier was no good, no +damn good: he wouldn't give an advance.... He knew where he +would meet the boys: Leonard and O'Halloran and Nosey Flynn. +The barometer of his emotional nature was set for a spell of riot. + +His imagination had so abstracted him that his name was called +twice before he answered. Mr. Alleyne and Miss Delacour were +standing outside the counter and all the clerks had turn round in +anticipation of something. The man got up from his desk. Mr. +Alleyne began a tirade of abuse, saying that two letters were +missing. The man answered that he knew nothing about them, that +he had made a faithful copy. The tirade continued: it was so bitter +and violent that the man could hardly restrain his fist from +descending upon the head of the manikin before him: + +"I know nothing about any other two letters," he said stupidly. + +"You--know--nothing. Of course you know nothing," said Mr. +Alleyne. "Tell me," he added, glancing first for approval to the +lady beside him, "do you take me for a fool? Do you think me an +utter fool?" + +The man glanced from the lady's face to the little egg-shaped head +and back again; and, almost before he was aware of it, his tongue +had found a felicitous moment: + +"I don't think, sir," he said, "that that's a fair question to put to me." + +There was a pause in the very breathing of the clerks. Everyone +was astounded (the author of the witticism no less than his +neighbours) and Miss Delacour, who was a stout amiable person, +began to smile broadly. Mr. Alleyne flushed to the hue of a wild +rose and his mouth twitched with a dwarf s passion. He shook his +fist in the man's face till it seemed to vibrate like the knob of some +electric machine: + +"You impertinent ruffian! You impertinent ruffian! I'll make short +work of you! Wait till you see! You'll apologise to me for your +impertinence or you'll quit the office instanter! You'll quit this, I'm +telling you, or you'll apologise to me!" + + + + + +He stood in a doorway opposite the office watching to see if the +cashier would come out alone. All the clerks passed out and finally +the cashier came out with the chief clerk. It was no use trying to +say a word to him when he was with the chief clerk. The man felt +that his position was bad enough. He had been obliged to offer an +abject apology to Mr. Alleyne for his impertinence but he knew +what a hornet's nest the office would be for him. He could +remember the way in which Mr. Alleyne had hounded little Peake +out of the office in order to make room for his own nephew. He +felt savage and thirsty and revengeful, annoyed with himself and +with everyone else. Mr. Alleyne would never give him an hour's +rest; his life would be a hell to him. He had made a proper fool of +himself this time. Could he not keep his tongue in his cheek? But +they had never pulled together from the first, he and Mr. Alleyne, +ever since the day Mr. Alleyne had overheard him mimicking his +North of Ireland accent to amuse Higgins and Miss Parker: that +had been the beginning of it. He might have tried Higgins for the +money, but sure Higgins never had anything for himself. A man +with two establishments to keep up, of course he couldn't.... + +He felt his great body again aching for the comfort of the +public-house. The fog had begun to chill him and he wondered +could he touch Pat in O'Neill's. He could not touch him for more +than a bob -- and a bob was no use. Yet he must get money +somewhere or other: he had spent his last penny for the g.p. and +soon it would be too late for getting money anywhere. Suddenly, +as he was fingering his watch-chain, he thought of Terry Kelly's +pawn-office in Fleet Street. That was the dart! Why didn't he think +of it sooner? + +He went through the narrow alley of Temple Bar quickly, +muttering to himself that they could all go to hell because he was +going to have a good night of it. The clerk in Terry Kelly's said A +crown! but the consignor held out for six shillings; and in the end +the six shillings was allowed him literally. He came out of the +pawn-office joyfully, making a little cylinder, of the coins between +his thumb and fingers. In Westmoreland Street the footpaths were +crowded with young men and women returning from business and +ragged urchins ran here and there yelling out the names of the +evening editions. The man passed through the crowd, looking on +the spectacle generally with proud satisfaction and staring +masterfully at the office-girls. His head was full of the noises of +tram- gongs and swishing trolleys and his nose already sniffed the +curling fumes punch. As he walked on he preconsidered the terms +in which he would narrate the incident to the boys: + +"So, I just looked at him -- coolly, you know, and looked at her. +Then I looked back at him again -- taking my time, you know. 'I +don't think that that's a fair question to put to me,' says I." + +Nosey Flynn was sitting up in his usual corner of Davy Byrne's +and, when he heard the story, he stood Farrington a half-one, +saying it was as smart a thing as ever he heard. Farrington stood a +drink in his turn. After a while O'Halloran and Paddy Leonard +came in and the story was repeated to them. O'Halloran stood +tailors of malt, hot, all round and told the story of the retort he had +made to the chief clerk when he was in Callan's of Fownes's Street; +but, as the retort was after the manner of the liberal shepherds in +the eclogues, he had to admit that it was not as clever as +Farrington's retort. At this Farrington told the boys to polish off +that and have another. + +Just as they were naming their poisons who should come in but +Higgins! Of course he had to join in with the others. The men +asked him to give his version of it, and he did so with great +vivacity for the sight of five small hot whiskies was very +exhilarating. Everyone roared laughing when he showed the way in +which Mr. Alleyne shook his fist in Farrington's face. Then he +imitated Farrington, saying, "And here was my nabs, as cool as you +please," while Farrington looked at the company out of his heavy +dirty eyes, smiling and at times drawing forth stray drops of liquor +from his moustache with the aid of his lower lip. + +When that round was over there was a pause. O'Halloran had +money but neither of the other two seemed to have any; so the +whole party left the shop somewhat regretfully. At the corner of +Duke Street Higgins and Nosey Flynn bevelled off to the left while +the other three turned back towards the city. Rain was drizzling +down on the cold streets and, when they reached the Ballast +Office, Farrington suggested the Scotch House. The bar was full of +men and loud with the noise of tongues and glasses. The three men +pushed past the whining matchsellers at the door and formed a +little party at the corner of the counter. They began to exchange +stories. Leonard introduced them to a young fellow named +Weathers who was performing at the Tivoli as an acrobat and +knockabout artiste. Farrington stood a drink all round. Weathers +said he would take a small Irish and Apollinaris. Farrington, who +had definite notions of what was what, asked the boys would they +have an Apollinaris too; but the boys told Tim to make theirs hot. +The talk became theatrical. O'Halloran stood a round and then +Farrington stood another round, Weathers protesting that the +hospitality was too Irish. He promised to get them in behind the +scenes and introduce them to some nice girls. O'Halloran said that +he and Leonard would go, but that Farrington wouldn't go because +he was a married man; and Farrington's heavy dirty eyes leered at +the company in token that he understood he was being chaffed. +Weathers made them all have just one little tincture at his expense +and promised to meet them later on at Mulligan's in Poolbeg +Street. + +When the Scotch House closed they went round to Mulligan's. +They went into the parlour at the back and O'Halloran ordered +small hot specials all round. They were all beginning to feel +mellow. Farrington was just standing another round when +Weathers came back. Much to Farrington's relief he drank a glass +of bitter this time. Funds were getting low but they had enough to +keep them going. Presently two young women with big hats and a +young man in a check suit came in and sat at a table close by. +Weathers saluted them and told the company that they were out of +the Tivoli. Farrington's eyes wandered at every moment in the +direction of one of the young women. There was something +striking in her appearance. An immense scarf of peacock-blue +muslin was wound round her hat and knotted in a great bow under +her chin; and she wore bright yellow gloves, reaching to the elbow. +Farrington gazed admiringly at the plump arm which she moved +very often and with much grace; and when, after a little time, she +answered his gaze he admired still more her large dark brown eyes. +The oblique staring expression in them fascinated him. She +glanced at him once or twice and, when the party was leaving the +room, she brushed against his chair and said "O, pardon!" in a +London accent. He watched her leave the room in the hope that she +would look back at him, but he was disappointed. He cursed his +want of money and cursed all the rounds he had stood, particularly +all the whiskies and Apolinaris which he had stood to Weathers. If +there was one thing that he hated it was a sponge. He was so angry +that he lost count of the conversation of his friends. + +When Paddy Leonard called him he found that they were talking +about feats of strength. Weathers was showing his biceps muscle +to the company and boasting so much that the other two had called +on Farrington to uphold the national honour. Farrington pulled up +his sleeve accordingly and showed his biceps muscle to the +company. The two arms were examined and compared and finally +it was agreed to have a trial of strength. The table was cleared and +the two men rested their elbows on it, clasping hands. When Paddy +Leonard said "Go!" each was to try to bring down the other's hand +on to the table. Farrington looked very serious and determined. + +The trial began. After about thirty seconds Weathers brought his +opponent's hand slowly down on to the table. Farrington's dark +wine-coloured face flushed darker still with anger and humiliation +at having been defeated by such a stripling. + +"You're not to put the weight of your body behind it. Play fair," he +said. + +"Who's not playing fair?" said the other. + +"Come on again. The two best out of three." + +The trial began again. The veins stood out on Farrington's +forehead, and the pallor of Weathers' complexion changed to +peony. Their hands and arms trembled under the stress. After a +long struggle Weathers again brought his opponent's hand slowly +on to the table. There was a murmur of applause from the +spectators. The curate, who was standing beside the table, nodded +his red head towards the victor and said with stupid familiarity: + +"Ah! that's the knack!" + +"What the hell do you know about it?" said Farrington fiercely, +turning on the man. "What do you put in your gab for?" + +"Sh, sh!" said O'Halloran, observing the violent expression of +Farrington's face. "Pony up, boys. We'll have just one little smahan +more and then we'll be off." + + + + + +A very sullen-faced man stood at the corner of O'Connell Bridge +waiting for the little Sandymount tram to take him home. He was +full of smouldering anger and revengefulness. He felt humiliated +and discontented; he did not even feel drunk; and he had only +twopence in his pocket. He cursed everything. He had done for +himself in the office, pawned his watch, spent all his money; and +he had not even got drunk. He began to feel thirsty again and he +longed to be back again in the hot reeking public-house. He had +lost his reputation as a strong man, having been defeated twice by +a mere boy. His heart swelled with fury and, when he thought of +the woman in the big hat who had brushed against him and said +Pardon! his fury nearly choked him. + +His tram let him down at Shelbourne Road and he steered his great +body along in the shadow of the wall of the barracks. He loathed +returning to his home. When he went in by the side- door he found +the kitchen empty and the kitchen fire nearly out. He bawled +upstairs: + +"Ada! Ada!" + +His wife was a little sharp-faced woman who bullied her husband +when he was sober and was bullied by him when he was drunk. +They had five children. A little boy came running down the stairs. + +"Who is that?" said the man, peering through the darkness. + +"Me, pa." + +"Who are you? Charlie?" + +"No, pa. Tom." + +"Where's your mother?" + +"She's out at the chapel." + +"That's right.... Did she think of leaving any dinner for me?" + +"Yes, pa. I --" + +"Light the lamp. What do you mean by having the place in +darkness? Are the other children in bed?" + +The man sat down heavily on one of the chairs while the little boy +lit the lamp. He began to mimic his son's flat accent, saying half to +himself: "At the chapel. At the chapel, if you please!" When the +lamp was lit he banged his fist on the table and shouted: + +"What's for my dinner?" + +"I'm going... to cook it, pa," said the little boy. + +The man jumped up furiously and pointed to the fire. + +"On that fire! You let the fire out! By God, I'll teach you to do that +again!" + +He took a step to the door and seized the walking-stick which was +standing behind it. + +"I'll teach you to let the fire out!" he said, rolling up his sleeve in +order to give his arm free play. + +The little boy cried "O, pa!" and ran whimpering round the table, +but the man followed him and caught him by the coat. The little +boy looked about him wildly but, seeing no way of escape, fell +upon his knees. + +"Now, you'll let the fire out the next time!" said the man striking at +him vigorously with the stick. "Take that, you little whelp!" + +The boy uttered a squeal of pain as the stick cut his thigh. He +clasped his hands together in the air and his voice shook with +fright. + +"O, pa!" he cried. "Don't beat me, pa! And I'll... I'll say a Hail Mary +for you.... I'll say a Hail Mary for you, pa, if you don't beat me.... +I'll say a Hail Mary...." + +CLAY + +THE matron had given her leave to go out as soon as the women's +tea was over and Maria looked forward to her evening out. The +kitchen was spick and span: the cook said you could see yourself +in the big copper boilers. The fire was nice and bright and on one +of the side-tables were four very big barmbracks. These +barmbracks seemed uncut; but if you went closer you would see +that they had been cut into long thick even slices and were ready to +be handed round at tea. Maria had cut them herself. + +Maria was a very, very small person indeed but she had a very long +nose and a very long chin. She talked a little through her nose, +always soothingly: "Yes, my dear," and "No, my dear." She was +always sent for when the women quarrelled Over their tubs and +always succeeded in making peace. One day the matron had said to +her: + +"Maria, you are a veritable peace-maker!" + +And the sub-matron and two of the Board ladies had heard the +compliment. And Ginger Mooney was always saying what she +wouldn't do to the dummy who had charge of the irons if it wasn't +for Maria. Everyone was so fond of Maria. + +The women would have their tea at six o'clock and she would be +able to get away before seven. From Ballsbridge to the Pillar, +twenty minutes; from the Pillar to Drumcondra, twenty minutes; +and twenty minutes to buy the things. She would be there before +eight. She took out her purse with the silver clasps and read again +the words A Present from Belfast. She was very fond of that purse +because Joe had brought it to her five years before when he and +Alphy had gone to Belfast on a Whit-Monday trip. In the purse +were two half-crowns and some coppers. She would have five +shillings clear after paying tram fare. What a nice evening they +would have, all the children singing! Only she hoped that Joe +wouldn't come in drunk. He was so different when he took any +drink. + +Often he had wanted her to go and live with them;-but she would +have felt herself in the way (though Joe's wife was ever so nice +with her) and she had become accustomed to the life of the +laundry. Joe was a good fellow. She had nursed him and Alphy +too; and Joe used often say: + +"Mamma is mamma but Maria is my proper mother." + +After the break-up at home the boys had got her that position in the +Dublin by Lamplight laundry, and she liked it. She used to have +such a bad opinion of Protestants but now she thought they were +very nice people, a little quiet and serious, but still very nice +people to live with. Then she had her plants in the conservatory +and she liked looking after them. She had lovely ferns and +wax-plants and, whenever anyone came to visit her, she always +gave the visitor one or two slips from her conservatory. There was +one thing she didn't like and that was the tracts on the walks; but +the matron was such a nice person to deal with, so genteel. + +When the cook told her everything was ready she went into the +women's room and began to pull the big bell. In a few minutes the +women began to come in by twos and threes, wiping their +steaming hands in their petticoats and pulling down the sleeves of +their blouses over their red steaming arms. They settled down +before their huge mugs which the cook and the dummy filled up +with hot tea, already mixed with milk and sugar in huge tin cans. +Maria superintended the distribution of the barmbrack and saw +that every woman got her four slices. There was a great deal of +laughing and joking during the meal. Lizzie Fleming said Maria +was sure to get the ring and, though Fleming had said that for so +many Hallow Eves, Maria had to laugh and say she didn't want any +ring or man either; and when she laughed her grey-green eyes +sparkled with disappointed shyness and the tip of her nose nearly +met the tip of her chin. Then Ginger Mooney lifted her mug of tea +and proposed Maria's health while all the other women clattered +with their mugs on the table, and said she was sorry she hadn't a +sup of porter to drink it in. And Maria laughed again till the tip of +her nose nearly met the tip of her chin and till her minute body +nearly shook itself asunder because she knew that Mooney meant +well though, of course, she had the notions of a common woman. + +But wasn't Maria glad when the women had finished their tea and +the cook and the dummy had begun to clear away the tea- things! +She went into her little bedroom and, remembering that the next +morning was a mass morning, changed the hand of the alarm from +seven to six. Then she took off her working skirt and her +house-boots and laid her best skirt out on the bed and her tiny +dress-boots beside the foot of the bed. She changed her blouse too +and, as she stood before the mirror, she thought of how she used to +dress for mass on Sunday morning when she was a young girl; and +she looked with quaint affection at the diminutive body which she +had so often adorned, In spite of its years she found it a nice tidy +little body. + +When she got outside the streets were shining with rain and she +was glad of her old brown waterproof. The tram was full and she +had to sit on the little stool at the end of the car, facing all the +people, with her toes barely touching the floor. She arranged in her +mind all she was going to do and thought how much better it was +to be independent and to have your own money in your pocket. +She hoped they would have a nice evening. She was sure they +would but she could not help thinking what a pity it was Alphy and +Joe were not speaking. They were always falling out now but when +they were boys together they used to be the best of friends: but +such was life. + +She got out of her tram at the Pillar and ferreted her way quickly +among the crowds. She went into Downes's cake-shop but the shop +was so full of people that it was a long time before she could get +herself attended to. She bought a dozen of mixed penny cakes, and +at last came out of the shop laden with a big bag. Then she thought +what else would she buy: she wanted to buy something really nice. +They would be sure to have plenty of apples and nuts. It was hard +to know what to buy and all she could think of was cake. She +decided to buy some plumcake but Downes's plumcake had not +enough almond icing on top of it so she went over to a shop in +Henry Street. Here she was a long time in suiting herself and the +stylish young lady behind the counter, who was evidently a little +annoyed by her, asked her was it wedding-cake she wanted to buy. +That made Maria blush and smile at the young lady; but the young +lady took it all very seriously and finally cut a thick slice of +plumcake, parcelled it up and said: + +"Two-and-four, please." + +She thought she would have to stand in the Drumcondra tram +because none of the young men seemed to notice her but an elderly +gentleman made room for her. He was a stout gentleman and he +wore a brown hard hat; he had a square red face and a greyish +moustache. Maria thought he was a colonel-looking gentleman and +she reflected how much more polite he was than the young men +who simply stared straight before them. The gentleman began to +chat with her about Hallow Eve and the rainy weather. He +supposed the bag was full of good things for the little ones and +said it was only right that the youngsters should enjoy themselves +while they were young. Maria agreed with him and favoured him +with demure nods and hems. He was very nice with her, and when +she was getting out at the Canal Bridge she thanked him and +bowed, and he bowed to her and raised his hat and smiled +agreeably, and while she was going up along the terrace, bending +her tiny head under the rain, she thought how easy it was to know a +gentleman even when he has a drop taken. + +Everybody said: "0, here's Maria!" when she came to Joe's house. +Joe was there, having come home from business, and all the +children had their Sunday dresses on. There were two big girls in +from next door and games were going on. Maria gave the bag of +cakes to the eldest boy, Alphy, to divide and Mrs. Donnelly said it +was too good of her to bring such a big bag of cakes and made all +the children say: + +"Thanks, Maria." + +But Maria said she had brought something special for papa and +mamma, something they would be sure to like, and she began to +look for her plumcake. She tried in Downes's bag and then in the +pockets of her waterproof and then on the hallstand but nowhere +could she find it. Then she asked all the children had any of them +eaten it -- by mistake, of course -- but the children all said no and +looked as if they did not like to eat cakes if they were to be +accused of stealing. Everybody had a solution for the mystery and +Mrs. Donnelly said it was plain that Maria had left it behind her in +the tram. Maria, remembering how confused the gentleman with +the greyish moustache had made her, coloured with shame and +vexation and disappointment. At the thought of the failure of her +little surprise and of the two and fourpence she had thrown away +for nothing she nearly cried outright. + +But Joe said it didn't matter and made her sit down by the fire. He +was very nice with her. He told her all that went on in his office, +repeating for her a smart answer which he had made to the +manager. Maria did not understand why Joe laughed so much over +the answer he had made but she said that the manager must have +been a very overbearing person to deal with. Joe said he wasn't so +bad when you knew how to take him, that he was a decent sort so +long as you didn't rub him the wrong way. Mrs. Donnelly played +the piano for the children and they danced and sang. Then the two +next-door girls handed round the nuts. Nobody could find the +nutcrackers and Joe was nearly getting cross over it and asked how +did they expect Maria to crack nuts without a nutcracker. But +Maria said she didn't like nuts and that they weren't to bother about +her. Then Joe asked would she take a bottle of stout and Mrs. +Donnelly said there was port wine too in the house if she would +prefer that. Maria said she would rather they didn't ask her to take +anything: but Joe insisted. + +So Maria let him have his way and they sat by the fire talking over +old times and Maria thought she would put in a good word for +Alphy. But Joe cried that God might strike him stone dead if ever +he spoke a word to his brother again and Maria said she was sorry +she had mentioned the matter. Mrs. Donnelly told her husband it +was a great shame for him to speak that way of his own flesh and +blood but Joe said that Alphy was no brother of his and there was +nearly being a row on the head of it. But Joe said he would not +lose his temper on account of the night it was and asked his wife to +open some more stout. The two next-door girls had arranged some +Hallow Eve games and soon everything was merry again. Maria +was delighted to see the children so merry and Joe and his wife in +such good spirits. The next-door girls put some saucers on the +table and then led the children up to the table, blindfold. One got +the prayer-book and the other three got the water; and when one of +the next-door girls got the ring Mrs. Donnelly shook her finger at +the blushing girl as much as to say: 0, I know all about it! They +insisted then on blindfolding Maria and leading her up to the table +to see what she would get; and, while they were putting on the +bandage, Maria laughed and laughed again till the tip of her nose +nearly met the tip of her chin. + +They led her up to the table amid laughing and joking and she put +her hand out in the air as she was told to do. She moved her hand +about here and there in the air and descended on one of the +saucers. She felt a soft wet substance with her fingers and was +surprised that nobody spoke or took off her bandage. There was a +pause for a few seconds; and then a great deal of scuffling and +whispering. Somebody said something about the garden, and at +last Mrs. Donnelly said something very cross to one of the +next-door girls and told her to throw it out at once: that was no +play. Maria understood that it was wrong that time and so she had +to do it over again: and this time she got the prayer-book. + +After that Mrs. Donnelly played Miss McCloud's Reel for the +children and Joe made Maria take a glass of wine. Soon they were +all quite merry again and Mrs. Donnelly said Maria would enter a +convent before the year was out because she had got the +prayer-book. Maria had never seen Joe so nice to her as he was +that night, so full of pleasant talk and reminiscences. She said they +were all very good to her. + +At last the children grew tired and sleepy and Joe asked Maria +would she not sing some little song before she went, one of the old +songs. Mrs. Donnelly said "Do, please, Maria!" and so Maria had +to get up and stand beside the piano. Mrs. Donnelly bade the +children be quiet and listen to Maria's song. Then she played the +prelude and said "Now, Maria!" and Maria, blushing very much +began to sing in a tiny quavering voice. She sang I Dreamt that I +Dwelt, and when she came to the second verse she sang again: + + + I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls + With vassals and serfs at my side, + And of all who assembled within those walls + That I was the hope and the pride. + + I had riches too great to count; could boast + Of a high ancestral name, + But I also dreamt, which pleased me most, + That you loved me still the same. + + +But no one tried to show her her mistake; and when she had ended +her song Joe was very much moved. He said that there was no time +like the long ago and no music for him like poor old Balfe, +whatever other people might say; and his eyes filled up so much +with tears that he could not find what he was looking for and in the +end he had to ask his wife to tell him where the corkscrew was. + +A PAINFUL CASE + +MR. JAMES DUFFY lived in Chapelizod because he wished to +live as far as possible from the city of which he was a citizen and +because he found all the other suburbs of Dublin mean, modern +and pretentious. He lived in an old sombre house and from his +windows he could look into the disused distillery or upwards along +the shallow river on which Dublin is built. The lofty walls of his +uncarpeted room were free from pictures. He had himself bought +every article of furniture in the room: a black iron bedstead, an +iron washstand, four cane chairs, a clothes- rack, a coal-scuttle, a +fender and irons and a square table on which lay a double desk. A +bookcase had been made in an alcove by means of shelves of +white wood. The bed was clothed with white bedclothes and a +black and scarlet rug covered the foot. A little hand-mirror hung +above the washstand and during the day a white-shaded lamp stood +as the sole ornament of the mantelpiece. The books on the white +wooden shelves were arranged from below upwards according to +bulk. A complete Wordsworth stood at one end of the lowest shelf +and a copy of the Maynooth Catechism, sewn into the cloth cover +of a notebook, stood at one end of the top shelf. Writing materials +were always on the desk. In the desk lay a manuscript translation +of Hauptmann's Michael Kramer, the stage directions of which +were written in purple ink, and a little sheaf of papers held +together by a brass pin. In these sheets a sentence was inscribed +from time to time and, in an ironical moment, the headline of an +advertisement for Bile Beans had been pasted on to the first sheet. +On lifting the lid of the desk a faint fragrance escaped -- the +fragrance of new cedarwood pencils or of a bottle of gum or of an +overripe apple which might have been left there and forgotten. + +Mr. Duffy abhorred anything which betokened physical or mental +disorder. A medival 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-glasses. He had an odd +autobiographical habit which led him to compose in his mind from +time to time a short sentence about himself containing a subject in +the third person and a predicate in the past tense. He never gave +alms to beggars and walked firmly, carrying a stout hazel. + +He had been for many years cashier of a private bank in Baggot +Street. Every morning he came in from Chapelizod by tram. At +midday he went to Dan Burke's and took his lunch -- a bottle of +lager beer and a small trayful of arrowroot biscuits. At four o'clock +he was set free. He dined in an eating-house in George's Street +where he felt himself safe from the society o Dublin's gilded youth +and where there was a certain plain honesty in the bill of fare. His +evenings were spent either before his landlady's piano or roaming +about the outskirts of the city. His liking for Mozart's music +brought him sometimes to an opera or a concert: these were the +only dissipations of his life. + +He had neither companions nor friends, church nor creed. He lived +his spiritual life without any communion with others, visiting his +relatives at Christmas and escorting them to the cemetery when +they died. He performed these two social duties for old dignity's +sake but conceded nothing further to the conventions which +regulate the civic life. He allowed himself to think that in certain +circumstances he would rob his hank but, as these circumstances +never arose, his life rolled out evenly -- an adventureless tale. + +One evening he found himself sitting beside two ladies in the +Rotunda. The house, thinly peopled and silent, gave distressing +prophecy of failure. The lady who sat next him looked round at the +deserted house once or twice and then said: + +"What a pity there is such a poor house tonight! It's so hard on +people to have to sing to empty benches." + +He took the remark as an invitation to talk. He was surprised that +she seemed so little awkward. While they talked he tried to fix her +permanently in his memory. When he learned that the young girl +beside her was her daughter he judged her to be a year or so +younger than himself. Her face, which must have been handsome, +had remained intelligent. It was an oval face with strongly marked +features. The eyes were very dark blue and steady. Their gaze +began with a defiant note but was confused by what seemed a +deliberate swoon of the pupil into the iris, revealing for an instant +a temperament of great sensibility. The pupil reasserted itself +quickly, this half- disclosed nature fell again under the reign of +prudence, and her astrakhan jacket, moulding a bosom of a certain +fullness, struck the note of defiance more definitely. + +He met her again a few weeks afterwards at a concert in Earlsfort +Terrace and seized the moments when her daughter's attention was +diverted to become intimate. She alluded once or twice to her +husband but her tone was not such as to make the allusion a +warning. Her name was Mrs. Sinico. Her husband's +great-great-grandfather had come from Leghorn. Her husband was +captain of a mercantile boat plying between Dublin and Holland; +and they had one child. + +Meeting her a third time by accident he found courage to make an +appointment. She came. This was the first of many meetings; they +met always in the evening and chose the most quiet quarters for +their walks together. Mr. Duffy, however, had a distaste for +underhand ways and, finding that they were compelled to meet +stealthily, he forced her to ask him to her house. Captain Sinico +encouraged his visits, thinking that his daughter's hand was in +question. He had dismissed his wife so sincerely from his gallery +of pleasures that he did not suspect that anyone else would take an +interest in her. As the husband was often away and the daughter +out giving music lessons Mr. Duffy had many opportunities of +enjoying the lady's society. Neither he nor she had had any such +adventure before and neither was conscious of any incongruity. +Little by little he entangled his thoughts with hers. He lent her +books, provided her with ideas, shared his intellectual life with +her. She listened to all. + +Sometimes in return for his theories she gave out some fact of her +own life. With almost maternal solicitude she urged him to let his +nature open to the full: she became his confessor. He told her that +for some time he had assisted at the meetings of an Irish Socialist +Party where he had felt himself a unique figure amidst a score of +sober workmen in a garret lit by an inefficient oil-lamp. When the +party had divided into three sections, each under its own leader +and in its own garret, he had discontinued his attendances. The +workmen's discussions, he said, were too timorous; the interest +they took in the question of wages was inordinate. He felt that they +were hard-featured realists and that they resented an exactitude +which was the produce of a leisure not within their reach. No +social revolution, he told her, would be likely to strike Dublin for +some centuries. + +She asked him why did he not write out his thoughts. For what, he +asked her, with careful scorn. To compete with phrasemongers, +incapable of thinking consecutively for sixty seconds? To submit +himself to the criticisms of an obtuse middle class which entrusted +its morality to policemen and its fine arts to impresarios? + +He went often to her little cottage outside Dublin; often they spent +their evenings alone. Little by little, as their thoughts entangled, +they spoke of subjects less remote. Her companionship was like a +warm soil about an exotic. Many times she allowed the dark to fall +upon them, refraining from lighting the lamp. The dark discreet +room, their isolation, the music that still vibrated in their ears +united them. This union exalted him, wore away the rough edges +of his character, emotionalised his mental life. Sometimes he +caught himself listening to the sound of his own voice. He thought +that in her eyes he would ascend to an angelical stature; and, as he +attached the fervent nature of his companion more and more +closely to him, he heard the strange impersonal voice which he +recognised as his own, insisting on the soul's incurable loneliness. +We cannot give ourselves, it said: we are our own. The end of +these discourses was that one night during which she had shown +every sign of unusual excitement, Mrs. Sinico caught up his hand +passionately and pressed it to her cheek. + +Mr. Duffy was very much surprised. Her interpretation of his +words disillusioned him. He did not visit her for a week, then he +wrote to her asking her to meet him. As he did not wish their last +interview to be troubled by the influence of their ruined +confessional they meet in a little cakeshop near the Parkgate. It +was cold autumn weather but in spite of the cold they wandered up +and down the roads of the Park for nearly three hours. They agreed +to break off their intercourse: every bond, he said, is a bond to +sorrow. When they came out of the Park they walked in silence +towards the tram; but here she began to tremble so violently that, +fearing another collapse on her part, he bade her good-bye quickly +and left her. A few days later he received a parcel containing his +books and music. + +Four years passed. Mr. Duffy returned to his even way of life. His +room still bore witness of the orderliness of his mind. Some new +pieces of music encumbered the music-stand in the lower room +and on his shelves stood two volumes by Nietzsche: Thus Spake +Zarathustra and The Gay Science. He wrote seldom in the sheaf of +papers which lay in his desk. One of his sentences, written two +months after his last interview with Mrs. Sinico, read: Love +between man and man is impossible because there must not be +sexual intercourse and friendship between man and woman is +impossible because there must be sexual intercourse. He kept away +from concerts lest he should meet her. His father died; the junior +partner of the bank retired. And still every morning he went into +the city by tram and every evening walked home from the city after +having dined moderately in George's Street and read the evening +paper for dessert. + +One evening as he was about to put a morsel of corned beef and +cabbage into his mouth his hand stopped. His eyes fixed +themselves on a paragraph in the evening paper which he had +propped against the water-carafe. He replaced the morsel of food +on his plate and read the paragraph attentively. Then he drank a +glass of water, pushed his plate to one side, doubled the paper +down before him between his elbows and read the paragraph over +and over again. The cabbage began to deposit a cold white grease +on his plate. The girl came over to him to ask was his dinner not +properly cooked. He said it was very good and ate a few mouthfuls +of it with difficulty. Then he paid his bill and went out. + +He walked along quickly through the November twilight, his stout +hazel stick striking the ground regularly, the fringe of the buff Mail +peeping out of a side-pocket of his tight reefer overcoat. On the +lonely road which leads from the Parkgate to Chapelizod he +slackened his pace. His stick struck the ground less emphatically +and his breath, issuing irregularly, almost with a sighing sound, +condensed in the wintry air. When he reached his house he went +up at once to his bedroom and, taking the paper from his pocket, +read the paragraph again by the failing light of the window. He +read it not aloud, but moving his lips as a priest does when he +reads the prayers Secreto. This was the paragraph: + + + DEATH OF A LADY AT SYDNEY PARADE + A PAINFUL CASE + + +Today at the City of Dublin Hospital the Deputy Coroner (in the +absence of Mr. Leverett) held an inquest on the body of Mrs. +Emily Sinico, aged forty-three years, who was killed at Sydney +Parade Station yesterday evening. The evidence showed that the +deceased lady, while attempting to cross the line, was knocked +down by the engine of the ten o'clock slow train from Kingstown, +thereby sustaining injuries of the head and right side which led to +her death. + +James Lennon, driver of the engine, stated that he had been in the +employment of the railway company for fifteen years. On hearing +the guard's whistle he set the train in motion and a second or two +afterwards brought it to rest in response to loud cries. The train +was going slowly. + +P. Dunne, railway porter, stated that as the train was about to start +he observed a woman attempting to cross the lines. He ran towards +her and shouted, but, before he could reach her, she was caught by +the buffer of the engine and fell to the ground. + +A juror. "You saw the lady fall?" + +Witness. "Yes." + +Police Sergeant Croly deposed that when he arrived he found the +deceased lying on the platform apparently dead. He had the body +taken to the waiting-room pending the arrival of the ambulance. + +Constable 57 corroborated. + +Dr. Halpin, assistant house surgeon of the City of Dublin Hospital, +stated that the deceased had two lower ribs fractured and had +sustained severe contusions of the right shoulder. The right side of +the head had been injured in the fall. The injuries were not +sufficient to have caused death in a normal person. Death, in his +opinion, had been probably due to shock and sudden failure of the +heart's action. + +Mr. H. B. Patterson Finlay, on behalf of the railway company, +expressed his deep regret at the accident. The company had always +taken every precaution to prevent people crossing the lines except +by the bridges, both by placing notices in every station and by the +use of patent spring gates at level crossings. The deceased had +been in the habit of crossing the lines late at night from platform to +platform and, in view of certain other circumstances of the case, +he did not think the railway officials were to blame. + +Captain Sinico, of Leoville, Sydney Parade, husband of the +deceased, also gave evidence. He stated that the deceased was his +wife. He was not in Dublin at the time of the accident as he had +arrived only that morning from Rotterdam. They had been married +for twenty-two years and had lived happily until about two years +ago when his wife began to be rather intemperate in her habits. + +Miss Mary Sinico said that of late her mother had been in the habit +of going out at night to buy spirits. She, witness, had often tried to +reason with her mother and had induced her to join a League. She +was not at home until an hour after the accident. The jury returned +a verdict in accordance with the medical evidence and exonerated +Lennon from all blame. + +The Deputy Coroner said it was a most painful case, and expressed +great sympathy with Captain Sinico and his daughter. He urged on +the railway company to take strong measures to prevent the +possibility of similar accidents in the future. No blame attached to +anyone. + + + + + +Mr. Duffy raised his eyes from the paper and gazed out of his +window on the cheerless evening landscape. The river lay quiet +beside the empty distillery and from time to time a light appeared +in some house on the Lucan road. What an end! The whole +narrative of her death revolted him and it revolted him to think that +he had ever spoken to her of what he held sacred. The threadbare +phrases, the inane expressions of sympathy, the cautious words of +a reporter won over to conceal the details of a commonplace +vulgar death attacked his stomach. Not merely had she degraded +herself; she had degraded him. He saw the squalid tract of her vice, +miserable and malodorous. His soul's companion! He thought of +the hobbling wretches whom he had seen carrying cans and bottles +to be filled by the barman. Just God, what an end! Evidently she +had been unfit to live, without any strength of purpose, an easy +prey to habits, one of the wrecks on which civilisation has been +reared. But that she could have sunk so low! Was it possible he +had deceived himself so utterly about her? He remembered her +outburst of that night and interpreted it in a harsher sense than he +had ever done. He had no difficulty now in approving of the course +he had taken. + +As the light failed and his memory began to wander he thought her +hand touched his. The shock which had first attacked his stomach +was now attacking his nerves. He put on his overcoat and hat +quickly and went out. The cold air met him on the threshold; it +crept into the sleeves of his coat. When he came to the +public-house at Chapelizod Bridge he went in and ordered a hot +punch. + +The proprietor served him obsequiously but did not venture to talk. +There were five or six workingmen in the shop discussing the +value of a gentleman's estate in County Kildare They drank at +intervals from their huge pint tumblers and smoked, spitting often +on the floor and sometimes dragging the sawdust over their spits +with their heavy boots. Mr. Duffy sat on his stool and gazed at +them, without seeing or hearing them. After a while they went out +and he called for another punch. He sat a long time over it. The +shop was very quiet. The proprietor sprawled on the counter +reading the Herald and yawning. Now and again a tram was heard +swishing along the lonely road outside. + +As he sat there, living over his life with her and evoking +alternately the two images in which he now conceived her, he +realised that she was dead, that she had ceased to exist, that she +had become a memory. He began to feel ill at ease. He asked +himself what else could he have done. He could not have carried +on a comedy of deception with her; he could not have lived with +her openly. He had done what seemed to him best. How was he to +blame? Now that she was gone he understood how lonely her life +must have been, sitting night after night alone in that room. His +life would be lonely too until he, too, died, ceased to exist, became +a memory -- if anyone remembered him. + +It was after nine o'clock when he left the shop. The night was cold +and gloomy. He entered the Park by the first gate and walked along +under the gaunt trees. He walked through the bleak alleys where +they had walked four years before. She seemed to be near him in +the darkness. At moments he seemed to feel her voice touch his +ear, her hand touch his. He stood still to listen. Why had he +withheld life from her? Why had he sentenced her to death? He +felt his moral nature falling to pieces. + +When he gained the crest of the Magazine Hill he halted and +looked along the river towards Dublin, the lights of which burned +redly and hospitably in the cold night. He looked down the slope +and, at the base, in the shadow of the wall of the Park, he saw +some human figures lying. Those venal and furtive loves filled him +with despair. He gnawed the rectitude of his life; he felt that he +had been outcast from life's feast. One human being had seemed to +love him and he had denied her life and happiness: he had +sentenced her to ignominy, a death of shame. He knew that the +prostrate creatures down by the wall were watching him and +wished him gone. No one wanted him; he was outcast from life's +feast. He turned his eyes to the grey gleaming river, winding along +towards Dublin. Beyond the river he saw a goods train winding out +of Kingsbridge Station, like a worm with a fiery head winding +through the darkness, obstinately and laboriously. It passed slowly +out of sight; but still he heard in his ears the laborious drone of the +engine reiterating the syllables of her name. + +He turned back the way he had come, the rhythm of the engine +pounding in his ears. He began to doubt the reality of what +memory told him. He halted under a tree and allowed the rhythm +to die away. He could not feel her near him in the darkness nor her +voice touch his ear. He waited for some minutes listening. He +could hear nothing: the night was perfectly silent. He listened +again: perfectly silent. He felt that he was alone. + +IVY DAY IN THE COMMITTEE ROOM + +OLD JACK raked the cinders together with a piece of cardboard +and spread them judiciously over the whitening dome of coals. +When the dome was thinly covered his face lapsed into darkness +but, as he set himself to fan the fire again, his crouching shadow +ascended the opposite wall and his face slowly reemerged into +light. It was an old man's face, very bony and hairy. The moist blue +eyes blinked at the fire and the moist mouth fell open at times, +munching once or twice mechanically when it closed. When the +cinders had caught he laid the piece of cardboard against the wall, +sighed and said: + +"That's better now, Mr. O'Connor." + +Mr. O'Connor, a grey-haired young man, whose face was +disfigured by many blotches and pimples, had just brought the +tobacco for a cigarette into a shapely cylinder but when spoken to +he undid his handiwork meditatively. Then he began to roll the +tobacco again meditatively and after a moment's thought decided +to lick the paper. + +"Did Mr. Tierney say when he'd be back?" he asked in a sky +falsetto. + +"He didn't say." + +Mr. O'Connor put his cigarette into his mouth and began search his +pockets. He took out a pack of thin pasteboard cards. + +"I'll get you a match," said the old man. + +"Never mind, this'll do," said Mr. O'Connor. + +He selected one of the cards and read what was printed on it: + + +MUNICIPAL ELECTIONS + ---------- +ROYAL EXCHANGE WARD + ---------- +Mr. Richard J. Tierney, P.L.G., respectfully solicits the +favour of your vote and influence at the coming election +in the Royal Exchange Ward. + + +Mr. O'Connor had been engaged by Tierney's agent to canvass one +part of the ward but, as the weather was inclement and his boots +let in the wet, he spent a great part of the day sitting by the fire in +the Committee Room in Wicklow Street with Jack, the old +caretaker. They had been sitting thus since e short day had grown +dark. It was the sixth of October, dismal and cold out of doors. + +Mr. O'Connor tore a strip off the card and, lighting it, lit his +cigarette. As he did so the flame lit up a leaf of dark glossy ivy the +lapel of his coat. The old man watched him attentively and then, +taking up the piece of cardboard again, began to fan the fire slowly +while his companion smoked. + +"Ah, yes," he said, continuing, "it's hard to know what way to bring +up children. Now who'd think he'd turn out like that! I sent him to +the Christian Brothers and I done what I could him, and there he +goes boosing about. I tried to make him someway decent." + +He replaced the cardboard wearily. + +"Only I'm an old man now I'd change his tune for him. I'd take the +stick to his back and beat him while I could stand over him -- as I +done many a time before. The mother, you know, she cocks him +up with this and that...." + +"That's what ruins children," said Mr. O'Connor. + +"To be sure it is," said the old man. "And little thanks you get for +it, only impudence. He takes th'upper hand of me whenever he sees +I've a sup taken. What's the world coming to when sons speaks that +way to their fathers?" + +"What age is he?" said Mr. O'Connor. + +"Nineteen," said the old man. + +"Why don't you put him to something?" + +"Sure, amn't I never done at the drunken bowsy ever since he left +school? 'I won't keep you,' I says. 'You must get a job for yourself.' +But, sure, it's worse whenever he gets a job; he drinks it all." + +Mr. O'Connor shook his head in sympathy, and the old man fell +silent, gazing into the fire. Someone opened the door of the room +and called out: + +"Hello! Is this a Freemason's meeting?" + +"Who's that?" said the old man. + +"What are you doing in the dark?" asked a voice. + +"Is that you, Hynes?" asked Mr. O'Connor. + +"Yes. What are you doing in the dark?" said Mr. Hynes. advancing +into the light of the fire. + +He was a tall, slender young man with a light brown moustache. +Imminent little drops of rain hung at the brim of his hat and the +collar of his jacket-coat was turned up. + +"Well, Mat," he said to Mr. O'Connor, "how goes it?" + +Mr. O'Connor shook his head. The old man left the hearth and +after stumbling about the room returned with two candlesticks +which he thrust one after the other into the fire and carried to the +table. A denuded room came into view and the fire lost all its +cheerful colour. The walls of the room were bare except for a copy +of an election address. In the middle of the room was a small table +on which papers were heaped. + +Mr. Hynes leaned against the mantelpiece and asked: + +"Has he paid you yet?" + +"Not yet," said Mr. O'Connor. "I hope to God he'll not leave us in +the lurch tonight." + +Mr. Hynes laughed. + +"O, he'll pay you. Never fear," he said. + +"I hope he'll look smart about it if he means business," said Mr. +O'Connor. + +"What do you think, Jack?" said Mr. Hynes satirically to the old +man. + +The old man returned to his seat by the fire, saying: + +"It isn't but he has it, anyway. Not like the other tinker." + +"What other tinker?" said Mr. Hynes. + +"Colgan," said the old man scornfully. + +"It is because Colgan's a working -- man you say that? What's the +difference between a good honest bricklayer and a publican -- eh? +Hasn't the working-man as good a right to be in the Corporation as +anyone else -- ay, and a better right than those shoneens that are +always hat in hand before any fellow with a handle to his name? +Isn't that so, Mat?" said Mr. Hynes, addressing Mr. O'Connor. + +"I think you're right," said Mr. O'Connor. + +"One man is a plain honest man with no hunker-sliding about him. +He goes in to represent the labour classes. This fellow you're +working for only wants to get some job or other." + +"0f course, the working-classes should be represented," said the +old man. + +"The working-man," said Mr. Hynes, "gets all kicks and no +halfpence. But it's labour produces everything. The workingman is +not looking for fat jobs for his sons and nephews and cousins. The +working-man is not going to drag the honour of Dublin in the mud +to please a German monarch." + +"How's that?" said the old man. + +"Don't you know they want to present an address of welcome to +Edward Rex if he comes here next year? What do we want +kowtowing to a foreign king?" + +"Our man won't vote for the address," said Mr. O'Connor. "He goes +in on the Nationalist ticket." + +"Won't he?" said Mr. Hynes. "Wait till you see whether he will or +not. I know him. Is it Tricky Dicky Tierney?" + +"By God! perhaps you're right, Joe," said Mr. O'Connor. "Anyway, +I wish he'd turn up with the spondulics." + +The three men fell silent. The old man began to rake more cinders +together. Mr. Hynes took off his hat, shook it and then turned +down the collar of his coat, displaying, as he did so, an ivy leaf in +the lapel. + +"If this man was alive," he said, pointing to the leaf, "we'd have no +talk of an address of welcome." + +"That's true," said Mr. O'Connor. + +"Musha, God be with them times!" said the old man. "There was +some life in it then." + +The room was silent again. Then a bustling little man with a +snuffling nose and very cold ears pushed in the door. He walked +over quickly to the fire, rubbing his hands as if he intended to +produce a spark from them. + +"No money, boys," he said. + +"Sit down here, Mr. Henchy," said the old man, offering him his +chair. + +"O, don't stir, Jack, don't stir," said Mr. Henchy + +He nodded curtly to Mr. Hynes and sat down on the chair which +the old man vacated. + +"Did you serve Aungier Street?" he asked Mr. O'Connor. + +"Yes," said Mr. O'Connor, beginning to search his pockets for +memoranda. + +"Did you call on Grimes?" + +"I did." + +"Well? How does he stand?" + +"He wouldn't promise. He said: 'I won't tell anyone what way I'm +going to vote.' But I think he'll be all right." + +"Why so?" + +"He asked me who the nominators were; and I told him. I +mentioned Father Burke's name. I think it'll be all right." + +Mr. Henchy began to snuffle and to rub his hands over the fire at a +terrific speed. Then he said: + +"For the love of God, Jack, bring us a bit of coal. There must be +some left." + +The old man went out of the room. + +"It's no go," said Mr. Henchy, shaking his head. "I asked the little +shoeboy, but he said: 'Oh, now, Mr. Henchy, when I see work +going on properly I won't forget you, you may be sure.' Mean little +tinker! 'Usha, how could he be anything else?" + +"What did I tell you, Mat?" said Mr. Hynes. "Tricky Dicky +Tierney." + +"0, 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 schoolboy of +hell! I suppose he forgets the time his little old father kept the +hand-me-down shop in Mary's Lane." + +"But is that a fact?" asked Mr. O'Connor. + +"God, yes," said Mr. Henchy. "Did you never hear that? And the +men used to go in on Sunday morning before the houses were open +to buy a waistcoat or a trousers -- moya! But Tricky Dicky's little +old father always had a tricky little black bottle up in a corner. Do +you mind now? That's that. That's where he first saw the light." + +The old man returned with a few lumps of coal which he placed +here and there on the fire. + +"Thats a nice how-do-you-do," said Mr. O'Connor. "How does he +expect us to work for him if he won't stump up?" + +"I can't help it," said Mr. Henchy. "I expect to find the bailiffs in +the hall when I go home." + +Mr. Hynes laughed and, shoving himself away from the +mantelpiece with the aid of his shoulders, made ready to leave. + +"It'll be all right when King Eddie comes," he said. "Well boys, I'm +off for the present. See you later. 'Bye, 'bye." + +He went out of the room slowly. Neither Mr. Henchy nor the old +man said anything, but, just as the door was closing, Mr. O'Connor, +who had been staring moodily into the fire, called out suddenly: + +"'Bye, Joe." + +Mr. Henchy waited a few moments and then nodded in the +direction of the door. + +"Tell me," he said across the fire, "what brings our friend in here? +What does he want?" + +"'Usha, poor Joe!" said Mr. O'Connor, throwing the end of his +cigarette into the fire, "he's hard up, like the rest of us." + +Mr. Henchy snuffled vigorously and spat so copiously that he +nearly put out the fire, which uttered a hissing protest. + +"To tell you my private and candid opinion," he said, "I think he's a +man from the other camp. He's a spy of Colgan's, if you ask me. +Just go round and try and find out how they're getting on. They +won't suspect you. Do you twig?" + +"Ah, poor Joe is a decent skin," said Mr. O'Connor. + +"His father was a decent, respectable man," Mr. Henchy admitted. +"Poor old Larry Hynes! Many a good turn he did in his day! But I'm +greatly afraid our friend is not nineteen carat. Damn it, I can +understand a fellow being hard up, but what I can't understand is a +fellow sponging. Couldn't he have some spark of manhood about +him?" + +"He doesn't get a warm welcome from me when he comes," said +the old man. "Let him work for his own side and not come spying +around here." + +"I don't know," said Mr. O'Connor dubiously, as he took out +cigarette-papers and tobacco. "I think Joe Hynes is a straight man. +He's a clever chap, too, with the pen. Do you remember that thing +he wrote...?" + +"Some of these hillsiders and fenians are a bit too clever if ask +me," said Mr. Henchy. "Do you know what my private and candid +opinion is about some of those little jokers? I believe half of them +are in the pay of the Castle." + +"There's no knowing," said the old man. + +"O, but I know it for a fact," said Mr. Henchy. "They're Castle +hacks.... I don't say Hynes.... No, damn it, I think he's a stroke +above that.... But there's a certain little nobleman with a cock-eye +-- you know the patriot I'm alluding to?" + +Mr. O'Connor nodded. + +"There's a lineal descendant of Major Sirr for you if you like! O, +the heart's blood of a patriot! That's a fellow now that'd sell his +country for fourpence -- ay -- and go down on his bended knees +and thank the Almighty Christ he had a country to sell." + +There was a knock at the door. + +"Come in!" said Mr. Henchy. + +A person resembling a poor clergyman or a poor actor appeared in +the doorway. His black clothes were tightly buttoned on his short +body and it was impossible to say whether he wore a clergyman's +collar or a layman's, because the collar of his shabby frock-coat, +the uncovered buttons of which reflected the candlelight, was +turned up about his neck. He wore a round hat of hard black felt. +His face, shining with raindrops, had the appearance of damp +yellow cheese save where two rosy spots indicated the cheekbones. +He opened his very long mouth suddenly to express +disappointment and at the same time opened wide his very bright +blue eyes to express pleasure and surprise. + +"O Father Keon!" said Mr. Henchy, jumping up from his chair. "Is +that you? Come in!" + +"O, no, no, no!" said Father Keon quickly, pursing his lips as if he +were addressing a child. + +"Won't you come in and sit down?" + +"No, no, no!" said Father Keon, speaking in a discreet, indulgent, +velvety voice. "Don't let me disturb you now! I'm just looking for +Mr. Fanning...." + +"He's round at the Black Eagle," said Mr. Henchy. "But won't you +come in and sit down a minute?" + +"No, no, thank you. It was just a little business matter," said Father +Keon. "Thank you, indeed." + +He retreated from the doorway and Mr. Henchy, seizing one of the +candlesticks, went to the door to light him downstairs. + +"O, don't trouble, I beg!" + +"No, but the stairs is so dark." + +"No, no, I can see.... Thank you, indeed." + +"Are you right now?" + +"All right, thanks.... Thanks." + +Mr. Henchy returned with the candlestick and put it on the table. +He sat down again at the fire. There was silence for a few +moments. + +"Tell me, John," said Mr. O'Connor, lighting his cigarette with +another pasteboard card. + +"Hm? " + +"What he is exactly?" + +"Ask me an easier one," said Mr. Henchy. + +"Fanning and himself seem to me very thick. They're often in +Kavanagh's together. Is he a priest at all?" + +"Mmmyes, I believe so.... I think he's what you call black sheep. +We haven't many of them, thank God! but we have a few.... He's an +unfortunate man of some kind...." + +"And how does he knock it out?" asked Mr. O'Connor. + +"That's another mystery." + +"Is he attached to any chapel or church or institution or---" + +"No," said Mr. Henchy, "I think he's travelling on his own +account.... God forgive me," he added, "I thought he was the dozen +of stout." + +"Is there any chance of a drink itself?" asked Mr. O'Connor. + +"I'm dry too," said the old man. + +"I asked that little shoeboy three times," said Mr. Henchy, "would +he send up a dozen of stout. I asked him again now, but he was +leaning on the counter in his shirt-sleeves having a deep goster +with Alderman Cowley." + +"Why didn't you remind him?" said Mr. O'Connor. + +"Well, I couldn't go over while he was talking to Alderman +Cowley. I just waited till I caught his eye, and said: 'About that +little matter I was speaking to you about....' 'That'll be all right, Mr. +H.,' he said. Yerra, sure the little hop-o'- my-thumb has forgotten +all about it." + +"There's some deal on in that quarter," said Mr. O'Connor +thoughtfully. "I saw the three of them hard at it yesterday at +Suffolk Street corner." + +"I think I know the little game they're at," said Mr. Henchy. "You +must owe the City Fathers money nowadays if you want to be +made Lord Mayor. Then they'll make you Lord Mayor. By God! +I'm thinking seriously of becoming a City Father myself. What do +you think? Would I do for the job?" + +Mr. O'Connor laughed. + +"So far as owing money goes...." + +"Driving out of the Mansion House," said Mr. Henchy, "in all my +vermin, with Jack here standing up behind me in a powdered wig +-- eh?" + +"And make me your private secretary, John." + +"Yes. And I'll make Father Keon my private chaplain. We'll have a +family party." + +"Faith, Mr. Henchy," said the old man, "you'd keep up better style +than some of them. I was talking one day to old Keegan, the porter. +'And how do you like your new master, Pat?' says I to him. 'You +haven't much entertaining now,' says I. 'Entertaining!' says he. 'He'd +live on the smell of an oil- rag.' And do you know what he told +me? Now, I declare to God I didn't believe him." + +"What?" said Mr. Henchy and Mr. O'Connor. + +"He told me: 'What do you think of a Lord Mayor of Dublin +sending out for a pound of chops for his dinner? How's that for +high living?' says he. 'Wisha! wisha,' says I. 'A pound of chops,' +says he, 'coming into the Mansion House.' 'Wisha!' says I, 'what +kind of people is going at all now?" + +At this point there was a knock at the door, and a boy put in his +head. + +"What is it?" said the old man. + +"From the Black Eagle," said the boy, walking in sideways and +depositing a basket on the floor with a noise of shaken bottles. + +The old man helped the boy to transfer the bottles from the basket +to the table and counted the full tally. After the transfer the boy put +his basket on his arm and asked: + +"Any bottles?" + +"What bottles?" said the old man. + +"Won't you let us drink them first?" said Mr. Henchy. + +"I was told to ask for the bottles." + +"Come back tomorrow," said the old man. + +"Here, boy!" said Mr. Henchy, "will you run over to O'Farrell's and +ask him to lend us a corkscrew -- for Mr. Henchy, say. Tell him we +won't keep it a minute. Leave the basket there." + +The boy went out and Mr. Henchy began to rub his hands +cheerfully, saying: + +"Ah, well, he's not so bad after all. He's as good as his word, +anyhow." + +"There's no tumblers," said the old man. + +"O, don't let that trouble you, Jack," said Mr. Henchy. "Many's the +good man before now drank out of the bottle." + +"Anyway, it's better than nothing," said Mr. O'Connor. + +"He's not a bad sort," said Mr. Henchy, "only Fanning has such a +loan of him. He means well, you know, in his own tinpot way." + +The boy came back with the corkscrew. The old man opened three +bottles and was handing back the corkscrew when Mr. Henchy said +to the boy: + +"Would you like a drink, boy?" + +"If you please, sir," said the boy. + +The old man opened another bottle grudgingly, and handed it to +the boy. + +"What age are you?" he asked. + +"Seventeen," said the boy. + +As the old man said nothing further, the boy took the bottle. said: +"Here's my best respects, sir, to Mr. Henchy," drank the contents, +put the bottle back on the table and wiped his mouth with his +sleeve. Then he took up the corkscrew and went out of the door +sideways, muttering some form of salutation. + +"That's the way it begins," said the old man. + +"The thin edge of the wedge," said Mr. Henchy. + +The old man distributed the three bottles which he had opened and +the men drank from them simultaneously. After having drank each +placed his bottle on the mantelpiece within hand's reach and drew +in a long breath of satisfaction. + +"Well, I did a good day's work today," said Mr. Henchy, after a +pause. + +"That so, John?" + +"Yes. I got him one or two sure things in Dawson Street, Crofton +and myself. Between ourselves, you know, Crofton (he's a decent +chap, of course), but he's not worth a damn as a canvasser. He +hasn't a word to throw to a dog. He stands and looks at the people +while I do the talking." + +Here two men entered the room. One of them was a very fat man +whose blue serge clothes seemed to be in danger of falling from +his sloping figure. He had a big face which resembled a young ox's +face in expression, staring blue eyes and a grizzled moustache. The +other man, who was much younger and frailer, had a thin, +clean-shaven face. He wore a very high double collar and a +wide-brimmed bowler hat. + +"Hello, Crofton!" said Mr. Henchy to the fat man. "Talk of the +devil..." + +"Where did the boose come from?" asked the young man. "Did the +cow calve?" + +"O, of course, Lyons spots the drink first thing!" said Mr. +O'Connor, laughing. + +"Is that the way you chaps canvass," said Mr. Lyons, "and Crofton +and I out in the cold and rain looking for votes?" + +"Why, blast your soul," said Mr. Henchy, "I'd get more votes in +five minutes than you two'd get in a week." + +"Open two bottles of stout, Jack," said Mr. O'Connor. + +"How can I?" said the old man, "when there's no corkscrew? " + +"Wait now, wait now!" said Mr. Henchy, getting up quickly. "Did +you ever see this little trick?" + +He took two bottles from the table and, carrying them to the fire, +put them on the hob. Then he sat dow-n again by the fire and took +another drink from his bottle. Mr. Lyons sat on the edge of the +table, pushed his hat towards the nape of his neck and began to +swing his legs. + +"Which is my bottle?" he asked. + +"This, lad," said Mr. Henchy. + +Mr. Crofton sat down on a box and looked fixedly at the other +bottle on the hob. He was silent for two reasons. The first reason, +sufficient in itself, was that he had nothing to say; the second +reason was that he considered his companions beneath him. He +had been a canvasser for Wilkins, the Conservative, but when the +Conservatives had withdrawn their man and, choosing the lesser of +two evils, given their support to the Nationalist candidate, he had +been engaged to work for Mr. Tiemey. + +In a few minutes an apologetic "Pok!" was heard as the cork flew +out of Mr. Lyons' bottle. Mr. Lyons jumped off the table, went to +the fire, took his bottle and carried it back to the table. + +"I was just telling them, Crofton," said Mr. Henchy, that we got a +good few votes today." + +"Who did you get?" asked Mr. Lyons. + +"Well, I got Parkes for one, and I got Atkinson for two, and got +Ward of Dawson Street. Fine old chap he is, too -- regular old toff, +old Conservative! 'But isn't your candidate a Nationalist?' said he. +'He's a respectable man,' said I. 'He's in favour of whatever will +benefit this country. He's a big ratepayer,' I said. 'He has extensive +house property in the city and three places of business and isn't it +to his own advantage to keep down the rates? He's a prominent and +respected citizen,' said I, 'and a Poor Law Guardian, and he doesn't +belong to any party, good, bad, or indifferent.' That's the way to +talk to 'em." + +"And what about the address to the King?" said Mr. Lyons, after +drinking and smacking his lips. + +"Listen to me," said Mr. Henchy. "What we want in thus country, +as I said to old Ward, is capital. The King's coming here will mean +an influx of money into this country. The citizens of Dublin will +benefit by it. Look at all the factories down by the quays there, +idle! Look at all the money there is in the country if we only +worked the old industries, the mills, the ship-building yards and +factories. It's capital we want." + +"But look here, John," said Mr. O'Connor. "Why should we +welcome the King of England? Didn't Parnell himself..." + +"Parnell," said Mr. Henchy, "is dead. Now, here's the way I look at +it. Here's this chap come to the throne after his old mother keeping +him out of it till the man was grey. He's a man of the world, and he +means well by us. He's a jolly fine decent fellow, if you ask me, +and no damn nonsense about him. He just says to himself: 'The old +one never went to see these wild Irish. By Christ, I'll go myself and +see what they're like.' And are we going to insult the man when he +comes over here on a friendly visit? Eh? Isn't that right, Crofton?" + +Mr. Crofton nodded his head. + +"But after all now," said Mr. Lyons argumentatively, "King +Edward's life, you know, is not the very..." + +"Let bygones be bygones," said Mr. Henchy. "I admire the man +personally. He's just an ordinary knockabout like you and me. He's +fond of his glass of grog and he's a bit of a rake, perhaps, and he's a +good sportsman. Damn it, can't we Irish play fair?" + +"That's all very fine," said Mr. Lyons. "But look at the case of +Parnell now." + +"In the name of God," said Mr. Henchy, "where's the analogy +between the two cases?" + +"What I mean," said Mr. Lyons, "is we have our ideals. Why, now, +would we welcome a man like that? Do you think now after what +he did Parnell was a fit man to lead us? And why, then, would we +do it for Edward the Seventh?" + +"This is Parnell's anniversary," said Mr. O'Connor, "and don't let us +stir up any bad blood. We all respect him now that he's dead and +gone -- even the Conservatives," he added, turning to Mr. Crofton. + +Pok! The tardy cork flew out of Mr. Crofton's bottle. Mr. Crofton +got up from his box and went to the fire. As he returned with his +capture he said in a deep voice: + +"Our side of the house respects him, because he was a gentleman." + +"Right you are, Crofton!" said Mr. Henchy fiercely. "He was the +only man that could keep that bag of cats in order. 'Down, ye dogs! +Lie down, ye curs!' That's the way he treated them. Come in, Joe! +Come in!" he called out, catching sight of Mr. Hynes in the +doorway. + +Mr. Hynes came in slowly. + +"Open another bottle of stout, Jack," said Mr. Henchy. "O, I forgot +there's no corkscrew! Here, show me one here and I'll put it at the +fire." + +The old man handed him another bottle and he placed it on the +hob. + +"Sit down, Joe," said Mr. O'Connor, "we're just talking about the +Chief." + +"Ay, ay!" said Mr. Henchy. + +Mr. Hynes sat on the side of the table near Mr. Lyons but said +nothing. + +"There's one of them, anyhow," said Mr. Henchy, "that didn't +renege him. By God, I'll say for you, Joe! No, by God, you stuck to +him like a man!" + +"0, Joe," said Mr. O'Connor suddenly. "Give us that thing you +wrote -- do you remember? Have you got it on you?" + +"0, ay!" said Mr. Henchy. "Give us that. Did you ever hear that. +Crofton? Listen to this now: splendid thing." + +"Go on," said Mr. O'Connor. "Fire away, Joe." + +Mr. Hynes did not seem to remember at once the piece to which +they were alluding, but, after reflecting a while, he said: + +"O, that thing is it.... Sure, that's old now." + +"Out with it, man!" said Mr. O'Connor. + +"'Sh, 'sh," said Mr. Henchy. "Now, Joe!" + +Mr. Hynes hesitated a little longer. Then amid the silence he took +off his hat, laid it on the table and stood up. He seemed to be +rehearsing the piece in his mind. After a rather long pause he +announced: + + + THE DEATH OF PARNELL + 6th October, 1891 + + +He cleared his throat once or twice and then began to recite: + + + He is dead. Our Uncrowned King is dead. + O, Erin, mourn with grief and woe + For he lies dead whom the fell gang + Of modern hypocrites laid low. + He lies slain by the coward hounds + He raised to glory from the mire; + And Erin's hopes and Erin's dreams + Perish upon her monarch's pyre. + In palace, cabin or in cot + The Irish heart where'er it be + Is bowed with woe -- for he is gone + Who would have wrought her destiny. + He would have had his Erin famed, + The green flag gloriously unfurled, + Her statesmen, bards and warriors raised + Before the nations of the World. + He dreamed (alas, 'twas but a dream!) + Of Liberty: but as he strove + To clutch that idol, treachery + Sundered him from the thing he loved. + Shame on the coward, caitiff hands + That smote their Lord or with a kiss + Betrayed him to the rabble-rout + Of fawning priests -- no friends of his. + May everlasting shame consume + The memory of those who tried + To befoul and smear the exalted name + Of one who spurned them in his pride. + He fell as fall the mighty ones, + Nobly undaunted to the last, + And death has now united him + With Erin's heroes of the past. + No sound of strife disturb his sleep! + Calmly he rests: no human pain + Or high ambition spurs him now + The peaks of glory to attain. + They had their way: they laid him low. + But Erin, list, his spirit may + Rise, like the Phoenix from the flames, + When breaks the dawning of the day, + The day that brings us Freedom's reign. + And on that day may Erin well + Pledge in the cup she lifts to Joy + One grief -- the memory of Parnell. + + +Mr. Hynes sat down again on the table. When he had finished his +recitation there was a silence and then a burst of clapping: even +Mr. Lyons clapped. The applause continued for a little time. When +it had ceased all the auditors drank from their bottles in silence. + +Pok! The cork flew out of Mr. Hynes' bottle, but Mr. Hynes +remained sitting flushed and bare-headed on the table. He did not +seem to have heard the invitation. + +"Good man, Joe!" said Mr. O'Connor, taking out his cigarette +papers and pouch the better to hide his emotion. + +"What do you think of that, Crofton?" cried Mr. Henchy. "Isn't that +fine? What?" + +Crofton said that it was a very fine piece of writing. + +A MOTHER + +MR HOLOHAN, assistant secretary of the Eire Abu Society, had +been walking up and down Dublin for nearly a month, with his +hands and pockets full of dirty pieces of paper, arranging about the +series of concerts. He had a game leg and for this his friends called +him Hoppy Holohan. He walked up and down constantly, stood by +the hour at street corners arguing the point and made notes; but in +the end it was Mrs. Kearney who arranged everything. + +Miss Devlin had become Mrs. Kearney out of spite. She had been +educated in a high-class convent, where she had learned French +and music. As she was naturally pale and unbending in manner she +made few friends at school. When she came to the age of marriage +she was sent out to many houses, where her playing and ivory +manners were much admired. She sat amid the chilly circle of her +accomplishments, waiting for some suitor to brave it and offer her +a brilliant life. But the young men whom she met were ordinary +and she gave them no encouragement, trying to console her +romantic desires by eating a great deal of Turkish Delight in +secret. However, when she drew near the limit and her friends +began to loosen their tongues about her, she silenced them by +marrying Mr. Kearney, who was a bootmaker on Ormond Quay. + +He was much older than she. His conversation, which was serious, +took place at intervals in his great brown beard. After the first year +of married life, Mrs. Kearney perceived that such a man would +wear better than a romantic person, but she never put her own +romantic ideas away. He was sober, thrifty and pious; he went to +the altar every first Friday, sometimes with her, oftener by himself. +But she never weakened in her religion and was a good wife to +him. At some party in a strange house when she lifted her eyebrow +ever so slightly he stood up to take his leave and, when his cough +troubled him, she put the eider-down quilt over his feet and made a +strong rum punch. For his part, he was a model father. By paying a +small sum every week into a society, he ensured for both his +daughters a dowry of one hundred pounds each when they came to +the age of twenty-four. He sent the older daughter, Kathleen, to a +good convent, where she learned French and music, and afterward +paid her fees at the Academy. Every year in the month of July Mrs. +Kearney found occasion to say to some friend: + +"My good man is packing us off to Skerries for a few weeks." + +If it was not Skerries it was Howth or Greystones. + +When the Irish Revival began to be appreciable Mrs. Kearney +determined to take advantage of her daughter's name and brought +an Irish teacher to the house. Kathleen and her sister sent Irish +picture postcards to their friends and these friends sent back other +Irish picture postcards. On special Sundays, when Mr. Kearney +went with his family to the pro-cathedral, a little crowd of people +would assemble after mass at the corner of Cathedral Street. They +were all friends of the Kearneys -- musical friends or Nationalist +friends; and, when they had played every little counter of gossip, +they shook hands with one another all together, laughing at the +crossing of so man hands, and said good-bye to one another in +Irish. Soon the name of Miss Kathleen Kearney began to be heard +often on people's lips. People said that she was very clever at +music and a very nice girl and, moreover, that she was a believer +in the language movement. Mrs. Kearney was well content at this. +Therefore she was not surprised when one day Mr. Holohan came +to her and proposed that her daughter should be the accompanist at +a series of four grand concerts which his Society was going to give +in the Antient Concert Rooms. She brought him into the +drawing-room, made him sit down and brought out the decanter +and the silver biscuit-barrel. She entered heart and soul into the +details of the enterprise, advised and dissuaded: and finally a +contract was drawn up by which Kathleen was to receive eight +guineas for her services as accompanist at the four grand concerts. + +As Mr. Holohan was a novice in such delicate matters as the +wording of bills and the disposing of items for a programme, Mrs. +Kearney helped him. She had tact. She knew what artistes should +go into capitals and what artistes should go into small type. She +knew that the first tenor would not like to come on after Mr. +Meade's comic turn. To keep the audience continually diverted she +slipped the doubtful items in between the old favourites. Mr. +Holohan called to see her every day to have her advice on some +point. She was invariably friendly and advising -- homely, in fact. +She pushed the decanter towards him, saying: + +"Now, help yourself, Mr. Holohan!" + +And while he was helping himself she said: + +"Don't be afraid! Don t be afraid of it! " + +Everything went on smoothly. Mrs. Kearney bought some lovely +blush-pink charmeuse in Brown Thomas's to let into the front of +Kathleen's dress. It cost a pretty penny; but there are occasions +when a little expense is justifiable. She took a dozen of +two-shilling tickets for the final concert and sent them to those +friends who could not be trusted to come otherwise. She forgot +nothing, and, thanks to her, everything that was to be done was +done. + +The concerts were to be on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and +Saturday. When Mrs. Kearney arrived with her daughter at the +Antient Concert Rooms on Wednesday night she did not like the +look of things. A few young men, wearing bright blue badges in +their coats, stood idle in the vestibule; none of them wore evening +dress. She passed by with her daughter and a quick glance through +the open door of the hall showed her the cause of the stewards' +idleness. At first she wondered had she mistaken the hour. No, it +was twenty minutes to eight. + +In the dressing-room behind the stage she was introduced to the +secretary of the Society, Mr. Fitzpatrick. She smiled and shook his +hand. He was a little man, with a white, vacant face. She noticed +that he wore his soft brown hat carelessly on the side of his head +and that his accent was flat. He held a programme in his hand, and, +while he was talking to her, he chewed one end of it into a moist +pulp. He seemed to bear disappointments lightly. Mr. Holohan +came into the dressingroom every few minutes with reports from +the box- office. The artistes talked among themselves nervously, +glanced from time to time at the mirror and rolled and unrolled +their music. When it was nearly half-past eight, the few people in +the hall began to express their desire to be entertained. Mr. +Fitzpatrick came in, smiled vacantly at the room, and said: + +"Well now, ladies and gentlemen. I suppose we'd better open the +ball." + +Mrs. Kearney rewarded his very flat final syllable with a quick +stare of contempt, and then said to her daughter encouragingly: + +"Are you ready, dear?" + +When she had an opportunity, she called Mr. Holohan aside and +asked him to tell her what it meant. Mr. Holohan did not know +what it meant. He said that the committee had made a mistake in +arranging for four concerts: four was too many. + +"And the artistes!" said Mrs. Kearney. "Of course they are doing +their best, but really they are not good." + +Mr. Holohan admitted that the artistes were no good but the +committee, he said, had decided to let the first three concerts go as +they pleased and reserve all the talent for Saturday night. Mrs. +Kearney said nothing, but, as the mediocre items followed one +another on the platform and the few people in the hall grew fewer +and fewer, she began to regret that she had put herself to any +expense for such a concert. There was something she didn't like in +the look of things and Mr. Fitzpatrick's vacant smile irritated her +very much. However, she said nothing and waited to see how it +would end. The concert expired shortly before ten, and everyone +went home quickly. + +The concert on Thursday night was better attended, but Mrs. +Kearney saw at once that the house was filled with paper. The +audience behaved indecorously, as if the concert were an informal +dress rehearsal. Mr. Fitzpatrick seemed to enjoy himself; he was +quite unconscious that Mrs. Kearney was taking angry note of his +conduct. He stood at the edge of the screen, from time to time +jutting out his head and exchanging a laugh with two friends in the +corner of the balcony. In the course of the evening, Mrs. Kearney +learned that the Friday concert was to be abandoned and that the +committee was going to move heaven and earth to secure a +bumper house on Saturday night. When she heard this, she sought +out Mr. Holohan. She buttonholed him as he was limping out +quickly with a glass of lemonade for a young lady and asked him +was it true. Yes. it was true. + +"But, of course, that doesn't alter the contract," she said. "The +contract was for four concerts." + +Mr. Holohan seemed to be in a hurry; he advised her to speak to +Mr. Fitzpatrick. Mrs. Kearney was now beginning to be alarmed. +She called Mr. Fitzpatrick away from his screen and told him that +her daughter had signed for four concerts and that, of course, +according to the terms of the contract, she should receive the sum +originally stipulated for, whether the society gave the four concerts +or not. Mr. Fitzpatrick, who did not catch the point at issue very +quickly, seemed unable to resolve the difficulty and said that he +would bring the matter before the committee. Mrs. Kearney's anger +began to flutter in her cheek and she had all she could do to keep +from asking: + +"And who is the Cometty pray?" + +But she knew that it would not be ladylike to do that: so she was +silent. + +Little boys were sent out into the principal streets of Dublin early +on Friday morning with bundles of handbills. Special puffs +appeared in all the evening papers, reminding the music loving +public of the treat which was in store for it on the following +evening. Mrs. Kearney was somewhat reassured, but be thought +well to tell her husband part of her suspicions. He listened +carefully and said that perhaps it would be better if he went with +her on Saturday night. She agreed. She respected her husband in +the same way as she respected the General Post Office, as +something large, secure and fixed; and though she knew the small +number of his talents she appreciated his abstract value as a male. +She was glad that he had suggested coming with her. She thought +her plans over. + +The night of the grand concert came. Mrs. Kearney, with her +husband and daughter, arrived at the Antient Concert Rooms +three-quarters of an hour before the time at which the concert was +to begin. By ill luck it was a rainy evening. Mrs. Kearney placed +her daughter's clothes and music in charge of her husband and +went all over the building looking for Mr. Holohan or Mr. +Fitzpatrick. She could find neither. She asked the stewards was any +member of the committee in the hall and, after a great deal of +trouble, a steward brought out a little woman named Miss Beirne +to whom Mrs. Kearney explained that she wanted to see one of the +secretaries. Miss Beirne expected them any minute and asked +could she do anything. Mrs. Kearney looked searchingly at the +oldish face which was screwed into an expression of trustfulness +and enthusiasm and answered: + +"No, thank you!" + +The little woman hoped they would have a good house. She looked +out at the rain until the melancholy of the wet street effaced all the +trustfulness and enthusiasm from her twisted features. Then she +gave a little sigh and said: + +"Ah, well! We did our best, the dear knows." + +Mrs. Kearney had to go back to the dressing-room. + +The artistes were arriving. The bass and the second tenor had +already come. The bass, Mr. Duggan, was a slender young man +with a scattered black moustache. He was the son of a hall porter +in an office in the city and, as a boy, he had sung prolonged bass +notes in the resounding hall. From this humble state he had raised +himself until he had become a first-rate artiste. He had appeared in +grand opera. One night, when an operatic artiste had fallen ill, he +had undertaken the part of the king in the opera of Maritana at the +Queen's Theatre. He sang his music with great feeling and volume +and was warmly welcomed by the gallery; but, unfortunately, he +marred the good impression by wiping his nose in his gloved hand +once or twice out of thoughtlessness. He was unassuming and +spoke little. He said yous so softly that it passed unnoticed and he +never drank anything stronger than milk for his voice's sake. Mr. +Bell, the second tenor, was a fair-haired little man who competed +every year for prizes at the Feis Ceoil. On his fourth trial he had +been awarded a bronze medal. He was extremely nervous and +extremely jealous of other tenors and he covered his nervous +jealousy with an ebullient friendliness. It was his humour to have +people know what an ordeal a concert was to him. Therefore when +he saw Mr. Duggan he went over to him and asked: + +"Are you in it too? " + +"Yes," said Mr. Duggan. + +Mr. Bell laughed at his fellow-sufferer, held out his hand and said: + +"Shake!" + +Mrs. Kearney passed by these two young men and went to the edge +of the screen to view the house. The seats were being filled up +rapidly and a pleasant noise circulated in the auditorium. She came +back and spoke to her husband privately. Their conversation was +evidently about Kathleen for they both glanced at her often as she +stood chatting to one of her Nationalist friends, Miss Healy, the +contralto. An unknown solitary woman with a pale face walked +through the room. The women followed with keen eyes the faded +blue dress which was stretched upon a meagre body. Someone said +that she was Madam Glynn, the soprano. + +"I wonder where did they dig her up," said Kathleen to Miss Healy. +"I'm sure I never heard of her." + +Miss Healy had to smile. Mr. Holohan limped into the +dressing-room at that moment and the two young ladies asked him +who was the unknown woman. Mr. Holohan said that she was +Madam Glynn from London. Madam Glynn took her stand in a +corner of the room, holding a roll of music stiffly before her and +from time to time changing the direction of her startled gaze. The +shadow took her faded dress into shelter but fell revengefully into +the little cup behind her collar-bone. The noise of the hall became +more audible. The first tenor and the baritone arrived together. +They were both well dressed, stout and complacent and they +brought a breath of opulence among the company. + +Mrs. Kearney brought her daughter over to them, and talked to +them amiably. She wanted to be on good terms with them but, +while she strove to be polite, her eyes followed Mr. Holohan in his +limping and devious courses. As soon as she could she excused +herself and went out after him. + +"Mr. Holohan, I want to speak to you for a moment," she said. + +They went down to a discreet part of the corridor. Mrs Kearney +asked him when was her daughter going to be paid. Mr. Holohan +said that Mr. Fitzpatrick had charge of that. Mrs. Kearney said that +she didn't know anything about Mr. Fitzpatrick. Her daughter had +signed a contract for eight guineas and she would have to be paid. +Mr. Holohan said that it wasn't his business. + +"Why isn't it your business?" asked Mrs. Kearney. "Didn't you +yourself bring her the contract? Anyway, if it's not your business +it's my business and I mean to see to it." + +"You'd better speak to Mr. Fitzpatrick," said Mr. Holohan +distantly. + +"I don't know anything about Mr. Fitzpatrick," repeated Mrs. +Kearney. "I have my contract, and I intend to see that it is carried +out." + +When she came back to the dressing-room her cheeks were slightly +suffused. The room was lively. Two men in outdoor dress had +taken possession of the fireplace and were chatting familiarly with +Miss Healy and the baritone. They were the Freeman man and Mr. +O'Madden Burke. The Freeman man had come in to say that he +could not wait for the concert as he had to report the lecture which +an American priest was giving in the Mansion House. He said they +were to leave the report for him at the Freeman office and he +would see that it went in. He was a grey-haired man, with a +plausible voice and careful manners. He held an extinguished cigar +in his hand and the aroma of cigar smoke floated near him. He had +not intended to stay a moment because concerts and artistes bored +him considerably but he remained leaning against the mantelpiece. +Miss Healy stood in front of him, talking and laughing. He was old +enough to suspect one reason for her politeness but young enough +in spirit to turn the moment to account. The warmth, fragrance and +colour of her body appealed to his senses. He was pleasantly +conscious that the bosom which he saw rise and fall slowly +beneath him rose and fell at that moment for him, that the laughter +and fragrance and wilful glances were his tribute. When he could +stay no longer he took leave of her regretfully. + +"O'Madden Burke will write the notice," he explained to Mr. +Holohan, "and I'll see it in." + +"Thank you very much, Mr. Hendrick," said Mr. Holohan. you'll +see it in, I know. Now, won't you have a little something before +you go?" + +"I don't mind," said Mr. Hendrick. + +The two men went along some tortuous passages and up a dark +staircase and came to a secluded room where one of the stewards +was uncorking bottles for a few gentlemen. One of these +gentlemen was Mr. O'Madden Burke, who had found out the room +by instinct. He was a suave, elderly man who balanced his +imposing body, when at rest, upon a large silk umbrella. His +magniloquent western name was the moral umbrella upon which +he balanced the fine problem of his finances. He was widely +respected. + +While Mr. Holohan was entertaining the Freeman man Mrs. +Kearney was speaking so animatedly to her husband that he had to +ask her to lower her voice. The conversation of the others in the +dressing-room had become strained. Mr. Bell, the first item, stood +ready with his music but the accompanist made no sign. Evidently +something was wrong. Mr. Kearney looked straight before him, +stroking his beard, while Mrs. Kearney spoke into Kathleen's ear +with subdued emphasis. From the hall came sounds of +encouragement, clapping and stamping of feet. The first tenor and +the baritone and Miss Healy stood together, waiting tranquilly, but +Mr. Bell's nerves were greatly agitated because he was afraid the +audience would think that he had come late. + +Mr. Holohan and Mr. O'Madden Burke came into the room In a +moment Mr. Holohan perceived the hush. He went over to Mrs. +Kearney and spoke with her earnestly. While they were speaking +the noise in the hall grew louder. Mr. Holohan became very red +and excited. He spoke volubly, but Mrs. Kearney said curtly at +intervals: + +"She won't go on. She must get her eight guineas." + +Mr. Holohan pointed desperately towards the hall where the +audience was clapping and stamping. He appealed to Mr Kearney +and to Kathleen. But Mr. Kearney continued to stroke his beard +and Kathleen looked down, moving the point of her new shoe: it +was not her fault. Mrs. Kearney repeated: + +"She won't go on without her money." + +After a swift struggle of tongues Mr. Holohan hobbled out in haste. +The room was silent. When the strain of the silence had become +somewhat painful Miss Healy said to the baritone: + +"Have you seen Mrs. Pat Campbell this week?" + +The baritone had not seen her but he had been told that she was +very fine. The conversation went no further. The first tenor bent +his head and began to count the links of the gold chain which was +extended across his waist, smiling and humming random notes to +observe the effect on the frontal sinus. From time to time everyone +glanced at Mrs. Kearney. + +The noise in the auditorium had risen to a clamour when Mr. +Fitzpatrick burst into the room, followed by Mr. Holohan who was +panting. The clapping and stamping in the hall were punctuated by +whistling. Mr. Fitzpatrick held a few banknotes in his hand. He +counted out four into Mrs. Kearney's hand and said she would get +the other half at the interval. Mrs. Kearney said: + +"This is four shillings short." + +But Kathleen gathered in her skirt and said: "Now. Mr. Bell," to +the first item, who was shaking like an aspen. The singer and the +accompanist went out together. The noise in hall died away. There +was a pause of a few seconds: and then the piano was heard. + +The first part of the concert was very successful except for Madam +Glynn's item. The poor lady sang Killarney in a bodiless gasping +voice, with all the old-fashioned mannerisms of intonation and +pronunciation which she believed lent elegance to her singing. She +looked as if she had been resurrected from an old stage-wardrobe +and the cheaper parts of the hall made fun of her high wailing +notes. The first tenor and the contralto, however, brought down the +house. Kathleen played a selection of Irish airs which was +generously applauded. The first part closed with a stirring patriotic +recitation delivered by a young lady who arranged amateur +theatricals. It was deservedly applauded; and, when it was ended, +the men went out for the interval, content. + +All this time the dressing-room was a hive of excitement. In one +corner were Mr. Holohan, Mr. Fitzpatrick, Miss Beirne, two of the +stewards, the baritone, the bass, and Mr. O'Madden Burke. Mr. +O'Madden Burke said it was the most scandalous exhibition he had +ever witnessed. Miss Kathleen Kearney's musical career was ended +in Dublin after that, he said. The baritone was asked what did he +think of Mrs. Kearney's conduct. He did not like to say anything. +He had been paid his money and wished to be at peace with men. +However, he said that Mrs. Kearney might have taken the artistes +into consideration. The stewards and the secretaries debated hotly +as to what should be done when the interval came. + +"I agree with Miss Beirne," said Mr. O'Madden Burke. "Pay her +nothing." + +In another corner of the room were Mrs. Kearney and he: husband, +Mr. Bell, Miss Healy and the young lady who had to recite the +patriotic piece. Mrs. Kearney said that the Committee had treated +her scandalously. She had spared neither trouble nor expense and +this was how she was repaid. + +They thought they had only a girl to deal with and that therefore, +they could ride roughshod over her. But she would show them +their mistake. They wouldn't have dared to have treated her like +that if she had been a man. But she would see that her daughter got +her rights: she wouldn't be fooled. If they didn't pay her to the last +farthing she would make Dublin ring. Of course she was sorry for +the sake of the artistes. But what else could she do? She appealed +to the second tenor who said he thought she had not been well +treated. Then she appealed to Miss Healy. Miss Healy wanted to +join the other group but she did not like to do so because she was a +great friend of Kathleen's and the Kearneys had often invited her to +their house. + +As soon as the first part was ended Mr. Fitzpatrick and Mr. +Holohan went over to Mrs. Kearney and told her that the other four +guineas would be paid after the committee meeting on the +following Tuesday and that, in case her daughter did not play for +the second part, the committee would consider the contract broken +and would pay nothing. + +"I haven't seen any committee," said Mrs. Kearney angrily. "My +daughter has her contract. She will get four pounds eight into her +hand or a foot she won't put on that platform." + +"I'm surprised at you, Mrs. Kearney," said Mr. Holohan. "I never +thought you would treat us this way." + +"And what way did you treat me?" asked Mrs. Kearney. + +Her face was inundated with an angry colour and she looked as if +she would attack someone with her hands. + +"I'm asking for my rights." she said. + +You might have some sense of decency," said Mr. Holohan. + +"Might I, indeed?... And when I ask when my daughter is going to +be paid I can't get a civil answer." + +She tossed her head and assumed a haughty voice: + +"You must speak to the secretary. It's not my business. I'm a great +fellow fol-the-diddle-I-do." + +"I thought you were a lady," said Mr. Holohan, walking away from +her abruptly. + +After that Mrs. Kearney's conduct was condemned on all hands: +everyone approved of what the committee had done. She stood at +the door, haggard with rage, arguing with her husband and +daughter, gesticulating with them. She waited until it was time for +the second part to begin in the hope that the secretaries would +approach her. But Miss Healy had kindly consented to play one or +two accompaniments. Mrs. Kearney had to stand aside to allow the +baritone and his accompanist to pass up to the platform. She stood +still for an instant like an angry stone image and, when the first +notes of the song struck her ear, she caught up her daughter's cloak +and said to her husband: + +"Get a cab!" + +He went out at once. Mrs. Kearney wrapped the cloak round her +daughter and followed him. As she passed through the doorway +she stopped and glared into Mr. Holohan's face. + +"I'm not done with you yet," she said. + +"But I'm done with you," said Mr. Holohan. + +Kathleen followed her mother meekly. Mr. Holohan began to pace +up and down the room, in order to cool himself for he his skin on +fire. + +"That's a nice lady!" he said. "O, she's a nice lady!" + +You did the proper thing, Holohan," said Mr. O'Madden Burke, +poised upon his umbrella in approval. + +GRACE + +TWO GENTLEMEN who were in the lavatory at the time tried to +lift him up: but he was quite helpless. He lay curled up at the foot +of the stairs down which he had fallen. They succeeded in turning +him over. His hat had rolled a few yards away and his clothes were +smeared with the filth and ooze of the floor on which he had lain, +face downwards. His eyes were closed and he breathed with a +grunting noise. A thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of +his mouth. + +These two gentlemen and one of the curates carried him up the +stairs and laid him down again on the floor of the bar. In two +minutes he was surrounded by a ring of men. The manager of the +bar asked everyone who he was and who was with him. No one +knew who he was but one of the curates said he had served the +gentleman with a small rum. + +"Was he by himself?" asked the manager. + +"No, sir. There was two gentlemen with him." + +"And where are they?" + +No one knew; a voice said: + +"Give him air. He's fainted." + +The ring of onlookers distended and closed again elastically. A +dark medal of blood had formed itself near the man's head on the +tessellated floor. The manager, alarmed by the grey pallor of the +man's face, sent for a policeman. + +His collar was unfastened and his necktie undone. He opened eyes +for an instant, sighed and closed them again. One of gentlemen +who had carried him upstairs held a dinged silk hat in his hand. +The manager asked repeatedly did no one know who the injured +man was or where had his friends gone. The door of the bar +opened and an immense constable entered. A crowd which had +followed him down the laneway collected outside the door, +struggling to look in through the glass panels. + +The manager at once began to narrate what he knew. The costable, +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 some delusion. Then +he drew off his glove, produced a small book from his waist, +licked the lead of his pencil and made ready to indite. He asked in +a suspicious provincial accent: + +"Who is the man? What's his name and address?" + +A young man in a cycling-suit cleared his way through the ring of +bystanders. He knelt down promptly beside the injured man and +called for water. The constable knelt down also to help. The young +man washed the blood from the injured man's mouth and then +called for some brandy. The constable repeated the order in an +authoritative voice until a curate came running with the glass. The +brandy was forced down the man's throat. In a few seconds he +opened his eyes and looked about him. He looked at the circle of +faces and then, understanding, strove to rise to his feet. + +"You're all right now?" asked the young man in the cycling- suit. + +"Sha,'s nothing," said the injured man, trying to stand up. + +He was helped to his feet. The manager said something about a +hospital and some of the bystanders gave advice. The battered silk +hat was placed on the man's head. The constable asked: + +"Where do you live?" + +The man, without answering, began to twirl the ends of his +moustache. He made light of his accident. It was nothing, he said: +only a little accident. He spoke very thickly. + +"Where do you live" repeated the constable. + +The man said they were to get a cab for him. While the point was +being debated a tall agile gentleman of fair complexion, wearing a +long yellow ulster, came from the far end of the bar. Seeing the +spectacle, he called out: + +"Hallo, Tom, old man! What's the trouble?" + +"Sha,'s nothing," said the man. + +The new-comer surveyed the deplorable figure before him and +then turned to the constable, saying: + +"It's all right, constable. I'll see him home." + +The constable touched his helmet and answered: + +"All right, Mr. Power!" + +"Come now, Tom," said Mr. Power, taking his friend by the arm. +"No bones broken. What? Can you walk?" + +The young man in the cycling-suit took the man by the other arm +and the crowd divided. + +"How did you get yourself into this mess?" asked Mr. Power. + +"The gentleman fell down the stairs," said the young man. + +"I' 'ery 'uch o'liged to you, sir," said the injured man. + +"Not at all." + +"'ant we have a little...?" + +"Not now. Not now." + +The three men left the bar and the crowd sifted through the doors +in to the laneway. The manager brought the constable to the stairs +to inspect the scene of the accident. They agreed that the +gentleman must have missed his footing. The customers returned +to the counter and a curate set about removing the traces of blood +from the floor. + +When they came out into Grafton Street, Mr. Power whistled for +an outsider. The injured man said again as well as he could. + +"I' 'ery 'uch o'liged to you, sir. I hope we'll 'eet again. 'y na'e is +Kernan." + +The shock and the incipient pain had partly sobered him. + +"Don't mention it," said the young man. + +They shook hands. Mr. Kernan was hoisted on to the car and, +while Mr. Power was giving directions to the carman, he expressed +his gratitude to the young man and regretted that they could not +have a little drink together. + +"Another time," said the young man. + +The car drove off towards Westmoreland Street. As it passed +Ballast Office the clock showed half-past nine. A keen east wind +hit them, blowing from the mouth of the river. Mr. Kernan was +huddled together with cold. His friend asked him to tell how the +accident had happened. + +"I'an't 'an," he answered, "'y 'ongue is hurt." + +"Show." + +The other leaned over the well of the car and peered into Mr. +Kernan's mouth but he could not see. He struck a match and, +sheltering it in the shell of his hands, peered again into the mouth +which Mr. Kernan opened obediently. The swaying movement of +the car brought the match to and from the opened mouth. The +lower teeth and gums were covered with clotted blood and a +minute piece of the tongue seemed to have been bitten off. The +match was blown out. + +"That's ugly," said Mr. Power. + +"Sha, 's nothing," said Mr. Kernan, closing his mouth and pulling +the collar of his filthy coat across his neck. + +Mr. Kernan was a commercial traveller of the old school which +believed in the dignity of its calling. He had never been seen in the +city without a silk hat of some decency and a pair of gaiters. By +grace of these two articles of clothing, he said, a man could always +pass muster. He carried on the tradition of his Napoleon, the great +Blackwhite, whose memory he evoked at times by legend and +mimicry. Modern business methods had spared him only so far as +to allow him a little office in Crowe Street, on the window blind of +which was written the name of his firm with the address -- London, +E. C. On the mantelpiece of this little office a little leaden +battalion of canisters was drawn up and on the table before the +window stood four or five china bowls which were usually half +full of a black liquid. From these bowls Mr. Kernan tasted tea. He +took a mouthful, drew it up, saturated his palate with it and then +spat it forth into the grate. Then he paused to judge. + +Mr. Power, a much younger man, was employed in the Royal Irish +Constabulary Office in Dublin Castle. The arc of his social rise +intersected the arc of his friend's decline, but Mr. Kernan's decline +was mitigated by the fact that certain of those friends who had +known him at his highest point of success still esteemed him as a +character. Mr. Power was one of these friends. His inexplicable +debts were a byword in his circle; he was a debonair young man. + +The car halted before a small house on the Glasnevin road and Mr. +Kernan was helped into the house. His wife put him to bed while +Mr. Power sat downstairs in the kitchen asking the children where +they went to school and what book they were in. The children -- +two girls and a boy, conscious of their father helplessness and of +their mother's absence, began some horseplay with him. He was +surprised at their manners and at their accents, and his brow grew +thoughtful. After a while Mrs. Kernan entered the kitchen, +exclaiming: + +"Such a sight! O, he'll do for himself one day and that's the holy +alls of it. He's been drinking since Friday." + +Mr. Power was careful to explain to her that he was not +responsible, that he had come on the scene by the merest accident. +Mrs. Kernan, remembering Mr. Power's good offices during +domestic quarrels, as well as many small, but opportune loans, +said: + +"O, you needn't tell me that, Mr. Power. I know you're a friend of +his, not like some of the others he does be with. They're all right so +long as he has money in his pocket to keep him out from his wife +and family. Nice friends! Who was he with tonight, I'd like to +know?" + +Mr. Power shook his head but said nothing. + +"I'm so sorry," she continued, "that I've nothing in the house to +offer you. But if you wait a minute I'll send round to Fogarty's, at +the corner." + +Mr. Power stood up. + +"We were waiting for him to come home with the money. He +never seems to think he has a home at all." + +"O, now, Mrs. Kernan," said Mr. Power, "we'll make him turn over +a new leaf. I'll talk to Martin. He's the man. We'll come here one of +these nights and talk it over." + +She saw him to the door. The carman was stamping up and down +the footpath, and swinging his arms to warm himself. + +"It's very kind of you to bring him home," she said. + +"Not at all," said Mr. Power. + +He got up on the car. As it drove off he raised his hat to her gaily. + +"We'll make a new man of him," he said. "Good-night, Mrs. +Kernan." + + + + + + +Mrs. Kernan's puzzled eyes watched the car till it was out of sight. +Then she withdrew them, went into the house and emptied her +husband's pockets. + +She was an active, practical woman of middle age. Not long before +she had celebrated her silver wedding and renewed her intimacy +with her husband by waltzing with him to Mr. Power's +accompaniment. In her days of courtship, Mr. Kernan had seemed +to her a not ungallant figure: and she still hurried to the chapel +door whenever a wedding was reported and, seeing the bridal pair, +recalled with vivid pleasure how she had passed out of the Star of +the Sea Church in Sandymount, leaning on the arm of a jovial +well-fed man, who was dressed smartly in a frock-coat and +lavender trousers and carried a silk hat gracefully balanced upon +his other arm. After three weeks she had found a wife's life +irksome and, later on, when she was beginning to find it +unbearable, she had become a mother. The part of mother +presented to her no insuperable difficulties and for twenty-five +years she had kept house shrewdly for her husband. Her two eldest +sons were launched. One was in a draper's shop in Glasgow and +the other was clerk to a tea- merchant in Belfast. They were good +sons, wrote regularly and sometimes sent home money. The other +children were still at school. + +Mr. Kernan sent a letter to his office next day and remained in bed. +She made beef-tea for him and scolded him roundly. She accepted +his frequent intemperance as part of the climate, healed him +dutifully whenever he was sick and always tried to make him eat a +breakfast. There were worse husbands. He had never been violent +since the boys had grown up, and she knew that he would walk to +the end of Thomas Street and back again to book even a small +order. + +Two nights after, his friends came to see him. She brought them up +to his bedroom, the air of which was impregnated with a personal +odour, and gave them chairs at the fire. Mr. Kernan's tongue, the +occasional stinging pain of which had made him somewhat +irritable during the day, became more polite. He sat propped up in +the bed by pillows and the little colour in his puffy cheeks made +them resemble warm cinders. He apologised to his guests for the +disorder of the room, but at the same time looked at them a little +proudly, with a veteran's pride. + +He was quite unconscious that he was the victim of a plot which +his friends, Mr. Cunningham, Mr. M'Coy and Mr. Power had +disclosed to Mrs. Kernan in the parlour. The idea been Mr. +Power's, but its development was entrusted to Mr. Cunningham. +Mr. Kernan came of Protestant stock and, though he had been +converted to the Catholic faith at the time of his marriage, he had +not been in the pale of the Church for twenty years. He was fond, +moreover, of giving side-thrusts at Catholicism. + +Mr. Cunningham was the very man for such a case. He was an +elder colleague of Mr. Power. His own domestic life was very +happy. People had great sympathy with him, for it was known that +he had married an unpresentable woman who was an incurable +drunkard. He had set up house for her six times; and each time she +had pawned the furniture on him. + +Everyone had respect for poor Martin Cunningham. He was a +thoroughly sensible man, influential and intelligent. His blade of +human knowledge, natural astuteness particularised by long +association with cases in the police courts, had been tempered by +brief immersions in the waters of general philosophy. He was well +informed. His friends bowed to his opinions and considered that +his face was like Shakespeare's. + +When the plot had been disclosed to her, Mrs. Kernan had said: + +"I leave it all in your hands, Mr. Cunningham." + +After a quarter of a century of married life, she had very few +illusions left. Religion for her was a habit, and she suspected that a +man of her husband's age would not change greatly before death. +She was tempted to see a curious appropriateness in his accident +and, but that she did not wish to seem bloody-minded, would have +told the gentlemen that Mr. Kernan's tongue would not suffer by +being shortened. However, Mr. Cunningham was a capable man; +and religion was religion. The scheme might do good and, at least, +it could do no harm. Her beliefs were not extravagant. She +believed steadily in the Sacred Heart as the most generally useful +of all Catholic devotions and approved of the sacraments. Her faith +was bounded by her kitchen, but, if she was put to it, she could +believe also in the banshee and in the Holy Ghost. + +The gentlemen began to talk of the accident. Mr. Cunningham said +that he had once known a similar case. A man of seventy had +bitten off a piece of his tongue during an epileptic fit and the +tongue had filled in again, so that no one could see a trace of the +bite. + +"Well, I'm not seventy," said the invalid. + +"God forbid," said Mr. Cunningham. + +"It doesn't pain you now?" asked Mr. M'Coy. + +Mr. M'Coy had been at one time a tenor of some reputation. His +wife, who had been a soprano, still taught young children to play +the piano at low terms. His line of life had not been the shortest +distance between two points and for short periods he had been +driven to live by his wits. He had been a clerk in the Midland +Railway, a canvasser for advertisements for The Irish Times and +for The Freeman's Journal, a town traveller for a coal firm on +commission, a private inquiry agent, a clerk in the office of the +Sub-Sheriff, and he had recently become secretary to the City +Coroner. His new office made him professionally interested in Mr. +Kernan's case. + +"Pain? Not much," answered Mr. Kernan. "But it's so sickening. I +feel as if I wanted to retch off." + +"That's the boose," said Mr. Cunningham firmly. + +"No," said Mr. Kernan. "I think I caught cold on the car. There's +something keeps coming into my throat, phlegm or----" + +"Mucus." said Mr. M'Coy. + +"It keeps coming like from down in my throat; sickening." + +"Yes, yes," said Mr. M'Coy, "that's the thorax." + +He looked at Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Power at the same time +with an air of challenge. Mr. Cunningham nodded his head rapidly +and Mr. Power said: + +"Ah, well, all's well that ends well." + +"I'm very much obliged to you, old man," said the invalid. + +Mr. Power waved his hand. + +"Those other two fellows I was with----" + +"Who were you with?" asked Mr. Cunningham. + +"A chap. I don't know his name. Damn it now, what's his name? +Little chap with sandy hair...." + +"And who else?" + +"Harford." + +"Hm," said Mr. Cunningham. + +When Mr. Cunningham made that remark, people were silent. It +was known that the speaker had secret sources of information. In +this case the monosyllable had a moral intention. Mr. Harford +sometimes formed one of a little detachment which left the city +shortly after noon on Sunday with the purpose of arriving as soon +as possible at some public-house on the outskirts of the city where +its members duly qualified themselves as bona fide travellers. But +his fellow-travellers had never consented to overlook his origin. +He had begun life as an obscure financier by lending small sums of +money to workmen at usurious interest. Later on he had become +the partner of a very fat, short gentleman, Mr. Goldberg, in the +Liffey Loan Bank. Though he had never embraced more than the +Jewish ethical code, his fellow-Catholics, whenever they had +smarted in person or by proxy under his exactions, spoke of him +bitterly as an Irish Jew and an illiterate, and saw divine +disapproval of usury made manifest through the person of his idiot +son. At other times they remembered his good points. + +"I wonder where did he go to," said Mr. Kernan. + +He wished the details of the incident to remain vague. He wished +his friends to think there had been some mistake, that Mr. Harford +and he had missed each other. His friends, who knew quite well +Mr. Harford's manners in drinking were silent. Mr. Power said +again: + +"All's well that ends well." + +Mr. Kernan changed the subject at once. + +"That was a decent young chap, that medical fellow," he said. +"Only for him----" + +"O, only for him," said Mr. Power, "it might have been a case of +seven days, without the option of a fine." + +"Yes, yes," said Mr. Kernan, trying to remember. "I remember now +there was a policeman. Decent young fellow, he seemed. How did +it happen at all?" + +"It happened that you were peloothered, Tom," said Mr. +Cunningham gravely. + +"True bill," said Mr. Kernan, equally gravely. + +"I suppose you squared the constable, Jack," said Mr. M'Coy. + +Mr. Power did not relish the use of his Christian name. He was not +straight-laced, but he could not forget that Mr. M'Coy had recently +made a crusade in search of valises and portmanteaus to enable +Mrs. M'Coy to fulfil imaginary engagements in the country. More +than he resented the fact that he had been victimised he resented +such low playing of the game. He answered the question, +therefore, as if Mr. Kernan had asked it. + +The narrative made Mr. Kernan indignant. He was keenly +conscious of his citizenship, wished to live with his city on terms +mutually honourable and resented any affront put upon him by +those whom he called country bumpkins. + +"Is this what we pay rates for?" he asked. "To feed and clothe these +ignorant bostooms... and they're nothing else." + +Mr. Cunningham laughed. He was a Castle official only during +office hours. + +"How could they be anything else, Tom?" he said. + +He assumed a thick, provincial accent and said in a tone of +command: + +"65, catch your cabbage!" + +Everyone laughed. Mr. M'Coy, who wanted to enter the +conversation by any door, pretended that he had never heard the +story. Mr. Cunningham said: + +"It is supposed -- they say, you know -- to take place in the depot +where they get these thundering big country fellows, omadhauns, +you know, to drill. The sergeant makes them stand in a row against +the wall and hold up their plates." + +He illustrated the story by grotesque gestures. + +"At dinner, you know. Then he has a bloody big bowl of cabbage +before him on the table and a bloody big spoon like a shovel. He +takes up a wad of cabbage on the spoon and pegs it across the +room and the poor devils have to try and catch it on their plates: +65, catch your cabbage." + +Everyone laughed again: but Mr. Kernan was somewhat indignant +still. He talked of writing a letter to the papers. + +"These yahoos coming up here," he said, "think they can boss the +people. I needn't tell you, Martin, what kind of men they are." + +Mr. Cunningham gave a qualified assent. + +"It's like everything else in this world," he said. "You get some bad +ones and you get some good ones." + +"O yes, you get some good ones, I admit," said Mr. Kernan, +satisfied. + +"It's better to have nothing to say to them," said Mr. M'Coy. "That's +my opinion!" + +Mrs. Kernan entered the room and, placing a tray on the table, +said: + +"Help yourselves, gentlemen." + +Mr. Power stood up to officiate, offering her his chair. She +declined it, saying she was ironing downstairs, and, after having +exchanged a nod with Mr. Cunningham behind Mr. Power's back, +prepared to leave the room. Her husband called out to her: + +"And have you nothing for me, duckie?" + +"O, you! The back of my hand to you!" said Mrs. Kernan tartly. + +Her husband called after her: + +"Nothing for poor little hubby!" + +He assumed such a comical face and voice that the distribution of +the bottles of stout took place amid general merriment. + +The gentlemen drank from their glasses, set the glasses again on +the table and paused. Then Mr. Cunningham turned towards Mr. +Power and said casually: + +"On Thursday night, you said, Jack " + +"Thursday, yes," said Mr. Power. + +"Righto!" said Mr. Cunningham promptly. + +"We can meet in M'Auley's," said Mr. M'Coy. "That'll be the most +convenient place." + +"But we mustn't be late," said Mr. Power earnestly, "because it is +sure to be crammed to the doors." + +"We can meet at half-seven," said Mr. M'Coy. + +"Righto!" said Mr. Cunningham. + +"Half-seven at M'Auley's be it!" + +There was a short silence. Mr. Kernan waited to see whether he +would be taken into his friends' confidence. Then he asked: + +"What's in the wind?" + +"O, it's nothing," said Mr. Cunningham. "It's only a little matter +that we're arranging about for Thursday." + +"The opera, is it?" said Mr. Kernan. + +"No, no," said Mr. Cunningham in an evasive tone, "it's just a +little... spiritual matter." + +"0," said Mr. Kernan. + +There was silence again. Then Mr. Power said, point blank: + +"To tell you the truth, Tom, we're going to make a retreat." + +"Yes, that's it," said Mr. Cunningham, "Jack and I and M'Coy here +-- we're all going to wash the pot." + +He uttered the metaphor with a certain homely energy and, +encouraged by his own voice, proceeded: + +"You see, we may as well all admit we're a nice collection of +scoundrels, one and all. I say, one and all," he added with gruff +charity and turning to Mr. Power. "Own up now!" + +"I own up," said Mr. Power. + +"And I own up," said Mr. M'Coy. + +"So we're going to wash the pot together," said Mr. Cunningham. + +A thought seemed to strike him. He turned suddenly to the invalid +and said: + +"D'ye know what, Tom, has just occurred to me? You night join in +and we'd have a four-handed reel." + +"Good idea," said Mr. Power. "The four of us together." + +Mr. Kernan was silent. The proposal conveyed very little meaning +to his mind, but, understanding that some spiritual agencies were +about to concern themselves on his behalf, he thought he owed it +to his dignity to show a stiff neck. He took no part in the +conversation for a long while, but listened, with an air of calm +enmity, while his friends discussed the Jesuits. + +"I haven't such a bad opinion of the Jesuits," he said, intervening at +length. "They're an educated order. I believe they mean well, too." + +"They're the grandest order in the Church, Tom," said Mr. +Cunningham, with enthusiasm. "The General of the Jesuits stands +next to the Pope." + +"There's no mistake about it," said Mr. M'Coy, "if you want a thing +well done and no flies about, you go to a Jesuit. They're the boyos +have influence. I'll tell you a case in point...." + +"The Jesuits are a fine body of men," said Mr. Power. + +"It's a curious thing," said Mr. Cunningham, "about the Jesuit +Order. Every other order of the Church had to be reformed at some +time or other but the Jesuit Order was never once reformed. It +never fell away." + +"Is that so?" asked Mr. M'Coy. + +"That's a fact," said Mr. Cunningham. "That's history." + +"Look at their church, too," said Mr. Power. "Look at the +congregation they have." + +"The Jesuits cater for the upper classes," said Mr. M'Coy. + +"Of course," said Mr. Power. + +"Yes," said Mr. Kernan. "That's why I have a feeling for them. It's +some of those secular priests, ignorant, bumptious----" + +"They're all good men," said Mr. Cunningham, "each in his own +way. The Irish priesthood is honoured all the world over." + +"O yes," said Mr. Power. + +"Not like some of the other priesthoods on the continent," said Mr. +M'Coy, "unworthy of the name." + +"Perhaps you're right," said Mr. Kernan, relenting. + +"Of course I'm right," said Mr. Cunningham. "I haven't been in the +world all this time and seen most sides of it without being a judge +of character." + +The gentlemen drank again, one following another's example. Mr. +Kernan seemed to be weighing something in his mind. He was +impressed. He had a high opinion of Mr. Cunningham as a judge +of character and as a reader of faces. He asked for particulars. + +"O, it's just a retreat, you know," said Mr. Cunningham. "Father +Purdon is giving it. It's for business men, you know." + +"He won't be too hard on us, Tom," said Mr. Power persuasively. + +"Father Purdon? Father Purdon?" said the invalid. + +"O, you must know him, Tom," said Mr. Cunningham stoutly. +"Fine, jolly fellow! He's a man of the world like ourselves." + +"Ah,... yes. I think I know him. Rather red face; tall." + +"That's the man." + +"And tell me, Martin.... Is he a good preacher?" + +"Munno.... It's not exactly a sermon, you know. It's just kind of a +friendly talk, you know, in a common-sense way." + +Mr. Kernan deliberated. Mr. M'Coy said: + +"Father Tom Burke, that was the boy!" + +"O, Father Tom Burke," said Mr. Cunningham, "that was a born +orator. Did you ever hear him, Tom?" + +"Did I ever hear him!" said the invalid, nettled. "Rather! I heard +him...." + +"And yet they say he wasn't much of a theologian," said Mr +Cunningham. + +"Is that so?" said Mr. M'Coy. + +"O, of course, nothing wrong, you know. Only sometimes, they +say, he didn't preach what was quite orthodox." + +"Ah!... he was a splendid man," said Mr. M'Coy. + +"I heard him once," Mr. Kernan continued. "I forget the subject of +his discourse now. Crofton and I were in the back of the... pit, you +know... the----" + +"The body," said Mr. Cunningham. + +"Yes, in the back near the door. I forget now what.... O yes, it was +on the Pope, the late Pope. I remember it well. Upon my word it +was magnificent, the style of the oratory. And his voice! God! +hadn't he a voice! The Prisoner of the Vatican, he called him. I +remember Crofton saying to me when we came out----" + +"But he's an Orangeman, Crofton, isn't he?" said Mr. Power. + +"'Course he is," said Mr. Kernan, "and a damned decent +Orangeman too. We went into Butler's in Moore Street -- faith, was +genuinely moved, tell you the God's truth -- and I remember well +his very words. Kernan, he said, we worship at different altars, he +said, but our belief is the same. Struck me as very well put." + +"There's a good deal in that," said Mr. Power. "There used always +be crowds of Protestants in the chapel where Father Tom was +preaching." + +"There's not much difference between us," said Mr. M'Coy. + +"We both believe in----" + +He hesitated for a moment. + +"... in the Redeemer. Only they don't believe in the Pope and in the +mother of God." + +"But, of course," said Mr. Cunningham quietly and effectively, +"our religion is the religion, the old, original faith." + +"Not a doubt of it," said Mr. Kernan warmly. + +Mrs. Kernan came to the door of the bedroom and announced: + +"Here's a visitor for you!" + +"Who is it?" + +"Mr. Fogarty." + +"O, come in! come in!" + +A pale, oval face came forward into the light. The arch of its fair +trailing moustache was repeated in the fair eyebrows looped above +pleasantly astonished eyes. Mr. Fogarty was a modest grocer. He +had failed in business in a licensed house in the city because his +financial condition had constrained him to tie himself to +second-class distillers and brewers. He had opened a small shop on +Glasnevin Road where, he flattered himself, his manners would +ingratiate him with the housewives of the district. He bore himself +with a certain grace, complimented little children and spoke with a +neat enunciation. He was not without culture. + +Mr. Fogarty brought a gift with him, a half-pint of special whisky. +He inquired politely for Mr. Kernan, placed his gift on the table +and sat down with the company on equal terms. Mr. Kernan +appreciated the gift all the more since he was aware that there was +a small account for groceries unsettled between him and Mr. +Fogarty. He said: + +"I wouldn't doubt you, old man. Open that, Jack, will you?" + +Mr. Power again officiated. Glasses were rinsed and five small +measures of whisky were poured out. This new influence +enlivened the conversation. Mr. Fogarty, sitting on a small area of +the chair, was specially interested. + +"Pope Leo XIII," said Mr. Cunningham, "was one of the lights of +the age. His great idea, you know, was the union of the Latin and +Greek Churches. That was the aim of his life." + +"I often heard he was one of the most intellectual men in Europe," +said Mr. Power. "I mean, apart from his being Pope." + +"So he was," said Mr. Cunningham, "if not the most so. His motto, +you know, as Pope, was Lux upon Lux -- Light upon Light." + +"No, no," said Mr. Fogarty eagerly. "I think you're wrong there. It +was Lux in Tenebris, I think -- Light in Darkness." + +"O yes," said Mr. M'Coy, "Tenebrae." + +"Allow me," said Mr. Cunningham positively, "it was Lux upon +Lux. And Pius IX his predecessor's motto was Crux upon Crux -- +that is, Cross upon Cross -- to show the difference between their +two pontificates." + +The inference was allowed. Mr. Cunningham continued. + +"Pope Leo, you know, was a great scholar and a poet." + +"He had a strong face," said Mr. Kernan. + +"Yes," said Mr. Cunningham. "He wrote Latin poetry." + +"Is that so?" said Mr. Fogarty. + +Mr. M'Coy tasted his whisky contentedly and shook his head with +a double intention, saying: + +"That's no joke, I can tell you." + +"We didn't learn that, Tom," said Mr. Power, following Mr. +M'Coy's example, "when we went to the penny-a-week school." + +"There was many a good man went to the penny-a-week school +with a sod of turf under his oxter," said Mr. Kernan sententiously. +"The old system was the best: plain honest education. None of +your modern trumpery...." + +"Quite right," said Mr. Power. + +"No superfluities," said Mr. Fogarty. + +He enunciated the word and then drank gravely. + +"I remember reading," said Mr. Cunningham, "that one of Pope +Leo's poems was on the invention of the photograph -- in Latin, of +course." + +"On the photograph!" exclaimed Mr. Kernan. + +"Yes," said Mr. Cunningham. + +He also drank from his glass. + +"Well, you know," said Mr. M'Coy, "isn't the photograph +wonderful when you come to think of it?" + +"O, of course," said Mr. Power, "great minds can see things." + +"As the poet says: Great minds are very near to madness," said Mr. +Fogarty. + +Mr. Kernan seemed to be troubled in mind. He made an effort to +recall the Protestant theology on some thorny points and in the end +addressed Mr. Cunningham. + +"Tell me, Martin," he said. "Weren't some of the popes -- of +course, not our present man, or his predecessor, but some of the +old popes -- not exactly ... you know... up to the knocker?" + +There was a silence. Mr. Cunningham said + +"O, of course, there were some bad lots... But the astonishing thing +is this. Not one of them, not the biggest drunkard, not the most... +out-and-out ruffian, not one of them ever preached ex cathedra a +word of false doctrine. Now isn't that an astonishing thing?" + +"That is," said Mr. Kernan. + +"Yes, because when the Pope speaks ex cathedra," Mr. Fogarty +explained, "he is infallible." + +"Yes," said Mr. Cunningham. + +"O, I know about the infallibility of the Pope. I remember I was +younger then.... Or was it that----?" + +Mr. Fogarty interrupted. He took up the bottle and helped the +others to a little more. Mr. M'Coy, seeing that there was not +enough to go round, pleaded that he had not finished his first +measure. The others accepted under protest. The light music of +whisky falling into glasses made an agreeable interlude. + +"What's that you were saying, Tom?" asked Mr. M'Coy. + +"Papal infallibility," said Mr. Cunningham, "that was the greatest +scene in the whole history of the Church." + +"How was that, Martin?" asked Mr. Power. + +Mr. Cunningham held up two thick fingers. + +"In the sacred college, you know, of cardinals and archbishops and +bishops there were two men who held out against it while the +others were all for it. The whole conclave except these two was +unanimous. No! They wouldn't have it!" + +"Ha!" said Mr. M'Coy. + +"And they were a German cardinal by the name of Dolling... or +Dowling... or----" + +"Dowling was no German, and that's a sure five," said Mr. Power, +laughing. + +"Well, this great German cardinal, whatever his name was, was +one; and the other was John MacHale." + +"What?" cried Mr. Kernan. "Is it John of Tuam?" + +"Are you sure of that now?" asked Mr. Fogarty dubiously. "I +thought it was some Italian or American." + +"John of Tuam," repeated Mr. Cunningham, "was the man." + +He drank and the other gentlemen followed his lead. Then he +resumed: + +"There they were at it, all the cardinals and bishops and +archbishops from all the ends of the earth and these two fighting +dog and devil until at last the Pope himself stood up and declared +infallibility a dogma of the Church ex cathedra. On the very +moment John MacHale, who had been arguing and arguing against +it, stood up and shouted out with the voice of a lion: 'Credo!'" + +"I believe!" said Mr. Fogarty. + +"Credo!" said Mr. Cunningham "That showed the faith he had. He +submitted the moment the Pope spoke." + +"And what about Dowling?" asked Mr. M'Coy. + +"The German cardinal wouldn't submit. He left the church." + +Mr. Cunningham's words had built up the vast image of the church +in the minds of his hearers. His deep, raucous voice had thrilled +them as it uttered the word of belief and submission. When Mrs. +Kernan came into the room, drying her hands she came into a +solemn company. She did not disturb the silence, but leaned over +the rail at the foot of the bed. + +"I once saw John MacHale," said Mr. Kernan, "and I'll never forget +it as long as I live." + +He turned towards his wife to be confirmed. + +"I often told you that?" + +Mrs. Kernan nodded. + +"It was at the unveiling of Sir John Gray's statue. Edmund Dwyer +Gray was speaking, blathering away, and here was this old fellow, +crabbed-looking old chap, looking at him from under his bushy +eyebrows." + +Mr. Kernan knitted his brows and, lowering his head like an angry +bull, glared at his wife. + +"God!" he exclaimed, resuming his natural face, "I never saw such +an eye in a man's head. It was as much as to say: I have you +properly taped, my lad. He had an eye like a hawk." + +"None of the Grays was any good," said Mr. Power. + +There was a pause again. Mr. Power turned to Mrs. Kernan and +said with abrupt joviality: + +"Well, Mrs. Kernan, we're going to make your man here a good +holy pious and God-fearing Roman Catholic." + +He swept his arm round the company inclusively. + +"We're all going to make a retreat together and confess our sins -- +and God knows we want it badly." + +"I don't mind," said Mr. Kernan, smiling a little nervously. + +Mrs. Kernan thought it would be wiser to conceal her satisfaction. +So she said: + +"I pity the poor priest that has to listen to your tale." + +Mr. Kernan's expression changed. + +"If he doesn't like it," he said bluntly, "he can... do the other thing. +I'll just tell him my little tale of woe. I'm not such a bad fellow----" + +Mr. Cunningham intervened promptly. + +"We'll all renounce the devil," he said, "together, not forgetting his +works and pomps." + +"Get behind me, Satan!" said Mr. Fogarty, laughing and looking at +the others. + +Mr. Power said nothing. He felt completely out-generalled. But a +pleased expression flickered across his face. + +"All we have to do," said Mr. Cunningham, "is to stand up with +lighted candles in our hands and renew our baptismal vows." + +"O, don't forget the candle, Tom," said Mr. M'Coy, "whatever you +do." + +"What?" said Mr. Kernan. "Must I have a candle?" + +"O yes," said Mr. Cunningham. + +"No, damn it all," said Mr. Kernan sensibly, "I draw the line there. +I'll do the job right enough. I'll do the retreat business and +confession, and... all that business. But... no candles! No, damn it +all, I bar the candles!" + +He shook his head with farcical gravity. + +"Listen to that!" said his wife. + +"I bar the candles," said Mr. Kernan, conscious of having created +an effect on his audience and continuing to shake his head to and +fro. "I bar the magic-lantern business." + +Everyone laughed heartily. + +"There's a nice Catholic for you!" said his wife. + +"No candles!" repeated Mr. Kernan obdurately. "That's off!" + + + + + + +The transept of the Jesuit Church in Gardiner Street was almost +full; and still at every moment gentlemen entered from the side +door and, directed by the lay-brother, walked on tiptoe along the +aisles until they found seating accommodation. The gentlemen +were all well dressed and orderly. The light of the lamps of the +church fell upon an assembly of black clothes and white collars, +relieved here and there by tweeds, on dark mottled pillars of green +marble and on lugubrious canvases. The gentlemen sat in the +benches, having hitched their trousers slightly above their knees +and laid their hats in security. They sat well back and gazed +formally at the distant speck of red light which was suspended +before the high altar. + +In one of the benches near the pulpit sat Mr. Cunningham and Mr. +Kernan. In the bench behind sat Mr. M'Coy alone: and in the bench +behind him sat Mr. Power and Mr. Fogarty. Mr. M'Coy had tried +unsuccessfully to find a place in the bench with the others, and, +when the party had settled down in the form of a quincunx, he had +tried unsuccessfully to make comic remarks. As these had not been +well received, he had desisted. Even he was sensible of the +decorous atmosphere and even he began to respond to the religious +stimulus. In a whisper, Mr. Cunningham drew Mr. Kernan's +attention to Mr. Harford, the moneylender, who sat some distance +off, and to Mr. Fanning, the registration agent and mayor maker of +the city, who was sitting immediately under the pulpit beside one +of the newly elected councillors of the ward. To the right sat old +Michael Grimes, the owner of three pawnbroker's shops, and Dan +Hogan's nephew, who was up for the job in the Town Clerk's +office. Farther in front sat Mr. Hendrick, the chief reporter of The +Freeman's Journal, and poor O'Carroll, an old friend of Mr. +Kernan's, who had been at one time a considerable commercial +figure. Gradually, as he recognised familiar faces, Mr. Kernan +began to feel more at home. His hat, which had been rehabilitated +by his wife, rested upon his knees. Once or twice he pulled down +his cuffs with one hand while he held the brim of his hat lightly, +but firmly, with the other hand. + +A powerful-looking figure, the upper part of which was draped +with a white surplice, was observed to be struggling into the pulpit. +Simultaneously the congregation unsettled, produced +handkerchiefs and knelt upon them with care. Mr. Kernan +followed the general example. The priest's figure now stood +upright in the pulpit, two-thirds of its bulk, crowned by a massive +red face, appearing above the balustrade. + +Father Purdon knelt down, turned towards the red speck of light +and, covering his face with his hands, prayed. After an interval, he +uncovered his face and rose. The congregation rose also and +settled again on its benches. Mr. Kernan restored his hat to its +original position on his knee and presented an attentive face to the +preacher. The preacher turned back each wide sleeve of his +surplice with an elaborate large gesture and slowly surveyed the +array of faces. Then he said: + +"For the children of this world are wiser in their generation than +the children of light. Wherefore make unto yourselves friends out +of the mammon of iniquity so that when you die they may receive +you into everlasting dwellings." + +Father Purdon developed the text with resonant assurance. It was +one of the most difficult texts in all the Scriptures, he said, to +interpret properly. It was a text which might seem to the casual +observer at variance with the lofty morality elsewhere preached by +Jesus Christ. But, he told his hearers, the text had seemed to him +specially adapted for the guidance of those whose lot it was to lead +the life of the world and who yet wished to lead that life not in the +manner of worldlings. It was a text for business men and +professional men. Jesus Christ with His divine understanding of +every cranny of our human nature, understood that all men were +not called to the religious life, that by far the vast majority were +forced to live in the world, and, to a certain extent, for the world: +and in this sentence He designed to give them a word of counsel, +setting before them as exemplars in the religious life those very +worshippers of Mammon who were of all men the least solicitous +in matters religious. + +He told his hearers that he was there that evening for no terrifying, +no extravagant purpose; but as a man of the world speaking to his +fellow-men. He came to speak to business men and he would +speak to them in a businesslike way. If he might use the metaphor, +he said, he was their spiritual accountant; and he wished each and +every one of his hearers to open his books, the books of his +spiritual life, and see if they tallied accurately with conscience. + +Jesus Christ was not a hard taskmaster. He understood our little +failings, understood the weakness of our poor fallen nature, +understood the temptations of this life. We might have had, we all +had from time to time, our temptations: we might have, we all had, +our failings. But one thing only, he said, he would ask of his +hearers. And that was: to be straight and manly with God. If their +accounts tallied in every point to say: + +"Well, I have verified my accounts. I find all well." + +But if, as might happen, there were some discrepancies, to admit +the truth, to be frank and say like a man: + +"Well, I have looked into my accounts. I find this wrong and this +wrong. But, with God's grace, I will rectify this and this. I will set +right my accounts." + +THE DEAD + +LILY, the caretaker's daughter, was literally run off her feet. +Hardly had she brought one gentleman into the little pantry behind +the office on the ground floor and helped him off with his overcoat +than the wheezy hall-door bell clanged again and she had to +scamper along the bare hallway to let in another guest. It was well +for her she had not to attend to the ladies also. But Miss Kate and +Miss Julia had thought of that and had converted the bathroom +upstairs into a ladies' dressing-room. Miss Kate and Miss Julia +were there, gossiping and laughing and fussing, walking after each +other to the head of the stairs, peering down over the banisters and +calling down to Lily to ask her who had come. + +It was always a great affair, the Misses Morkan's annual dance. +Everybody who knew them came to it, members of the family, old +friends of the family, the members of Julia's choir, any of Kate's +pupils that were grown up enough, and even some of Mary Jane's +pupils too. Never once had it fallen flat. For years and years it had +gone off in splendid style, as long as anyone could remember; ever +since Kate and Julia, after the death of their brother Pat, had left +the house in Stoney Batter and taken Mary Jane, their only niece, +to live with them in the dark, gaunt house on Usher's Island, the +upper part of which they had rented from Mr. Fulham, the +corn-factor on the ground floor. That was a good thirty years ago if +it was a day. Mary Jane, who was then a little girl in short clothes, +was now the main prop of the household, for she had the organ in +Haddington Road. She had been through the Academy and gave a +pupils' concert every year in the upper room of the Antient Concert +Rooms. Many of her pupils belonged to the better-class families on +the Kingstown and Dalkey line. Old as they were, her aunts also +did their share. Julia, though she was quite grey, was still the +leading soprano in Adam and Eve's, and Kate, being too feeble to +go about much, gave music lessons to beginners on the old square +piano in the back room. Lily, the caretaker's daughter, did +housemaid's work for them. Though their life was modest, they +believed in eating well; the best of everything: diamond-bone +sirloins, three-shilling tea and the best bottled stout. But Lily +seldom made a mistake in the orders, so that she got on well with +her three mistresses. They were fussy, that was all. But the only +thing they would not stand was back answers. + +Of course, they had good reason to be fussy on such a night. And +then it was long after ten o'clock and yet there was no sign of +Gabriel and his wife. Besides they were dreadfully afraid that +Freddy Malins might turn up screwed. They would not wish for +worlds that any of Mary Jane's pupils should see him under the +influence; and when he was like that it was sometimes very hard to +manage him. Freddy Malins always came late, but they wondered +what could be keeping Gabriel: and that was what brought them +every two minutes to the banisters to ask Lily had Gabriel or +Freddy come. + +"O, Mr. Conroy," said Lily to Gabriel when she opened the door +for him, "Miss Kate and Miss Julia thought you were never +coming. Good-night, Mrs. Conroy." + +"I'll engage they did," said Gabriel, "but they forget that my wife +here takes three mortal hours to dress herself." + +He stood on the mat, scraping the snow from his goloshes, while +Lily led his wife to the foot of the stairs and called out: + +"Miss Kate, here's Mrs. Conroy." + +Kate and Julia came toddling down the dark stairs at once. Both of +them kissed Gabriel's wife, said she must be perished alive, and +asked was Gabriel with her. + +"Here I am as right as the mail, Aunt Kate! Go on up. I'll follow," +called out Gabriel from the dark. + +He continued scraping his feet vigorously while the three women +went upstairs, laughing, to the ladies' dressing-room. A light fringe +of snow lay like a cape on the shoulders of his overcoat and like +toecaps on the toes of his goloshes; and, as the buttons of his +overcoat slipped with a squeaking noise through the +snow-stiffened frieze, a cold, fragrant air from out-of-doors +escaped from crevices and folds. + +"Is it snowing again, Mr. Conroy?" asked Lily. + +She had preceded him into the pantry to help him off with his +overcoat. Gabriel smiled at the three syllables she had given his +surname and glanced at her. She was a slim; growing girl, pale in +complexion and with hay-coloured hair. The gas in the pantry +made her look still paler. Gabriel had known her when she was a +child and used to sit on the lowest step nursing a rag doll. + +"Yes, Lily," he answered, "and I think we're in for a night of it." + +He looked up at the pantry ceiling, which was shaking with the +stamping and shuffling of feet on the floor above, listened for a +moment to the piano and then glanced at the girl, who was folding +his overcoat carefully at the end of a shelf. + +"Tell me. Lily," he said in a friendly tone, "do you still go to +school?" + +"O no, sir," she answered. "I'm done schooling this year and more." + +"O, then," said Gabriel gaily, "I suppose we'll be going to your +wedding one of these fine days with your young man, eh? " + +The girl glanced back at him over her shoulder and said with great +bitterness: + +"The men that is now is only all palaver and what they can get out +of you." + +Gabriel coloured, as if he felt he had made a mistake and, without +looking at her, kicked off his goloshes and flicked actively with his +muffler at his patent-leather shoes. + +He was a stout, tallish young man. The high colour of his cheeks +pushed upwards even to his forehead, where it scattered itself in a +few formless patches of pale red; and on his hairless face there +scintillated restlessly the polished lenses and the bright gilt rims of +the glasses which screened his delicate and restless eyes. His +glossy black hair was parted in the middle and brushed in a long +curve behind his ears where it curled slightly beneath the groove +left by his hat. + +When he had flicked lustre into his shoes he stood up and pulled +his waistcoat down more tightly on his plump body. Then he took +a coin rapidly from his pocket. + +"O Lily," he said, thrusting it into her hands, "it's Christmastime, +isn't it? Just... here's a little...." + +He walked rapidly towards the door. + +"O no, sir!" cried the girl, following him. "Really, sir, I wouldn't +take it." + +"Christmas-time! Christmas-time!" said Gabriel, almost trotting to +the stairs and waving his hand to her in deprecation. + +The girl, seeing that he had gained the stairs, called out after him: + +"Well, thank you, sir." + +He waited outside the drawing-room door until the waltz should +finish, listening to the skirts that swept against it and to the +shuffling of feet. He was still discomposed by the girl's bitter and +sudden retort. It had cast a gloom over him which he tried to dispel +by arranging his cuffs and the bows of his tie. He then took from +his waistcoat pocket a little paper and glanced at the headings he +had made for his speech. He was undecided about the lines from +Robert Browning, for he feared they would be above the heads of +his hearers. Some quotation that they would recognise from +Shakespeare or from the Melodies would be better. The indelicate +clacking of the men's heels and the shuffling of their soles +reminded him that their grade of culture differed from his. He +would only make himself ridiculous by quoting poetry to them +which they could not understand. They would think that he was +airing his superior education. He would fail with them just as he +had failed with the girl in the pantry. He had taken up a wrong +tone. His whole speech was a mistake from first to last, an utter +failure. + +Just then his aunts and his wife came out of the ladies' +dressing-room. His aunts were two small, plainly dressed old +women. Aunt Julia was an inch or so the taller. Her hair, drawn +low over the tops of her ears, was grey; and grey also, with darker +shadows, was her large flaccid face. Though she was stout in build +and stood erect, her slow eyes and parted lips gave her the +appearance of a woman who did not know where she was or where +she was going. Aunt Kate was more vivacious. Her face, healthier +than her sister's, was all puckers and creases, like a shrivelled red +apple, and her hair, braided in the same old-fashioned way, had not +lost its ripe nut colour. + +They both kissed Gabriel frankly. He was their favourite nephew +the son of their dead elder sister, Ellen, who had married T. J. +Conroy of the Port and Docks. + +"Gretta tells me you're not going to take a cab back to Monkstown +tonight, Gabriel," said Aunt Kate. + +"No," said Gabriel, turning to his wife, "we had quite enough of +that last year, hadn't we? Don't you remember, Aunt Kate, what a +cold Gretta got out of it? Cab windows rattling all the way, and the +east wind blowing in after we passed Merrion. Very jolly it was. +Gretta caught a dreadful cold." + +Aunt Kate frowned severely and nodded her head at every word. + +"Quite right, Gabriel, quite right," she said. "You can't be too +careful." + +"But as for Gretta there," said Gabriel, "she'd walk home in the +snow if she were let." + +Mrs. Conroy laughed. + +"Don't mind him, Aunt Kate," she said. "He's really an awful +bother, what with green shades for Tom's eyes at night and making +him do the dumb-bells, and forcing Eva to eat the stirabout. The +poor child! And she simply hates the sight of it!... O, but you'll +never guess what he makes me wear now!" + +She broke out into a peal of laughter and glanced at her husband, +whose admiring and happy eyes had been wandering from her +dress to her face and hair. The two aunts laughed heartily, too, for +Gabriel's solicitude was a standing joke with them. + +"Goloshes!" said Mrs. Conroy. "That's the latest. Whenever it's wet +underfoot I must put on my galoshes. Tonight even, he wanted me +to put them on, but I wouldn't. The next thing he'll buy me will be +a diving suit." + +Gabriel laughed nervously and patted his tie reassuringly, while +Aunt Kate nearly doubled herself, so heartily did she enjoy the +joke. The smile soon faded from Aunt Julia's face and her +mirthless eyes were directed towards her nephew's face. After a +pause she asked: + +"And what are goloshes, Gabriel?" + +"Goloshes, Julia!" exclaimed her sister "Goodness me, don't you +know what goloshes are? You wear them over your... over your +boots, Gretta, isn't it?" + +"Yes," said Mrs. Conroy. "Guttapercha things. We both have a pair +now. Gabriel says everyone wears them on the Continent." + +"O, on the Continent," murmured Aunt Julia, nodding her head +slowly. + +Gabriel knitted his brows and said, as if he were slightly angered: + +"It's nothing very wonderful, but Gretta thinks it very funny +because she says the word reminds her of Christy Minstrels." + +"But tell me, Gabriel," said Aunt Kate, with brisk tact. "Of course, +you've seen about the room. Gretta was saying..." + +"0, the room is all right," replied Gabriel. "I've taken one in the +Gresham." + +"To be sure," said Aunt Kate, "by far the best thing to do. And the +children, Gretta, you're not anxious about them?" + +"0, for one night," said Mrs. Conroy. "Besides, Bessie will look +after them." + +"To be sure," said Aunt Kate again. "What a comfort it is to have a +girl like that, one you can depend on! There's that Lily, I'm sure I +don't know what has come over her lately. She's not the girl she +was at all." + +Gabriel was about to ask his aunt some questions on this point, but +she broke off suddenly to gaze after her sister, who had wandered +down the stairs and was craning her neck over the banisters. + +"Now, I ask you," she said almost testily, "where is Julia going? +Julia! Julia! Where are you going?" + +Julia, who had gone half way down one flight, came back and +announced blandly: + +"Here's Freddy." + +At the same moment a clapping of hands and a final flourish of the +pianist told that the waltz had ended. The drawing-room door was +opened from within and some couples came out. Aunt Kate drew +Gabriel aside hurriedly and whispered into his ear: + +"Slip down, Gabriel, like a good fellow and see if he's all right, and +don't let him up if he's screwed. I'm sure he's screwed. I'm sure he +is." + +Gabriel went to the stairs and listened over the banisters. He could +hear two persons talking in the pantry. Then he recognised Freddy +Malins' laugh. He went down the stairs noisily. + +"It's such a relief," said Aunt Kate to Mrs. Conroy, "that Gabriel is +here. I always feel easier in my mind when he's here.... Julia, +there's Miss Daly and Miss Power will take some refreshment. +Thanks for your beautiful waltz, Miss Daly. It made lovely time." + +A tall wizen-faced man, with a stiff grizzled moustache and +swarthy skin, who was passing out with his partner, said: + +"And may we have some refreshment, too, Miss Morkan?" + +"Julia," said Aunt Kate summarily, "and here's Mr. Browne and +Miss Furlong. Take them in, Julia, with Miss Daly and Miss +Power." + +"I'm the man for the ladies," said Mr. Browne, pursing his lips until +his moustache bristled and smiling in all his wrinkles. "You know, +Miss Morkan, the reason they are so fond of me is----" + +He did not finish his sentence, but, seeing that Aunt Kate was out +of earshot, at once led the three young ladies into the back room. +The middle of the room was occupied by two square tables placed +end to end, and on these Aunt Julia and the caretaker were +straightening and smoothing a large cloth. On the sideboard were +arrayed dishes and plates, and glasses and bundles of knives and +forks and spoons. The top of the closed square piano served also as +a sideboard for viands and sweets. At a smaller sideboard in one +corner two young men were standing, drinking hop-bitters. + +Mr. Browne led his charges thither and invited them all, in jest, to +some ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet. As they said they never +took anything strong, he opened three bottles of lemonade for +them. Then he asked one of the young men to move aside, and, +taking hold of the decanter, filled out for himself a goodly measure +of whisky. The young men eyed him respectfully while he took a +trial sip. + +"God help me," he said, smiling, "it's the doctor's orders." + +His wizened face broke into a broader smile, and the three young +ladies laughed in musical echo to his pleasantry, swaying their +bodies to and fro, with nervous jerks of their shoulders. The +boldest said: + +"O, now, Mr. Browne, I'm sure the doctor never ordered anything +of the kind." + +Mr. Browne took another sip of his whisky and said, with sidling +mimicry: + +"Well, you see, I'm like the famous Mrs. Cassidy, who is reported +to have said: 'Now, Mary Grimes, if I don't take it, make me take it, +for I feel I want it.'" + +His hot face had leaned forward a little too confidentially and he +had assumed a very low Dublin accent so that the young ladies, +with one instinct, received his speech in silence. Miss Furlong, +who was one of Mary Jane's pupils, asked Miss Daly what was the +name of the pretty waltz she had played; and Mr. Browne, seeing +that he was ignored, turned promptly to the two young men who +were more appreciative. + +A red-faced young woman, dressed in pansy, came into the room, +excitedly clapping her hands and crying: + +"Quadrilles! Quadrilles!" + +Close on her heels came Aunt Kate, crying: + +"Two gentlemen and three ladies, Mary Jane!" + +"O, here's Mr. Bergin and Mr. Kerrigan," said Mary Jane. "Mr. +Kerrigan, will you take Miss Power? Miss Furlong, may I get you a +partner, Mr. Bergin. O, that'll just do now." + +"Three ladies, Mary Jane," said Aunt Kate. + +The two young gentlemen asked the ladies if they might have the +pleasure, and Mary Jane turned to Miss Daly. + +"O, Miss Daly, you're really awfully good, after playing for the last +two dances, but really we're so short of ladies tonight." + +"I don't mind in the least, Miss Morkan." + +"But I've a nice partner for you, Mr. Bartell D'Arcy, the tenor. I'll +get him to sing later on. All Dublin is raving about him." + +"Lovely voice, lovely voice!" said Aunt Kate. + +As the piano had twice begun the prelude to the first figure Mary +Jane led her recruits quickly from the room. They had hardly gone +when Aunt Julia wandered slowly into the room, looking behind +her at something. + +"What is the matter, Julia?" asked Aunt Kate anxiously. "Who is +it?" + +Julia, who was carrying in a column of table-napkins, turned to her +sister and said, simply, as if the question had surprised her: + +"It's only Freddy, Kate, and Gabriel with him." + +In fact right behind her Gabriel could be seen piloting Freddy +Malins across the landing. The latter, a young man of about forty, +was of Gabriel's size and build, with very round shoulders. His face +was fleshy and pallid, touched with colour only at the thick +hanging lobes of his ears and at the wide wings of his nose. He had +coarse features, a blunt nose, a convex and receding brow, tumid +and protruded lips. His heavy-lidded eyes and the disorder of his +scanty hair made him look sleepy. He was laughing heartily in a +high key at a story which he had been telling Gabriel on the stairs +and at the same time rubbing the knuckles of his left fist +backwards and forwards into his left eye. + +"Good-evening, Freddy," said Aunt Julia. + +Freddy Malins bade the Misses Morkan good-evening in what +seemed an offhand fashion by reason of the habitual catch in his +voice and then, seeing that Mr. Browne was grinning at him from +the sideboard, crossed the room on rather shaky legs and began to +repeat in an undertone the story he had just told to Gabriel. + +"He's not so bad, is he?" said Aunt Kate to Gabriel. + +Gabriel's brows were dark but he raised them quickly and +answered: + +"O, no, hardly noticeable." + +"Now, isn't he a terrible fellow!" she said. "And his poor mother +made him take the pledge on New Year's Eve. But come on, +Gabriel, into the drawing-room." + +Before leaving the room with Gabriel she signalled to Mr. Browne +by frowning and shaking her forefinger in warning to and fro. Mr. +Browne nodded in answer and, when she had gone, said to Freddy +Malins: + +"Now, then, Teddy, I'm going to fill you out a good glass of +lemonade just to buck you up." + +Freddy Malins, who was nearing the climax of his story, waved the +offer aside impatiently but Mr. Browne, having first called Freddy +Malins' attention to a disarray in his dress, filled out and handed +him a full glass of lemonade. Freddy Malins' left hand accepted the +glass mechanically, his right hand being engaged in the +mechanical readjustment of his dress. Mr. Browne, whose face +was once more wrinkling with mirth, poured out for himself a +glass of whisky while Freddy Malins exploded, before he had well +reached the climax of his story, in a kink of high-pitched +bronchitic laughter and, setting down his untasted and overflowing +glass, began to rub the knuckles of his left fist backwards and +forwards into his left eye, repeating words of his last phrase as +well as his fit of laughter would allow him. + +Gabriel could not listen while Mary Jane was playing her Academy +piece, full of runs and difficult passages, to the hushed +drawing-room. He liked music but the piece she was playing had +no melody for him and he doubted whether it had any melody for +the other listeners, though they had begged Mary Jane to play +something. Four young men, who had come from the +refreshment-room to stand in the doorway at the sound of the +piano, had gone away quietly in couples after a few minutes. The +only persons who seemed to follow the music were Mary Jane +herself, her hands racing along the key-board or lifted from it at +the pauses like those of a priestess in momentary imprecation, and +Aunt Kate standing at her elbow to turn the page. + +Gabriel's eyes, irritated by the floor, which glittered with beeswax +under the heavy chandelier, wandered to the wall above the piano. +A picture of the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet hung there and +beside it was a picture of the two murdered princes in the Tower +which Aunt Julia had worked in red, blue and brown wools when +she was a girl. Probably in the school they had gone to as girls that +kind of work had been taught for one year. His mother had worked +for him as a birthday present a waistcoat of purple tabinet, with +little foxes' heads upon it, lined with brown satin and having round +mulberry buttons. It was strange that his mother had had no +musical talent though Aunt Kate used to call her the brains carrier +of the Morkan family. Both she and Julia had always seemed a +little proud of their serious and matronly sister. Her photograph +stood before the pierglass. She held an open book on her knees and +was pointing out something in it to Constantine who, dressed in a +man-o-war suit, lay at her feet. It was she who had chosen the +name of her sons for she was very sensible of the dignity of family +life. Thanks to her, Constantine was now senior curate in +Balbrigan and, thanks to her, Gabriel himself had taken his degree +in the Royal University. A shadow passed over his face as he +remembered her sullen opposition to his marriage. Some slighting +phrases she had used still rankled in his memory; she had once +spoken of Gretta as being country cute and that was not true of +Gretta at all. It was Gretta who had nursed her during all her last +long illness in their house at Monkstown. + +He knew that Mary Jane must be near the end of her piece for she +was playing again the opening melody with runs of scales after +every bar and while he waited for the end the resentment died +down in his heart. The piece ended with a trill of octaves in the +treble and a final deep octave in the bass. Great applause greeted +Mary Jane as, blushing and rolling up her music nervously, she +escaped from the room. The most vigorous clapping came from +the four young men in the doorway who had gone away to the +refreshment-room at the beginning of the piece but had come back +when the piano had stopped. + +Lancers were arranged. Gabriel found himself partnered with Miss +Ivors. She was a frank-mannered talkative young lady, with a +freckled face and prominent brown eyes. She did not wear a +low-cut bodice and the large brooch which was fixed in the front +of her collar bore on it an Irish device and motto. + +When they had taken their places she said abruptly: + +"I have a crow to pluck with you." + +"With me?" said Gabriel. + +She nodded her head gravely. + +"What is it?" asked Gabriel, smiling at her solemn manner. + +"Who is G. C.?" answered Miss Ivors, turning her eyes upon him. + +Gabriel coloured and was about to knit his brows, as if he did not +understand, when she said bluntly: + +"O, innocent Amy! I have found out that you write for The Daily +Express. Now, aren't you ashamed of yourself?" + +"Why should I be ashamed of myself?" asked Gabriel, blinking his +eyes and trying to smile. + +"Well, I'm ashamed of you," said Miss Ivors frankly. "To say you'd +write for a paper like that. I didn't think you were a West Briton." + +A look of perplexity appeared on Gabriel's face. It was true that he +wrote a literary column every Wednesday in The Daily Express, +for which he was paid fifteen shillings. But that did not make him +a West Briton surely. The books he received for review were +almost more welcome than the paltry cheque. He loved to feel the +covers and turn over the pages of newly printed books. Nearly +every day when his teaching in the college was ended he used to +wander down the quays to the second-hand booksellers, to +Hickey's on Bachelor's Walk, to Web's or Massey's on Aston's +Quay, or to O'Clohissey's in the bystreet. He did not know how to +meet her charge. He wanted to say that literature was above +politics. But they were friends of many years' standing and their +careers had been parallel, first at the University and then as +teachers: he could not risk a grandiose phrase with her. He +continued blinking his eyes and trying to smile and murmured +lamely that he saw nothing political in writing reviews of books. + +When their turn to cross had come he was still perplexed and +inattentive. Miss Ivors promptly took his hand in a warm grasp and +said in a soft friendly tone: + +"Of course, I was only joking. Come, we cross now." + +When they were together again she spoke of the University +question and Gabriel felt more at ease. A friend of hers had shown +her his review of Browning's poems. That was how she had found +out the secret: but she liked the review immensely. Then she said +suddenly: + +"O, Mr. Conroy, will you come for an excursion to the Aran Isles +this summer? We're going to stay there a whole month. It will be +splendid out in the Atlantic. You ought to come. Mr. Clancy is +coming, and Mr. Kilkelly and Kathleen Kearney. It would be +splendid for Gretta too if she'd come. She's from Connacht, isn't +she?" + +"Her people are," said Gabriel shortly. + +"But you will come, won't you?" said Miss Ivors, laying her arm +hand eagerly on his arm. + +"The fact is," said Gabriel, "I have just arranged to go----" + +"Go where?" asked Miss Ivors. + +"Well, you know, every year I go for a cycling tour with some +fellows and so----" + +"But where?" asked Miss Ivors. + +"Well, we usually go to France or Belgium or perhaps Germany," +said Gabriel awkwardly. + +"And why do you go to France and Belgium," said Miss Ivors, +"instead of visiting your own land?" + +"Well," said Gabriel, "it's partly to keep in touch with the +languages and partly for a change." + +"And haven't you your own language to keep in touch with -- +Irish?" asked Miss Ivors. + +"Well," said Gabriel, "if it comes to that, you know, Irish is not my +language." + +Their neighbours had turned to listen to the cross- examination. +Gabriel glanced right and left nervously and tried to keep his good +humour under the ordeal which was making a blush invade his +forehead. + +"And haven't you your own land to visit," continued Miss Ivors, +"that you know nothing of, your own people, and your own +country?" + +"0, to tell you the truth," retorted Gabriel suddenly, "I'm sick of my +own country, sick of it!" + +"Why?" asked Miss Ivors. + +Gabriel did not answer for his retort had heated him. + +"Why?" repeated Miss Ivors. + +They had to go visiting together and, as he had not answered her, +Miss Ivors said warmly: + +"Of course, you've no answer." + +Gabriel tried to cover his agitation by taking part in the dance with +great energy. He avoided her eyes for he had seen a sour +expression on her face. But when they met in the long chain he +was surprised to feel his hand firmly pressed. She looked at him +from under her brows for a moment quizzically until he smiled. +Then, just as the chain was about to start again, she stood on tiptoe +and whispered into his ear: + +"West Briton!" + +When the lancers were over Gabriel went away to a remote corner +of the room where Freddy Malins' mother was sitting. She was a +stout feeble old woman with white hair. Her voice had a catch in it +like her son's and she stuttered slightly. She had been told that +Freddy had come and that he was nearly all right. Gabriel asked +her whether she had had a good crossing. She lived with her +married daughter in Glasgow and came to Dublin on a visit once a +year. She answered placidly that she had had a beautiful crossing +and that the captain had been most attentive to her. She spoke also +of the beautiful house her daughter kept in Glasgow, and of all the +friends they had there. While her tongue rambled on Gabriel tried +to banish from his mind all memory of the unpleasant incident +with Miss Ivors. Of course the girl or woman, or whatever she was, +was an enthusiast but there was a time for all things. Perhaps he +ought not to have answered her like that. But she had no right to +call him a West Briton before people, even in joke. She had tried +to make him ridiculous before people, heckling him and staring at +him with her rabbit's eyes. + +He saw his wife making her way towards him through the waltzing +couples. When she reached him she said into his ear: + +"Gabriel. Aunt Kate wants to know won't you carve the goose as +usual. Miss Daly will carve the ham and I'll do the pudding." + +"All right," said Gabriel. + +"She's sending in the younger ones first as soon as this waltz is +over so that we'll have the table to ourselves." + +"Were you dancing?" asked Gabriel. + +"Of course I was. Didn't you see me? What row had you with +Molly Ivors?" + +"No row. Why? Did she say so?" + +"Something like that. I'm trying to get that Mr. D'Arcy to sing. He's +full of conceit, I think." + +"There was no row," said Gabriel moodily, "only she wanted me to +go for a trip to the west of Ireland and I said I wouldn't." + +His wife clasped her hands excitedly and gave a little jump. + +"O, do go, Gabriel," she cried. "I'd love to see Galway again." + +"You can go if you like," said Gabriel coldly. + +She looked at him for a moment, then turned to Mrs. Malins and +said: + +"There's a nice husband for you, Mrs. Malins." + +While she was threading her way back across the room Mrs. +Malins, without adverting to the interruption, went on to tell +Gabriel what beautiful places there were in Scotland and beautiful +scenery. Her son-in-law brought them every year to the lakes and +they used to go fishing. Her son-in-law was a splendid fisher. One +day he caught a beautiful big fish and the man in the hotel cooked +it for their dinner. + +Gabriel hardly heard what she said. Now that supper was coming +near he began to think again about his speech and about the +quotation. When he saw Freddy Malins coming across the room to +visit his mother Gabriel left the chair free for him and retired into +the embrasure of the window. The room had already cleared and +from the back room came the clatter of plates and knives. Those +who still remained in the drawing room seemed tired of dancing +and were conversing quietly in little groups. Gabriel's warm +trembling fingers tapped the cold pane of the window. How cool it +must be outside! How pleasant it would be to walk out alone, first +along by the river and then through the park! The snow would be +lying on the branches of the trees and forming a bright cap on the +top of the Wellington Monument. How much more pleasant it +would be there than at the supper-table! + +He ran over the headings of his speech: Irish hospitality, sad +memories, the Three Graces, Paris, the quotation from Browning. +He repeated to himself a phrase he had written in his review: "One +feels that one is listening to a thought- tormented music." Miss +Ivors had praised the review. Was she sincere? Had she really any +life of her own behind all her propagandism? There had never +been any ill-feeling between them until that night. It unnerved him +to think that she would be at the supper-table, looking up at him +while he spoke with her critical quizzing eyes. Perhaps she would +not be sorry to see him fail in his speech. An idea came into his +mind and gave him courage. He would say, alluding to Aunt Kate +and Aunt Julia: "Ladies and Gentlemen, the generation which is +now on the wane among us may have had its faults but for my part +I think it had certain qualities of hospitality, of humour, of +humanity, which the new and very serious and hypereducated +generation that is growing up around us seems to me to lack." Very +good: that was one for Miss Ivors. What did he care that his aunts +were only two ignorant old women? + +A murmur in the room attracted his attention. Mr. Browne was +advancing from the door, gallantly escorting Aunt Julia, who +leaned upon his arm, smiling and hanging her head. An irregular +musketry of applause escorted her also as far as the piano and +then, as Mary Jane seated herself on the stool, and Aunt Julia, no +longer smiling, half turned so as to pitch her voice fairly into the +room, gradually ceased. Gabriel recognised the prelude. It was that +of an old song of Aunt Julia's -- Arrayed for the Bridal. Her voice, +strong and clear in tone, attacked with great spirit the runs which +embellish the air and though she sang very rapidly she did not miss +even the smallest of the grace notes. To follow the voice, without +looking at the singer's face, was to feel and share the excitement of +swift and secure flight. Gabriel applauded loudly with all the +others at the close of the song and loud applause was borne in +from the invisible supper-table. It sounded so genuine that a little +colour struggled into Aunt Julia's face as she bent to replace in the +music-stand the old leather-bound songbook that had her initials +on the cover. Freddy Malins, who had listened with his head +perched sideways to hear her better, was still applauding when +everyone else had ceased and talking animatedly to his mother +who nodded her head gravely and slowly in acquiescence. At last, +when he could clap no more, he stood up suddenly and hurried +across the room to Aunt Julia whose hand he seized and held in +both his hands, shaking it when words failed him or the catch in +his voice proved too much for him. + +"I was just telling my mother," he said, "I never heard you sing so +well, never. No, I never heard your voice so good as it is tonight. +Now! Would you believe that now? That's the truth. Upon my +word and honour that's the truth. I never heard your voice sound so +fresh and so... so clear and fresh, never." + +Aunt Julia smiled broadly and murmured something about +compliments as she released her hand from his grasp. Mr. Browne +extended his open hand towards her and said to those who were +near him in the manner of a showman introducing a prodigy to an +audience: + +"Miss Julia Morkan, my latest discovery!" + +He was laughing very heartily at this himself when Freddy Malins +turned to him and said: + +"Well, Browne, if you're serious you might make a worse +discovery. All I can say is I never heard her sing half so well as +long as I am coming here. And that's the honest truth." + +"Neither did I," said Mr. Browne. "I think her voice has greatly +improved." + +Aunt Julia shrugged her shoulders and said with meek pride: + +"Thirty years ago I hadn't a bad voice as voices go." + +"I often told Julia," said Aunt Kate emphatically, "that she was +simply thrown away in that choir. But she never would be said by +me." + +She turned as if to appeal to the good sense of the others against a +refractory child while Aunt Julia gazed in front of her, a vague +smile of reminiscence playing on her face. + +"No," continued Aunt Kate, "she wouldn't be said or led by anyone, +slaving there in that choir night and day, night and day. Six o'clock +on Christmas morning! And all for what?" + +"Well, isn't it for the honour of God, Aunt Kate?" asked Mary Jane, +twisting round on the piano-stool and smiling. + +Aunt Kate turned fiercely on her niece and said: + +"I know all about the honour of God, Mary Jane, but I think it's not +at all honourable for the pope to turn out the women out of the +choirs that have slaved there all their lives and put little +whipper-snappers of boys over their heads. I suppose it is for the +good of the Church if the pope does it. But it's not just, Mary Jane, +and it's not right." + +She had worked herself into a passion and would have continued +in defence of her sister for it was a sore subject with her but Mary +Jane, seeing that all the dancers had come back, intervened +pacifically: + +"Now, Aunt Kate, you're giving scandal to Mr. Browne who is of +the other persuasion." + +Aunt Kate turned to Mr. Browne, who was grinning at this allusion +to his religion, and said hastily: + +"O, I don't question the pope's being right. I'm only a stupid old +woman and I wouldn't presume to do such a thing. But there's such +a thing as common everyday politeness and gratitude. And if I +were in Julia's place I'd tell that Father Healey straight up to his +face..." + +"And besides, Aunt Kate," said Mary Jane, "we really are all +hungry and when we are hungry we are all very quarrelsome." + +"And when we are thirsty we are also quarrelsome," added Mr. +Browne. + +"So that we had better go to supper," said Mary Jane, "and finish +the discussion afterwards." + +On the landing outside the drawing-room Gabriel found his wife +and Mary Jane trying to persuade Miss Ivors to stay for supper. But +Miss Ivors, who had put on her hat and was buttoning her cloak, +would not stay. She did not feel in the least hungry and she had +already overstayed her time. + +"But only for ten minutes, Molly," said Mrs. Conroy. "That won't +delay you." + +"To take a pick itself," said Mary Jane, "after all your dancing." + +"I really couldn't," said Miss Ivors. + +"I am afraid you didn't enjoy yourself at all," said Mary Jane +hopelessly. + +"Ever so much, I assure you," said Miss Ivors, "but you really must +let me run off now." + +"But how can you get home?" asked Mrs. Conroy. + +"O, it's only two steps up the quay." + +Gabriel hesitated a moment and said: + +"If you will allow me, Miss Ivors, I'll see you home if you are +really obliged to go." + +But Miss Ivors broke away from them. + +"I won't hear of it," she cried. "For goodness' sake go in to your +suppers and don't mind me. I'm quite well able to take care of +myself." + +"Well, you're the comical girl, Molly," said Mrs. Conroy frankly. + +"Beannacht libh," cried Miss Ivors, with a laugh, as she ran down +the staircase. + +Mary Jane gazed after her, a moody puzzled expression on her +face, while Mrs. Conroy leaned over the banisters to listen for the +hall-door. Gabriel asked himself was he the cause of her abrupt +departure. But she did not seem to be in ill humour: she had gone +away laughing. He stared blankly down the staircase. + +At the moment Aunt Kate came toddling out of the supper-room, +almost wringing her hands in despair. + +"Where is Gabriel?" she cried. "Where on earth is Gabriel? There's +everyone waiting in there, stage to let, and nobody to carve the +goose!" + +"Here I am, Aunt Kate!" cried Gabriel, with sudden animation, +"ready to carve a flock of geese, if necessary." + +A fat brown goose lay at one end of the table and at the other end, +on a bed of creased paper strewn with sprigs of parsley, lay a great +ham, stripped of its outer skin and peppered over with crust +crumbs, a neat paper frill round its shin and beside this was a +round of spiced beef. Between these rival ends ran parallel lines of +side-dishes: two little minsters of jelly, red and yellow; a shallow +dish full of blocks of blancmange and red jam, a large green +leaf-shaped dish with a stalk-shaped handle, on which lay bunches +of purple raisins and peeled almonds, a companion dish on which +lay a solid rectangle of Smyrna figs, a dish of custard topped with +grated nutmeg, a small bowl full of chocolates and sweets wrapped +in gold and silver papers and a glass vase in which stood some tall +celery stalks. In the centre of the table there stood, as sentries to a +fruit-stand which upheld a pyramid of oranges and American +apples, two squat old-fashioned decanters of cut glass, one +containing port and the other dark sherry. On the closed square +piano a pudding in a huge yellow dish lay in waiting and behind it +were three squads of bottles of stout and ale and minerals, drawn +up according to the colours of their uniforms, the first two black, +with brown and red labels, the third and smallest squad white, with +transverse green sashes. + +Gabriel took his seat boldly at the head of the table and, having +looked to the edge of the carver, plunged his fork firmly into the +goose. He felt quite at ease now for he was an expert carver and +liked nothing better than to find himself at the head of a well-laden +table. + +"Miss Furlong, what shall I send you?" he asked. "A wing or a slice +of the breast?" + +"Just a small slice of the breast." + +"Miss Higgins, what for you?" + +"O, anything at all, Mr. Conroy." + +While Gabriel and Miss Daly exchanged plates of goose and plates +of ham and spiced beef Lily went from guest to guest with a dish +of hot floury potatoes wrapped in a white napkin. This was Mary +Jane's idea and she had also suggested apple sauce for the goose +but Aunt Kate had said that plain roast goose without any apple +sauce had always been good enough for her and she hoped she +might never eat worse. Mary Jane waited on her pupils and saw +that they got the best slices and Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia opened +and carried across from the piano bottles of stout and ale for the +gentlemen and bottles of minerals for the ladies. There was a great +deal of confusion and laughter and noise, the noise of orders and +counter-orders, of knives and forks, of corks and glass-stoppers. +Gabriel began to carve second helpings as soon as he had finished +the first round without serving himself. Everyone protested loudly +so that he compromised by taking a long draught of stout for he +had found the carving hot work. Mary Jane settled down quietly to +her supper but Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia were still toddling round +the table, walking on each other's heels, getting in each other's way +and giving each other unheeded orders. Mr. Browne begged of +them to sit down and eat their suppers and so did Gabriel but they +said there was time enough, so that, at last, Freddy Malins stood up +and, capturing Aunt Kate, plumped her down on her chair amid +general laughter. + +When everyone had been well served Gabriel said, smiling: + +"Now, if anyone wants a little more of what vulgar people call +stuffing let him or her speak." + +A chorus of voices invited him to begin his own supper and Lily +came forward with three potatoes which she had reserved for him. + +"Very well," said Gabriel amiably, as he took another preparatory +draught, "kindly forget my existence, ladies and gentlemen, for a +few minutes." + +He set to his supper and took no part in the conversation with +which the table covered Lily's removal of the plates. The subject of +talk was the opera company which was then at the Theatre Royal. +Mr. Bartell D'Arcy, the tenor, a dark- complexioned young man +with a smart moustache, praised very highly the leading contralto +of the company but Miss Furlong thought she had a rather vulgar +style of production. Freddy Malins said there was a Negro +chieftain singing in the second part of the Gaiety pantomime who +had one of the finest tenor voices he had ever heard. + +"Have you heard him?" he asked Mr. Bartell D'Arcy across the +table. + +"No," answered Mr. Bartell D'Arcy carelessly. + +"Because," Freddy Malins explained, "now I'd be curious to hear +your opinion of him. I think he has a grand voice." + +"It takes Teddy to find out the really good things," said Mr. +Browne familiarly to the table. + +"And why couldn't he have a voice too?" asked Freddy Malins +sharply. "Is it because he's only a black?" + +Nobody answered this question and Mary Jane led the table back +to the legitimate opera. One of her pupils had given her a pass for +Mignon. Of course it was very fine, she said, but it made her think +of poor Georgina Burns. Mr. Browne could go back farther still, to +the old Italian companies that used to come to Dublin -- Tietjens, +Ilma de Murzka, Campanini, the great Trebelli, Giuglini, Ravelli, +Aramburo. Those were the days, he said, when there was +something like singing to be heard in Dublin. He told too of how +the top gallery of the old Royal used to be packed night after night, +of how one night an Italian tenor had sung five encores to Let me +like a Soldier fall, introducing a high C every time, and of how the +gallery boys would sometimes in their enthusiasm unyoke the +horses from the carriage of some great prima donna and pull her +themselves through the streets to her hotel. Why did they never +play the grand old operas now, he asked, Dinorah, Lucrezia +Borgia? Because they could not get the voices to sing them: that +was why. + +"Oh, well," said Mr. Bartell D'Arcy, "I presume there are as good +singers today as there were then." + +"Where are they?" asked Mr. Browne defiantly. + +"In London, Paris, Milan," said Mr. Bartell D'Arcy warmly. "I +suppose Caruso, for example, is quite as good, if not better than +any of the men you have mentioned." + +"Maybe so," said Mr. Browne. "But I may tell you I doubt it +strongly." + +"O, I'd give anything to hear Caruso sing," said Mary Jane. + +"For me," said Aunt Kate, who had been picking a bone, "there +was only one tenor. To please me, I mean. But I suppose none of +you ever heard of him." + +"Who was he, Miss Morkan?" asked Mr. Bartell D'Arcy politely. + +"His name," said Aunt Kate, "was Parkinson. I heard him when he +was in his prime and I think he had then the purest tenor voice that +was ever put into a man's throat." + +"Strange," said Mr. Bartell D'Arcy. "I never even heard of him." + +"Yes, yes, Miss Morkan is right," said Mr. Browne. "I remember +hearing of old Parkinson but he's too far back for me." + +"A beautiful, pure, sweet, mellow English tenor," said Aunt Kate +with enthusiasm. + +Gabriel having finished, the huge pudding was transferred to the +table. The clatter of forks and spoons began again. Gabriel's wife +served out spoonfuls of the pudding and passed the plates down +the table. Midway down they were held up by Mary Jane, who +replenished them with raspberry or orange jelly or with +blancmange and jam. The pudding was of Aunt Julia's making and +she received praises for it from all quarters She herself said that it +was not quite brown enough. + +"Well, I hope, Miss Morkan," said Mr. Browne, "that I'm brown +enough for you because, you know, I'm all brown." + +All the gentlemen, except Gabriel, ate some of the pudding out of +compliment to Aunt Julia. As Gabriel never ate sweets the celery +had been left for him. Freddy Malins also took a stalk of celery and +ate it with his pudding. He had been told that celery was a capital +thing for the blood and he was just then under doctor's care. Mrs. +Malins, who had been silent all through the supper, said that her +son was going down to Mount Melleray in a week or so. The table +then spoke of Mount Melleray, how bracing the air was down +there, how hospitable the monks were and how they never asked +for a penny-piece from their guests. + +"And do you mean to say," asked Mr. Browne incredulously, "that +a chap can go down there and put up there as if it were a hotel and +live on the fat of the land and then come away without paying +anything?" + +"O, most people give some donation to the monastery when they +leave." said Mary Jane. + +"I wish we had an institution like that in our Church," said Mr. +Browne candidly. + +He was astonished to hear that the monks never spoke, got up at +two in the morning and slept in their coffins. He asked what they +did it for. + +"That's the rule of the order," said Aunt Kate firmly. + +"Yes, but why?" asked Mr. Browne. + +Aunt Kate repeated that it was the rule, that was all. Mr. Browne +still seemed not to understand. Freddy Malins explained to him, as +best he could, that the monks were trying to make up for the sins +committed by all the sinners in the outside world. The explanation +was not very clear for Mr. Browne grinned and said: + +"I like that idea very much but wouldn't a comfortable spring bed +do them as well as a coffin?" + +"The coffin," said Mary Jane, "is to remind them of their last end." + +As the subject had grown lugubrious it was buried in a silence of +the table during which Mrs. Malins could be heard saying to her +neighbour in an indistinct undertone: + +"They are very good men, the monks, very pious men." + +The raisins and almonds and figs and apples and oranges and +chocolates and sweets were now passed about the table and Aunt +Julia invited all the guests to have either port or sherry. At first Mr. +Bartell D'Arcy refused to take either but one of his neighbours +nudged him and whispered something to him upon which he +allowed his glass to be filled. Gradually as the last glasses were +being filled the conversation ceased. A pause followed, broken +only by the noise of the wine and by unsettlings of chairs. The +Misses Morkan, all three, looked down at the tablecloth. Someone +coughed once or twice and then a few gentlemen patted the table +gently as a signal for silence. The silence came and Gabriel pushed +back his chair + +The patting at once grew louder in encouragement and then ceased +altogether. Gabriel leaned his ten trembling fingers on the +tablecloth and smiled nervously at the company. Meeting a row of +upturned faces he raised his eyes to the chandelier. The piano was +playing a waltz tune and he could hear the skirts sweeping against +the drawing-room door. People, perhaps, were standing in the +snow on the quay outside, gazing up at the lighted windows and +listening to the waltz music. The air was pure there. In the distance +lay the park where the trees were weighted with snow. The +Wellington Monument wore a gleaming cap of snow that flashed +westward over the white field of Fifteen Acres. + +He began: + +"Ladies and Gentlemen, + +"It has fallen to my lot this evening, as in years past, to perform a +very pleasing task but a task for which I am afraid my poor powers +as a speaker are all too inadequate." + +"No, no!" said Mr. Browne. + +"But, however that may be, I can only ask you tonight to take the +will for the deed and to lend me your attention for a few moments +while I endeavour to express to you in words what my feelings are +on this occasion. + +"Ladies and Gentlemen, it is not the first time that we have +gathered together under this hospitable roof, around this hospitable +board. It is not the first time that we have been the recipients -- or +perhaps, I had better say, the victims -- of the hospitality of certain +good ladies." + +He made a circle in the air with his arm and paused. Everyone +laughed or smiled at Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia and Mary Jane who +all turned crimson with pleasure. Gabriel went on more boldly: + +"I feel more strongly with every recurring year that our country has +no tradition which does it so much honour and which it should +guard so jealously as that of its hospitality. It is a tradition that is +unique as far as my experience goes (and I have visited not a few +places abroad) among the modern nations. Some would say, +perhaps, that with us it is rather a failing than anything to be +boasted of. But granted even that, it is, to my mind, a princely +failing, and one that I trust will long be cultivated among us. Of +one thing, at least, I am sure. As long as this one roof shelters the +good ladies aforesaid -- and I wish from my heart it may do so for +many and many a long year to come -- the tradition of genuine +warm-hearted courteous Irish hospitality, which our forefathers +have handed down to us and which we in turn must hand down to +our descendants, is still alive among us." + +A hearty murmur of assent ran round the table. It shot through +Gabriel's mind that Miss Ivors was not there and that she had gone +away discourteously: and he said with confidence in himself: + +"Ladies and Gentlemen, + +"A new generation is growing up in our midst, a generation +actuated by new ideas and new principles. It is serious and +enthusiastic for these new ideas and its enthusiasm, even when it is +misdirected, is, I believe, in the main sincere. But we are living in +a sceptical and, if I may use the phrase, a thought-tormented age: +and sometimes I fear that this new generation, educated or +hypereducated as it is, will lack those qualities of humanity, of +hospitality, of kindly humour which belonged to an older day. +Listening tonight to the names of all those great singers of the past +it seemed to me, I must confess, that we were living in a less +spacious age. Those days might, without exaggeration, be called +spacious days: and if they are gone beyond recall let us hope, at +least, that in gatherings such as this we shall still speak of them +with pride and affection, still cherish in our hearts the memory of +those dead and gone great ones whose fame the world will not +willingly let die." + +"Hear, hear!" said Mr. Browne loudly. + +"But yet," continued Gabriel, his voice falling into a softer +inflection, "there are always in gatherings such as this sadder +thoughts that will recur to our minds: thoughts of the past, of +youth, of changes, of absent faces that we miss here tonight. Our +path through life is strewn with many such sad memories: and +were we to brood upon them always we could not find the heart to +go on bravely with our work among the living. We have all of us +living duties and living affections which claim, and rightly claim, +our strenuous endeavours. + +"Therefore, I will not linger on the past. I will not let any gloomy +moralising intrude upon us here tonight. Here we are gathered +together for a brief moment from the bustle and rush of our +everyday routine. We are met here as friends, in the spirit of +good-fellowship, as colleagues, also to a certain extent, in the true +spirit of camaraderie, and as the guests of -- what shall I call them? +-- the Three Graces of the Dublin musical world." + +The table burst into applause and laughter at this allusion. Aunt +Julia vainly asked each of her neighbours in turn to tell her what +Gabriel had said. + +"He says we are the Three Graces, Aunt Julia," said Mary Jane. + +Aunt Julia did not understand but she looked up, smiling, at +Gabriel, who continued in the same vein: + +"Ladies and Gentlemen, + +"I will not attempt to play tonight the part that Paris played on +another occasion. I will not attempt to choose between them. The +task would be an invidious one and one beyond my poor powers. +For when I view them in turn, whether it be our chief hostess +herself, whose good heart, whose too good heart, has become a +byword with all who know her, or her sister, who seems to be +gifted with perennial youth and whose singing must have been a +surprise and a revelation to us all tonight, or, last but not least, +when I consider our youngest hostess, talented, cheerful, +hard-working and the best of nieces, I confess, Ladies and +Gentlemen, that I do not know to which of them I should award the +prize." + +Gabriel glanced down at his aunts and, seeing the large smile on +Aunt Julia's face and the tears which had risen to Aunt Kate's eyes, +hastened to his close. He raised his glass of port gallantly, while +every member of the company fingered a glass expectantly, and +said loudly: + +"Let us toast them all three together. Let us drink to their health, +wealth, long life, happiness and prosperity and may they long +continue to hold the proud and self-won position which they hold +in their profession and the position of honour and affection which +they hold in our hearts." + +All the guests stood up, glass in hand, and turning towards the +three seated ladies, sang in unison, with Mr. Browne as leader: + +For they are jolly gay fellows, +For they are jolly gay fellows, +For they are jolly gay fellows, +Which nobody can deny. + +Aunt Kate was making frank use of her handkerchief and even +Aunt Julia seemed moved. Freddy Malins beat time with his +pudding-fork and the singers turned towards one another, as if in +melodious conference, while they sang with emphasis: + +Unless he tells a lie, +Unless he tells a lie, + +Then, turning once more towards their hostesses, they sang: + +For they are jolly gay fellows, +For they are jolly gay fellows, +For they are jolly gay fellows, +Which nobody can deny. + +The acclamation which followed was taken up beyond the door of +the supper-room by many of the other guests and renewed time +after time, Freddy Malins acting as officer with his fork on high. + + + + + + +The piercing morning air came into the hall where they were +standing so that Aunt Kate said: + +"Close the door, somebody. Mrs. Malins will get her death of +cold." + +"Browne is out there, Aunt Kate," said Mary Jane. + +"Browne is everywhere," said Aunt Kate, lowering her voice. + +Mary Jane laughed at her tone. + +"Really," she said archly, "he is very attentive." + +"He has been laid on here like the gas," said Aunt Kate in the same +tone, "all during the Christmas." + +She laughed herself this time good-humouredly and then added +quickly: + +"But tell him to come in, Mary Jane, and close the door. I hope to +goodness he didn't hear me." + +At that moment the hall-door was opened and Mr. Browne came in +from the doorstep, laughing as if his heart would break. He was +dressed in a long green overcoat with mock astrakhan cuffs and +collar and wore on his head an oval fur cap. He pointed down the +snow-covered quay from where the sound of shrill prolonged +whistling was borne in. + +"Teddy will have all the cabs in Dublin out," he said. + +Gabriel advanced from the little pantry behind the office, +struggling into his overcoat and, looking round the hall, said: + +"Gretta not down yet?" + +"She's getting on her things, Gabriel," said Aunt Kate. + +"Who's playing up there?" asked Gabriel. + +"Nobody. They're all gone." + +"O no, Aunt Kate," said Mary Jane. "Bartell D'Arcy and Miss +O'Callaghan aren't gone yet." + +"Someone is fooling at the piano anyhow," said Gabriel. + +Mary Jane glanced at Gabriel and Mr. Browne and said with a +shiver: + +"It makes me feel cold to look at you two gentlemen muffled up +like that. I wouldn't like to face your journey home at this hour." + +"I'd like nothing better this minute," said Mr. Browne stoutly, "than +a rattling fine walk in the country or a fast drive with a good +spanking goer between the shafts." + +"We used to have a very good horse and trap at home," said Aunt +Julia sadly. + +"The never-to-be-forgotten Johnny," said Mary Jane, laughing. + +Aunt Kate and Gabriel laughed too. + +"Why, what was wonderful about Johnny?" asked Mr. Browne. + +"The late lamented Patrick Morkan, our grandfather, that is," +explained Gabriel, "commonly known in his later years as the old +gentleman, was a glue-boiler." + +"O, now, Gabriel," said Aunt Kate, laughing, "he had a starch +mill." + +"Well, glue or starch," said Gabriel, "the old gentleman had a horse +by the name of Johnny. And Johnny used to work in the old +gentleman's mill, walking round and round in order to drive the +mill. That was all very well; but now comes the tragic part about +Johnny. One fine day the old gentleman thought he'd like to drive +out with the quality to a military review in the park." + +"The Lord have mercy on his soul," said Aunt Kate +compassionately. + +"Amen," said Gabriel. "So the old gentleman, as I said, harnessed +Johnny and put on his very best tall hat and his very best stock +collar and drove out in grand style from his ancestral mansion +somewhere near Back Lane, I think." + +Everyone laughed, even Mrs. Malins, at Gabriel's manner and Aunt +Kate said: + +"O, now, Gabriel, he didn't live in Back Lane, really. Only the mill +was there." + +"Out from the mansion of his forefathers," continued Gabriel, "he +drove with Johnny. And everything went on beautifully until +Johnny came in sight of King Billy's statue: and whether he fell in +love with the horse King Billy sits on or whether he thought he +was back again in the mill, anyhow he began to walk round the +statue." + +Gabriel paced in a circle round the hall in his goloshes amid the +laughter of the others. + +"Round and round he went," said Gabriel, "and the old gentleman, +who was a very pompous old gentleman, was highly indignant. 'Go +on, sir! What do you mean, sir? Johnny! Johnny! Most +extraordinary conduct! Can't understand the horse!" + +The peal of laughter which followed Gabriel's imitation of the +incident was interrupted by a resounding knock at the hall door. +Mary Jane ran to open it and let in Freddy Malins. Freddy Malins, +with his hat well back on his head and his shoulders humped with +cold, was puffing and steaming after his exertions. + +"I could only get one cab," he said. + +"O, we'll find another along the quay," said Gabriel. + +"Yes," said Aunt Kate. "Better not keep Mrs. Malins standing in +the draught." + +Mrs. Malins was helped down the front steps by her son and Mr. +Browne and, after many manoeuvres, hoisted into the cab. Freddy +Malins clambered in after her and spent a long time settling her on +the seat, Mr. Browne helping him with advice. At last she was +settled comfortably and Freddy Malins invited Mr. Browne into the +cab. There was a good deal of confused talk, and then Mr. Browne +got into the cab. The cabman settled his rug over his knees, and +bent down for the address. The confusion grew greater and the +cabman was directed differently by Freddy Malins and Mr. +Browne, each of whom had his head out through a window of the +cab. The difficulty was to know where to drop Mr. Browne along +the route, and Aunt Kate, Aunt Julia and Mary Jane helped the +discussion from the doorstep with cross-directions and +contradictions and abundance of laughter. As for Freddy Malins he +was speechless with laughter. He popped his head in and out of the +window every moment to the great danger of his hat, and told his +mother how the discussion was progressing, till at last Mr. Browne +shouted to the bewildered cabman above the din of everybody's +laughter: + +"Do you know Trinity College?" + +"Yes, sir," said the cabman. + +"Well, drive bang up against Trinity College gates," said Mr. +Browne, "and then we'll tell you where to go. You understand +now?" + +"Yes, sir," said the cabman. + +"Make like a bird for Trinity College." + +"Right, sir," said the cabman. + +The horse was whipped up and the cab rattled off along the quay +amid a chorus of laughter and adieus. + +Gabriel had not gone to the door with the others. He was in a dark +part of the hall gazing up the staircase. A woman was standing +near the top of the first flight, in the shadow also. He could not see +her face but he could see the terra-cotta and salmon-pink panels of +her skirt which the shadow made appear black and white. It was +his wife. She was leaning on the banisters, listening to something. +Gabriel was surprised at her stillness and strained his ear to listen +also. But he could hear little save the noise of laughter and dispute +on the front steps, a few chords struck on the piano and a few +notes of a man's voice singing. + +He stood still in the gloom of the hall, trying to catch the air that +the voice was singing and gazing up at his wife. There was grace +and mystery in her attitude as if she were a symbol of something. +He asked himself what is a woman standing on the stairs in the +shadow, listening to distant music, a symbol of. If he were a +painter he would paint her in that attitude. Her blue felt hat would +show off the bronze of her hair against the darkness and the dark +panels of her skirt would show off the light ones. Distant Music he +would call the picture if he were a painter. + +The hall-door was closed; and Aunt Kate, Aunt Julia and Mary +Jane came down the hall, still laughing. + +"Well, isn't Freddy terrible?" said Mary Jane. "He's really terrible." + +Gabriel said nothing but pointed up the stairs towards where his +wife was standing. Now that the hall-door was closed the voice +and the piano could be heard more clearly. Gabriel held up his +hand for them to be silent. The song seemed to be in the old Irish +tonality and the singer seemed uncertain both of his words and of +his voice. The voice, made plaintive by distance and by the singer's +hoarseness, faintly illuminated the cadence of the air with words +expressing grief: + +O, the rain falls on my heavy locks +And the dew wets my skin, +My babe lies cold... + +"O," exclaimed Mary Jane. "It's Bartell D'Arcy singing and he +wouldn't sing all the night. O, I'll get him to sing a song before he +goes." + +"O, do, Mary Jane," said Aunt Kate. + +Mary Jane brushed past the others and ran to the staircase, but +before she reached it the singing stopped and the piano was closed +abruptly. + +"O, what a pity!" she cried. "Is he coming down, Gretta?" + +Gabriel heard his wife answer yes and saw her come down towards +them. A few steps behind her were Mr. Bartell D'Arcy and Miss +O'Callaghan. + +"O, Mr. D'Arcy," cried Mary Jane, "it's downright mean of you to +break off like that when we were all in raptures listening to you." + +"I have been at him all the evening," said Miss O'Callaghan, "and +Mrs. Conroy, too, and he told us he had a dreadful cold and +couldn't sing." + +"O, Mr. D'Arcy," said Aunt Kate, "now that was a great fib to tell." + +"Can't you see that I'm as hoarse as a crow?" said Mr. D'Arcy +roughly. + +He went into the pantry hastily and put on his overcoat. The others, +taken aback by his rude speech, could find nothing to say. Aunt +Kate wrinkled her brows and made signs to the others to drop the +subject. Mr. D'Arcy stood swathing his neck carefully and +frowning. + +"It's the weather," said Aunt Julia, after a pause. + +"Yes, everybody has colds," said Aunt Kate readily, "everybody." + +"They say," said Mary Jane, "we haven't had snow like it for thirty +years; and I read this morning in the newspapers that the snow is +general all over Ireland." + +"I love the look of snow," said Aunt Julia sadly. + +"So do I," said Miss O'Callaghan. "I think Christmas is never really +Christmas unless we have the snow on the ground." + +"But poor Mr. D'Arcy doesn't like the snow," said Aunt Kate, +smiling. + +Mr. D'Arcy came from the pantry, fully swathed and buttoned, and +in a repentant tone told them the history of his cold. Everyone gave +him advice and said it was a great pity and urged him to be very +careful of his throat in the night air. Gabriel watched his wife, who +did not join in the conversation. She was standing right under the +dusty fanlight and the flame of the gas lit up the rich bronze of her +hair, which he had seen her drying at the fire a few days before. +She was in the same attitude and seemed unaware of the talk about +her At last she turned towards them and Gabriel saw that there was +colour on her cheeks and that her eyes were shining. A sudden tide +of joy went leaping out of his heart. + +"Mr. D'Arcy," she said, "what is the name of that song you were +singing?" + +"It's called The Lass of Aughrim," said Mr. D'Arcy, "but I couldn't +remember it properly. Why? Do you know it?" + +"The Lass of Aughrim," she repeated. "I couldn't think of the +name." + +"It's a very nice air," said Mary Jane. "I'm sorry you were not in +voice tonight." + +"Now, Mary Jane," said Aunt Kate, "don't annoy Mr. D'Arcy. I +won't have him annoyed." + +Seeing that all were ready to start she shepherded them to the door, +where good-night was said: + +"Well, good-night, Aunt Kate, and thanks for the pleasant +evening." + +"Good-night, Gabriel. Good-night, Gretta!" + +"Good-night, Aunt Kate, and thanks ever so much. Goodnight, +Aunt Julia." + +"O, good-night, Gretta, I didn't see you." + +"Good-night, Mr. D'Arcy. Good-night, Miss O'Callaghan." + +"Good-night, Miss Morkan." + +"Good-night, again." + +"Good-night, all. Safe home." + +"Good-night. Good night." + +The morning was still dark. A dull, yellow light brooded over the +houses and the river; and the sky seemed to be descending. It was +slushy underfoot; and only streaks and patches of snow lay on the +roofs, on the parapets of the quay and on the area railings. The +lamps were still burning redly in the murky air and, across the +river, the palace of the Four Courts stood out menacingly against +the heavy sky. + +She was walking on before him with Mr. Bartell D'Arcy, her shoes +in a brown parcel tucked under one arm and her hands holding her +skirt up from the slush. She had no longer any grace of attitude, +but Gabriel's eyes were still bright with happiness. The blood went +bounding along his veins; and the thoughts went rioting through +his brain, proud, joyful, tender, valorous. + +She was walking on before him so lightly and so erect that he +longed to run after her noiselessly, catch her by the shoulders and +say something foolish and affectionate into her ear. She seemed to +him so frail that he longed to defend her against something and +then to be alone with her. Moments of their secret life together +burst like stars upon his memory. A heliotrope envelope was lying +beside his breakfast-cup and he was caressing it with his hand. +Birds were twittering in the ivy and the sunny web of the curtain +was shimmering along the floor: he could not eat for happiness. +They were standing on the crowded platform and he was placing a +ticket inside the warm palm of her glove. He was standing with her +in the cold, looking in through a grated window at a man making +bottles in a roaring furnace. It was very cold. Her face, fragrant in +the cold air, was quite close to his; and suddenly he called out to +the man at the furnace: + +"Is the fire hot, sir?" + +But the man could not hear with the noise of the furnace. It was +just as well. He might have answered rudely. + +A wave of yet more tender joy escaped from his heart and went +coursing in warm flood along his arteries. Like the tender fire of +stars moments of their life together, that no one knew f or would +ever know of, broke upon and illumined his memory. He longed to +recall to her those moments, to make her forget the years of their +dull existence together and remember only their moments of +ecstasy. For the years, he felt, had not quenched his soul or hers. +Their children, his writing, her household cares had not quenched +all their souls' tender fire. In one letter that he had written to her +then he had said: "Why is it that words like these seem to me so +dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be +your name?" + +Like distant music these words that he had written years before +were borne towards him from the past. He longed to be alone with +her. When the others had gone away, when he and she were in the +room in the hotel, then they would be alone together. He would +call her softly: + +"Gretta!" + +Perhaps she would not hear at once: she would be undressing. +Then something in his voice would strike her. She would turn and +look at him.... + +At the corner of Winetavern Street they met a cab. He was glad of +its rattling noise as it saved him from conversation. She was +looking out of the window and seemed tired. The others spoke +only a few words, pointing out some building or street. The horse +galloped along wearily under the murky morning sky, dragging his +old rattling box after his heels, and Gabriel was again in a cab with +her, galloping to catch the boat, galloping to their honeymoon. + +As the cab drove across O'Connell Bridge Miss O'Callaghan said: + +"They say you never cross O'Connell Bridge without seeing a +white horse." + +"I see a white man this time," said Gabriel. + +"Where?" asked Mr. Bartell D'Arcy. + +Gabriel pointed to the statue, on which lay patches of snow. Then +he nodded familiarly to it and waved his hand. + +"Good-night, Dan," he said gaily. + +When the cab drew up before the hotel, Gabriel jumped out and, in +spite of Mr. Bartell D'Arcy's protest, paid the driver. He gave the +man a shilling over his fare. The man saluted and said: + +"A prosperous New Year to you, sir." + +"The same to you," said Gabriel cordially. + +She leaned for a moment on his arm in getting out of the cab and +while standing at the curbstone, bidding the others good- night. +She leaned lightly on his arm, as lightly as when she had danced +with him a few hours before. He had felt proud and happy then, +happy that she was his, proud of her grace and wifely carriage. But +now, after the kindling again of so many memories, the first touch +of her body, musical and strange and perfumed, sent through him a +keen pang of lust. Under cover of her silence he pressed her arm +closely to his side; and, as they stood at the hotel door, he felt that +they had escaped from their lives and duties, escaped from home +and friends and run away together with wild and radiant hearts to a +new adventure. + +An old man was dozing in a great hooded chair in the hall. He lit a +candle in the office and went before them to the stairs. They +followed him in silence, their feet falling in soft thuds on the +thickly carpeted stairs. She mounted the stairs behind the porter, +her head bowed in the ascent, her frail shoulders curved as with a +burden, her skirt girt tightly about her. He could have flung his +arms about her hips and held her still, for his arms were trembling +with desire to seize her and only the stress of his nails against the +palms of his hands held the wild impulse of his body in check. The +porter halted on the stairs to settle his guttering candle. They +halted, too, on the steps below him. In the silence Gabriel could +hear the falling of the molten wax into the tray and the thumping +of his own heart against his ribs. + +The porter led them along a corridor and opened a door. Then he +set his unstable candle down on a toilet-table and asked at what +hour they were to be called in the morning. + +"Eight," said Gabriel. + +The porter pointed to the tap of the electric-light and began a +muttered apology, but Gabriel cut him short. + +"We don't want any light. We have light enough from the street. +And I say," he added, pointing to the candle, "you might remove +that handsome article, like a good man." + +The porter took up his candle again, but slowly, for he was +surprised by such a novel idea. Then he mumbled good-night and +went out. Gabriel shot the lock to. + +A ghastly light from the street lamp lay in a long shaft from one +window to the door. Gabriel threw his overcoat and hat on a couch +and crossed the room towards the window. He looked down into +the street in order that his emotion might calm a little. Then he +turned and leaned against a chest of drawers with his back to the +light. She had taken off her hat and cloak and was standing before +a large swinging mirror, unhooking her waist. Gabriel paused for a +few moments, watching her, and then said: + +"Gretta! " + +She turned away from the mirror slowly and walked along the +shaft of light towards him. Her face looked so serious and weary +that the words would not pass Gabriel's lips. No, it was not the +moment yet. + +"You looked tired," he said. + +"I am a little," she answered. + +"You don't feel ill or weak?" + +"No, tired: that's all." + +She went on to the window and stood there, looking out. Gabriel +waited again and then, fearing that diffidence was about to +conquer him, he said abruptly: + +"By the way, Gretta!" + +"What is it?" + +"You know that poor fellow Malins?" he said quickly. + +"Yes. What about him?" + +"Well, poor fellow, he's a decent sort of chap, after all," continued +Gabriel in a false voice. "He gave me back that sovereign I lent +him, and I didn't expect it, really. It's a pity he wouldn't keep away +from that Browne, because he's not a bad fellow, really." + +He was trembling now with annoyance. Why did she seem so +abstracted? He did not know how he could begin. Was she +annoyed, too, about something? If she would only turn to him or +come to him of her own accord! To take her as she was would be +brutal. No, he must see some ardour in her eyes first. He longed to +be master of her strange mood. + +"When did you lend him the pound?" she asked, after a pause. + +Gabriel strove to restrain himself from breaking out into brutal +language about the sottish Malins and his pound. He longed to cry +to her from his soul, to crush her body against his, to overmaster +her. But he said: + +"O, at Christmas, when he opened that little Christmas-card shop +in Henry Street." + +He was in such a fever of rage and desire that he did not hear her +come from the window. She stood before him for an instant, +looking at him strangely. Then, suddenly raising herself on tiptoe +and resting her hands lightly on his shoulders, she kissed him. + +"You are a very generous person, Gabriel," she said. + +Gabriel, trembling with delight at her sudden kiss and at the +quaintness of her phrase, put his hands on her hair and began +smoothing it back, scarcely touching it with his fingers. The +washing had made it fine and brilliant. His heart was brimming +over with happiness. Just when he was wishing for it she had come +to him of her own accord. Perhaps her thoughts had been running +with his. Perhaps she had felt the impetuous desire that was in +him, and then the yielding mood had come upon her. Now that she +had fallen to him so easily, he wondered why he had been so +diffident. + +He stood, holding her head between his hands. Then, slipping one +arm swiftly about her body and drawing her towards him, he said +softly: + +"Gretta, dear, what are you thinking about?" + +She did not answer nor yield wholly to his arm. He said again, +softly: + +"Tell me what it is, Gretta. I think I know what is the matter. Do I +know?" + +She did not answer at once. Then she said in an outburst of tears: + +"O, I am thinking about that song, The Lass of Aughrim." + +She broke loose from him and ran to the bed and, throwing her +arms across the bed-rail, hid her face. Gabriel stood stockstill for a +moment in astonishment and then followed her. As he passed in +the way of the cheval-glass he caught sight of himself in full +length, his broad, well-filled shirt-front, the face whose expression +always puzzled him when he saw it in a mirror, and his +glimmering gilt-rimmed eyeglasses. He halted a few paces from +her and said: + +"What about the song? Why does that make you cry?" + +She raised her head from her arms and dried her eyes with the +back of her hand like a child. A kinder note than he had intended +went into his voice. + +"Why, Gretta?" he asked. + +"I am thinking about a person long ago who used to sing that +song." + +"And who was the person long ago?" asked Gabriel, smiling. + +"It was a person I used to know in Galway when I was living with +my grandmother," she said. + +The smile passed away from Gabriel's face. A dull anger began to +gather again at the back of his mind and the dull fires of his lust +began to glow angrily in his veins. + +"Someone you were in love with?" he asked ironically. + +"It was a young boy I used to know," she answered, "named +Michael Furey. He used to sing that song, The Lass of Aughrim. +He was very delicate." + +Gabriel was silent. He did not wish her to think that he was +interested in this delicate boy. + +"I can see him so plainly," she said, after a moment. "Such eyes as +he had: big, dark eyes! And such an expression in them -- an +expression!" + +"O, then, you are in love with him?" said Gabriel. + +"I used to go out walking with him," she said, "when I was in +Galway." + +A thought flew across Gabriel's mind. + +"Perhaps that was why you wanted to go to Galway with that Ivors +girl?" he said coldly. + +She looked at him and asked in surprise: + +"What for?" + +Her eyes made Gabriel feel awkward. He shrugged his shoulders +and said: + +"How do I know? To see him, perhaps." + +She looked away from him along the shaft of light towards the +window in silence. + +"He is dead," she said at length. "He died when he was only +seventeen. Isn't it a terrible thing to die so young as that?" + +"What was he?" asked Gabriel, still ironically. + +"He was in the gasworks," she said. + +Gabriel felt humiliated by the failure of his irony and by the +evocation of this figure from the dead, a boy in the gasworks. +While he had been full of memories of their secret life together, +full of tenderness and joy and desire, she had been comparing him +in her mind with another. A shameful consciousness of his own +person assailed him. He saw himself as a ludicrous figure, acting +as a pennyboy for his aunts, a nervous, well-meaning +sentimentalist, orating to vulgarians and idealising his own +clownish lusts, the pitiable fatuous fellow he had caught a glimpse +of in the mirror. Instinctively he turned his back more to the light +lest she might see the shame that burned upon his forehead. + +He tried to keep up his tone of cold interrogation, but his voice +when he spoke was humble and indifferent. + +"I suppose you were in love with this Michael Furey, Gretta," he +said. + +"I was great with him at that time," she said. + +Her voice was veiled and sad. Gabriel, feeling now how vain it +would be to try to lead her whither he had purposed, caressed one +of her hands and said, also sadly: + +"And what did he die of so young, Gretta? Consumption, was it?" + +"I think he died for me," she answered. + +A vague terror seized Gabriel at this answer, as if, at that hour +when he had hoped to triumph, some impalpable and vindictive +being was coming against him, gathering forces against him in its +vague world. But he shook himself free of it with an effort of +reason and continued to caress her hand. He did not question her +again, for he felt that she would tell him of herself. Her hand was +warm and moist: it did not respond to his touch, but he continued +to caress it just as he had caressed her first letter to him that spring +morning. + +"It was in the winter," she said, "about the beginning of the winter +when I was going to leave my grandmother's and come up here to +the convent. And he was ill at the time in his lodgings in Galway +and wouldn't be let out, and his people in Oughterard were written +to. He was in decline, they said, or something like that. I never +knew rightly." + +She paused for a moment and sighed. + +"Poor fellow," she said. "He was very fond of me and he was such +a gentle boy. We used to go out together, walking, you know, +Gabriel, like the way they do in the country. He was going to study +singing only for his health. He had a very good voice, poor +Michael Furey." + +"Well; and then?" asked Gabriel. + +"And then when it came to the time for me to leave Galway and +come up to the convent he was much worse and I wouldn't be let +see him so I wrote him a letter saying I was going up to Dublin and +would be back in the summer, and hoping he would be better +then." + +She paused for a moment to get her voice under control, and then +went on: + +"Then the night before I left, I was in my grandmother's house in +Nuns' Island, packing up, and I heard gravel thrown up against the +window. The window was so wet I couldn't see, so I ran downstairs +as I was and slipped out the back into the garden and there was the +poor fellow at the end of the garden, shivering." + +"And did you not tell him to go back?" asked Gabriel. + +"I implored of him to go home at once and told him he would get +his death in the rain. But he said he did not want to live. I can see +his eyes as well as well! He was standing at the end of the wall +where there was a tree." + +"And did he go home?" asked Gabriel. + +"Yes, he went home. And when I was only a week in the convent +he died and he was buried in Oughterard, where his people came +from. O, the day I heard that, that he was dead!" + +She stopped, choking with sobs, and, overcome by emotion, flung +herself face downward on the bed, sobbing in the quilt. Gabriel +held her hand for a moment longer, irresolutely, and then, shy of +intruding on her grief, let it fall gently and walked quietly to the +window. + + + + + + +She was fast asleep. + +Gabriel, leaning on his elbow, looked for a few moments +unresentfully on her tangled hair and half-open mouth, listening to +her deep-drawn breath. So she had had that romance in her life: a +man had died for her sake. It hardly pained him now to think how +poor a part he, her husband, had played in her life. He watched her +while she slept, as though he and she had never lived together as +man and wife. His curious eyes rested long upon her face and on +her hair: and, as he thought of what she must have been then, in +that time of her first girlish beauty, a strange, friendly pity for her +entered his soul. He did not like to say even to himself that her +face was no longer beautiful, but he knew that it was no longer the +face for which Michael Furey had braved death. + +Perhaps she had not told him all the story. His eyes moved to the +chair over which she had thrown some of her clothes. A petticoat +string dangled to the floor. One boot stood upright, its limp upper +fallen down: the fellow of it lay upon its side. He wondered at his +riot of emotions of an hour before. From what had it proceeded? +From his aunt's supper, from his own foolish speech, from the wine +and dancing, the merry-making when saying good-night in the hall, +the pleasure of the walk along the river in the snow. Poor Aunt +Julia! She, too, would soon be a shade with the shade of Patrick +Morkan and his horse. He had caught that haggard look upon her +face for a moment when she was singing Arrayed for the Bridal. +Soon, perhaps, he would be sitting in that same drawing-room, +dressed in black, his silk hat on his knees. The blinds would be +drawn down and Aunt Kate would be sitting beside him, crying +and blowing her nose and telling him how Julia had died. He +would cast about in his mind for some words that might console +her, and would find only lame and useless ones. Yes, yes: that +would happen very soon. + +The air of the room chilled his shoulders. He stretched himself +cautiously along under the sheets and lay down beside his wife. +One by one, they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into +that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and +wither dismally with age. He thought of how she who lay beside +him had locked in her heart for so many years that image of her +lover's eyes when he had told her that he did not wish to live. + +Generous tears filled Gabriel's eyes. He had never felt like that +himself towards any woman, but he knew that such a feeling must +be love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the +partial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young man +standing under a dripping tree. Other forms were near. His soul +had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. +He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their wayward and +flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey +impalpable world: the solid world itself, which these dead had one +time reared and lived in, was dissolving and dwindling. + +A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It +had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver +and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had +come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the +newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was +falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, +falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly +falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, +upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael +Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and +headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. +His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly +through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their +last end, upon all the living and the dead. + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Dubliners, by James Joyce + |