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DUBLINERS
By James Joyce
Story 7
THE BOARDING HOUSE
MRS. MOONEY was a butcher's daughter. She was a woman who was quite
able to keep things to herself: a determined woman. She had married her
father's foreman and opened a butcher's shop near Spring Gardens. But as
soon as his father-in-law was dead Mr. Mooney began to go to the devil.
He drank, plundered the till, ran headlong into debt. It was no use
making him take the pledge: he was sure to break out again a few days
after. By fighting his wife in the presence of customers and by buying
bad meat he ruined his business. One night he went for his wife with the
cleaver and she had to sleep in a neighbour's house.
After that they lived apart. She went to the priest and got a separation
from him with care of the children. She would give him neither money
nor food nor house-room; and so he was obliged to enlist himself as a
sheriff's man. He was a shabby stooped little drunkard with a white face
and a white moustache and white eyebrows, pencilled above his little eyes,
which were pink-veined and raw; and all day long he sat in the bailiff's
room, waiting to be put on a job. Mrs. Mooney, who had taken what
remained of her money out of the butcher business and set up a boarding
house in Hardwicke Street, was a big imposing woman. Her house had a
floating population made up of tourists from Liverpool and the Isle
of Man and, occasionally, artistes from the music halls. Its resident
population was made up of clerks from the city. She governed her house
cunningly and firmly, knew when to give credit, when to be stern and
when to let things pass. All the resident young men spoke of her as The
Madam.
Mrs. Mooney's young men paid fifteen shillings a week for board and
lodgings (beer or stout at dinner excluded). They shared in common
tastes and occupations and for this reason they were very chummy with
one another. They discussed with one another the chances of favourites
and outsiders. Jack Mooney, the Madam's son, who was clerk to a
commission agent in Fleet Street, had the reputation of being a hard
case. He was fond of using soldiers' obscenities: usually he came home
in the small hours. When he met his friends he had always a good one
to tell them and he was always sure to be on to a good thing—that is to
say, a likely horse or a likely artiste. He was also handy with the mits
and sang comic songs. On Sunday nights there would often be a reunion in
Mrs. Mooney's front drawing-room. The music-hall artistes would oblige;
and Sheridan played waltzes and polkas and vamped accompaniments. Polly
Mooney, the Madam's daughter, would also sing. She sang:
I'm a... naughty girl. You needn't sham:
You know I am.
Polly was a slim girl of nineteen; she had light soft hair and a small
full mouth. Her eyes, which were grey with a shade of green through
them, had a habit of glancing upwards when she spoke with anyone, which
made her look like a little perverse madonna. Mrs. Mooney had first
sent her daughter to be a typist in a corn-factor's office but, as a
disreputable sheriff's man used to come every other day to the office,
asking to be allowed to say a word to his daughter, she had taken her
daughter home again and set her to do housework. As Polly was very
lively the intention was to give her the run of the young men. Besides,
young men like to feel that there is a young woman not very far away.
Polly, of course, flirted with the young men but Mrs. Mooney, who was a
shrewd judge, knew that the young men were only passing the time away:
none of them meant business. Things went on so for a long time and Mrs.
Mooney began to think of sending Polly back to typewriting when she
noticed that something was going on between Polly and one of the young
men. She watched the pair and kept her own counsel.
Polly knew that she was being watched, but still her mother's persistent
silence could not be misunderstood. There had been no open complicity
between mother and daughter, no open understanding but, though people
in the house began to talk of the affair, still Mrs. Mooney did not
intervene. Polly began to grow a little strange in her manner and the
young man was evidently perturbed. At last, when she judged it to be the
right moment, Mrs. Mooney intervened. She dealt with moral problems as a
cleaver deals with meat: and in this case she had made up her mind.
It was a bright Sunday morning of early summer, promising heat, but with
a fresh breeze blowing. All the windows of the boarding house were open
and the lace curtains ballooned gently towards the street beneath the
raised sashes. The belfry of George's Church sent out constant peals and
worshippers, singly or in groups, traversed the little circus before
the church, revealing their purpose by their self-contained demeanour
no less than by the little volumes in their gloved hands. Breakfast
was over in the boarding house and the table of the breakfast-room was
covered with plates on which lay yellow streaks of eggs with morsels
of bacon-fat and bacon-rind. Mrs. Mooney sat in the straw arm-chair
and watched the servant Mary remove the breakfast things. She made Mary
collect the crusts and pieces of broken bread to help to make Tuesday's
bread-pudding. When the table was cleared, the broken bread collected,
the sugar and butter safe under lock and key, she began to reconstruct
the interview which she had had the night before with Polly. Things were
as she had suspected: she had been frank in her questions and Polly had
been frank in her answers. Both had been somewhat awkward, of course.
She had been made awkward by her not wishing to receive the news in too
cavalier a fashion or to seem to have connived and Polly had been
made awkward not merely because allusions of that kind always made her
awkward but also because she did not wish it to be thought that in
her wise innocence she had divined the intention behind her mother's
tolerance.
Mrs. Mooney glanced instinctively at the little gilt clock on the
mantelpiece as soon as she had become aware through her revery that the
bells of George's Church had stopped ringing. It was seventeen minutes
past eleven: she would have lots of time to have the matter out with Mr.
Doran and then catch short twelve at Marlborough Street. She was sure
she would win. To begin with she had all the weight of social opinion
on her side: she was an outraged mother. She had allowed him to live
beneath her roof, assuming that he was a man of honour, and he had simply
abused her hospitality. He was thirty-four or thirty-five years of age,
so that youth could not be pleaded as his excuse; nor could ignorance
be his excuse since he was a man who had seen something of the world. He
had simply taken advantage of Polly's youth and inexperience: that was
evident. The question was: What reparation would he make?
There must be reparation made in such cases. It is all very well for
the man: he can go his ways as if nothing had happened, having had his
moment of pleasure, but the girl has to bear the brunt. Some mothers
would be content to patch up such an affair for a sum of money; she had
known cases of it. But she would not do so. For her only one reparation
could make up for the loss of her daughter's honour: marriage.
She counted all her cards again before sending Mary up to Mr. Doran's room
to say that she wished to speak with him. She felt sure she would win.
He was a serious young man, not rakish or loud-voiced like the others.
If it had been Mr. Sheridan or Mr. Meade or Bantam Lyons her task would
have been much harder. She did not think he would face publicity. All
the lodgers in the house knew something of the affair; details had been
invented by some. Besides, he had been employed for thirteen years in a
great Catholic wine-merchant's office and publicity would mean for him,
perhaps, the loss of his job. Whereas if he agreed all might be well.
She knew he had a good screw for one thing and she suspected he had a
bit of stuff put by.
Nearly the half-hour! She stood up and surveyed herself in the
pier-glass. The decisive expression of her great florid face satisfied
her and she thought of some mothers she knew who could not get their
daughters off their hands.
Mr. Doran was very anxious indeed this Sunday morning. He had made two
attempts to shave but his hand had been so unsteady that he had been
obliged to desist. Three days' reddish beard fringed his jaws and every
two or three minutes a mist gathered on his glasses so that he had
to take them off and polish them with his pocket-handkerchief. The
recollection of his confession of the night before was a cause of acute
pain to him; the priest had drawn out every ridiculous detail of the
affair and in the end had so magnified his sin that he was almost
thankful at being afforded a loophole of reparation. The harm was done.
What could he do now but marry her or run away? He could not brazen it
out. The affair would be sure to be talked of and his employer would
be certain to hear of it. Dublin is such a small city: everyone knows
everyone else's business. He felt his heart leap warmly in his throat as
he heard in his excited imagination old Mr. Leonard calling out in his
rasping voice: "Send Mr. Doran here, please."
All his long years of service gone for nothing! All his industry and
diligence thrown away! As a young man he had sown his wild oats, of
course; he had boasted of his free-thinking and denied the existence of
God to his companions in public-houses. But that was all passed and done
with... nearly. He still bought a copy of Reynolds's Newspaper every
week but he attended to his religious duties and for nine-tenths of the
year lived a regular life. He had money enough to settle down on; it was
not that. But the family would look down on her. First of all there
was her disreputable father and then her mother's boarding house was
beginning to get a certain fame. He had a notion that he was being had.
He could imagine his friends talking of the affair and laughing. She was
a little vulgar; some times she said "I seen" and "If I had've known."
But what would grammar matter if he really loved her? He could not make
up his mind whether to like her or despise her for what she had done. Of
course he had done it too. His instinct urged him to remain free, not to
marry. Once you are married you are done for, it said.
While he was sitting helplessly on the side of the bed in shirt and
trousers she tapped lightly at his door and entered. She told him all,
that she had made a clean breast of it to her mother and that her mother
would speak with him that morning. She cried and threw her arms round
his neck, saying:
"O Bob! Bob! What am I to do? What am I to do at all?"
She would put an end to herself, she said.
He comforted her feebly, telling her not to cry, that it would be all
right, never fear. He felt against his shirt the agitation of her ***.
It was not altogether his fault that it had happened. He remembered
well, with the curious patient memory of the celibate, the first casual
caresses her dress, her breath, her fingers had given him. Then late one
night as he was undressing for bed she had tapped at his door, timidly. She
wanted to relight her candle at his for hers had been blown out by a
gust. It was her bath night. She wore a loose open combing-jacket of
printed flannel. Her white instep shone in the opening of her furry
slippers and the blood glowed warmly behind her perfumed skin. From her
hands and wrists too as she lit and steadied her candle a faint perfume
arose.
On nights when he came in very late it was she who warmed up his dinner.
He scarcely knew what he was eating, feeling her beside him alone, at
night, in the sleeping house. And her thoughtfulness! If the night was
anyway cold or wet or windy there was sure to be a little tumbler of
punch ready for him. Perhaps they could be happy together....
They used to go upstairs together on tiptoe, each with a candle, and on
the third landing exchange reluctant good-nights. They used to kiss. He
remembered well her eyes, the touch of her hand and his delirium....
But delirium passes. He echoed her phrase, applying it to himself: "What
am I to do?" The instinct of the celibate warned him to hold back. But
the sin was there; even his sense of honour told him that reparation
must be made for such a sin.
While he was sitting with her on the side of the bed Mary came to the
door and said that the missus wanted to see him in the parlour. He stood
up to put on his coat and waistcoat, more helpless than ever. When he
was dressed he went over to her to comfort her. It would be all right,
never fear. He left her crying on the bed and moaning softly: "O my
God!"
Going down the stairs his glasses became so dimmed with moisture that
he had to take them off and polish them. He longed to ascend through the
roof and fly away to another country where he would never hear again
of his trouble, and yet a force pushed him downstairs step by step.
The implacable faces of his employer and of the Madam stared upon his
discomfiture. On the last flight of stairs he passed Jack Mooney who
was coming up from the pantry nursing two bottles of Bass. They saluted
coldly; and the lover's eyes rested for a second or two on a thick
bulldog face and a pair of thick short arms. When he reached the foot of
the staircase he glanced up and saw Jack regarding him from the door of
the return-room.
Suddenly he remembered the night when one of the music-hall artistes,
a little blond Londoner, had made a rather free allusion to Polly.
The reunion had been almost broken up on account of Jack's violence.
Everyone tried to quiet him. The music-hall artiste, a little paler than
usual, kept smiling and saying that there was no harm meant: but Jack
kept shouting at him that if any fellow tried that sort of a game on
with his sister he'd bloody well put his teeth down his throat, so he
would.
Polly sat for a little time on the side of the bed, crying. Then she
dried her eyes and went over to the looking-glass. She dipped the end of
the towel in the water-jug and refreshed her eyes with the cool water.
She looked at herself in profile and readjusted a hairpin above her ear.
Then she went back to the bed again and sat at the foot. She regarded
the pillows for a long time and the sight of them awakened in her mind
secret, amiable memories. She rested the nape of her neck against the
cool iron bed-rail and fell into a reverie. There was no longer any
perturbation visible on her face.
She waited on patiently, almost cheerfully, without alarm, her memories
gradually giving place to hopes and visions of the future. Her hopes and
visions were so intricate that she no longer saw the white pillows
on which her gaze was fixed or remembered that she was waiting for
anything.
At last she heard her mother calling. She started to her feet and ran to
the banisters.
"Polly! Polly!"
"Yes, mamma?"
"Come down, dear. Mr. Doran wants to speak to you."
Then she remembered what she had been waiting for.
Story 8
A LITTLE CLOUD
EIGHT years before he had seen his friend off at the North Wall and
wished him godspeed. Gallaher had got on. You could tell that at once
by his travelled air, his well-cut tweed suit, and fearless accent. Few
fellows had talents like his and fewer still could remain unspoiled
by such success. Gallaher's heart was in the right place and he had
deserved to win. It was something to have a friend like that.
Little Chandler's thoughts ever since lunch-time had been of his meeting
with Gallaher, of Gallaher's invitation and of the great city London
where Gallaher lived. He was called Little Chandler because, though
he was but slightly under the average stature, he gave one the idea
of being a little man. His hands were white and small, his frame was
fragile, his voice was quiet and his manners were refined. He took the
greatest care of his fair silken hair and moustache and used perfume
discreetly on his handkerchief. The half-moons of his nails were perfect
and when he smiled you caught a glimpse of a row of childish white
teeth.
As he sat at his desk in the King's Inns he thought what changes those
eight years had brought. The friend whom he had known under a shabby and
necessitous guise had become a brilliant figure on the London Press. He
turned often from his tiresome writing to gaze out of the office window.
The glow of a late autumn sunset covered the grass plots and walks. It
cast a shower of kindly golden dust on the untidy nurses and decrepit
old men who drowsed on the benches; it flickered upon all the moving
figures—on the children who ran screaming along the gravel paths and
on everyone who passed through the gardens. He watched the scene and
thought of life; and (as always happened when he thought of life) he
became sad. A gentle melancholy took possession of him. He felt how
useless it was to struggle against fortune, this being the burden of
wisdom which the ages had bequeathed to him.
He remembered the books of poetry upon his shelves at home. He had
bought them in his bachelor days and many an evening, as he sat in the
little room off the hall, he had been tempted to take one down from the
bookshelf and read out something to his wife. But shyness had always
held him back; and so the books had remained on their shelves. At times
he repeated lines to himself and this consoled him.
When his hour had struck he stood up and took leave of his desk and of
his fellow-clerks punctiliously. He emerged from under the feudal
arch of the King's Inns, a neat modest figure, and walked swiftly down
Henrietta Street. The golden sunset was waning and the air had grown
sharp. A horde of grimy children populated the street. They stood or
ran in the roadway or crawled up the steps before the gaping doors or
squatted like mice upon the thresholds. Little Chandler gave them no
thought. He picked his way deftly through all that minute vermin-like
life and under the shadow of the gaunt spectral mansions in which the
old nobility of Dublin had roystered. No memory of the past touched him,
for his mind was full of a present joy.
He had never been in Corless's but he knew the value of the name. He
knew that people went there after the theatre to eat oysters and drink
liqueurs; and he had heard that the waiters there spoke French and
German. Walking swiftly by at night he had seen cabs drawn up before the
door and richly dressed ladies, escorted by cavaliers, alight and
enter quickly. They wore noisy dresses and many wraps. Their faces were
powdered and they caught up their dresses, when they touched earth,
like alarmed Atalantas. He had always passed without turning his head
to look. It was his habit to walk swiftly in the street even by day and
whenever he found himself in the city late at night he hurried on his
way apprehensively and excitedly. Sometimes, however, he courted the
causes of his fear. He chose the darkest and narrowest streets and,
as he walked boldly forward, the silence that was spread about his
footsteps troubled him, the wandering, silent figures troubled him; and
at times a sound of low fugitive laughter made him tremble like a leaf.
He turned to the right towards Capel Street. Ignatius Gallaher on the
London Press! Who would have thought it possible eight years before?
Still, now that he reviewed the past, Little Chandler could remember
many signs of future greatness in his friend. People used to say that
Ignatius Gallaher was wild. Of course, he did mix with a rakish set of
fellows at that time, drank freely and borrowed money on all sides.
In the end he had got mixed up in some shady affair, some money
transaction: at least, that was one version of his flight. But nobody
denied him talent. There was always a certain... something in Ignatius
Gallaher that impressed you in spite of yourself. Even when he was out
at elbows and at his wits' end for money he kept up a bold face. Little
Chandler remembered (and the remembrance brought a slight flush of pride
to his cheek) one of Ignatius Gallaher's sayings when he was in a tight
corner:
"Half time now, boys," he used to say light-heartedly. "Where's my
considering cap?"
That was Ignatius Gallaher all out; and, damn it, you couldn't but
admire him for it.
Little Chandler quickened his pace. For the first time in his life he
felt himself superior to the people he passed. For the first time his
soul revolted against the dull inelegance of Capel Street. There was no
doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could
do nothing in Dublin. As he crossed Grattan Bridge he looked down the
river towards the lower quays and pitied the poor stunted houses. They
seemed to him a band of tramps, huddled together along the riverbanks,
their old coats covered with dust and soot, stupefied by the panorama
of sunset and waiting for the first chill of night bid them arise, shake
themselves and begone. He wondered whether he could write a poem to
express his idea. Perhaps Gallaher might be able to get it into some
London paper for him. Could he write something original? He was not sure
what idea he wished to express but the thought that a poetic moment had
touched him took life within him like an infant hope. He stepped onward
bravely.
Every step brought him nearer to London, farther from his own sober
inartistic life. A light began to tremble on the horizon of his mind. He
was not so old—thirty-two. His temperament might be said to be just
at the point of maturity. There were so many different moods and
impressions that he wished to express in verse. He felt them within him.
He tried weigh to his soul to see if it was a poet's soul. Melancholy
was the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it was a
melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple
joy. If he could give expression to it in a book of poems perhaps men
would listen. He would never be popular: he saw that. He could not sway
the crowd but he might appeal to a little circle of kindred minds.
The English critics, perhaps, would recognise him as one of the Celtic
school by reason of the melancholy tone of his poems; besides that, he
would put in allusions. He began to invent sentences and phrases from
the notice which his book would get. "Mr. Chandler has the gift of easy
and graceful verse."... "wistful sadness pervades these poems."... "The
Celtic note." It was a pity his name was not more Irish-looking. Perhaps
it would be better to insert his mother's name before the surname:
Thomas Malone Chandler, or better still: T. Malone Chandler. He would
speak to Gallaher about it.
He pursued his revery so ardently that he passed his street and had
to turn back. As he came near Corless's his former agitation began to
overmaster him and he halted before the door in indecision. Finally he
opened the door and entered.
The light and noise of the bar held him at the doorways for a few
moments. He looked about him, but his sight was confused by the shining
of many red and green wine-glasses The bar seemed to him to be full
of people and he felt that the people were observing him curiously. He
glanced quickly to right and left (frowning slightly to make his errand
appear serious), but when his sight cleared a little he saw that nobody
had turned to look at him: and there, sure enough, was Ignatius Gallaher
leaning with his back against the counter and his feet planted far
apart.
"Hallo, Tommy, old hero, here you are! What is it to be? What will you
have? I'm taking whisky: better stuff than we get across the water.
Soda? Lithia? No mineral? I'm the same. Spoils the flavour.... Here,
garcon, bring us two halves of malt whisky, like a good fellow.... Well,
and how have you been pulling along since I saw you last? Dear God,
how old we're getting! Do you see any signs of aging in me—eh, what? A
little grey and thin on the top—what?"
Ignatius Gallaher took off his hat and displayed a large closely cropped
head. His face was heavy, pale and cleanshaven. His eyes, which were of
bluish slate-colour, relieved his unhealthy pallor and shone out plainly
above the vivid orange tie he wore. Between these rival features the
lips appeared very long and shapeless and colourless. He bent his head
and felt with two sympathetic fingers the thin hair at the crown. Little
Chandler shook his head as a denial. Ignatius Galaher put on his hat
again.
"It pulls you down," he said. "Press life. Always hurry and scurry,
looking for copy and sometimes not finding it: and then, always to have
something new in your stuff. Damn proofs and printers, I say, for a few
days. I'm deuced glad, I can tell you, to get back to the old country.
Does a fellow good, a bit of a holiday. I feel a ton better since I
landed again in dear dirty Dublin.... Here you are, Tommy. Water? Say
when."
Little Chandler allowed his whisky to be very much diluted.
"You don't know what's good for you, my boy," said Ignatius Gallaher. "I
drink mine neat."
"I drink very little as a rule," said Little Chandler modestly. "An odd
half-one or so when I meet any of the old crowd: that's all."
"Ah well," said Ignatius Gallaher, cheerfully, "here's to us and to old
times and old acquaintance."
They clinked glasses and drank the toast.
"I met some of the old gang today," said Ignatius Gallaher. "O'Hara
seems to be in a bad way. What's he doing?"
"Nothing," said Little Chandler. "He's gone to the dogs."
"But Hogan has a good sit, hasn't he?"
"Yes; he's in the Land Commission."
"I met him one night in London and he seemed to be very flush.... Poor
O'Hara! Boose, I suppose?"
"Other things, too," said Little Chandler shortly.
Ignatius Gallaher laughed.
"Tommy," he said, "I see you haven't changed an atom. You're the very
same serious person that used to lecture me on Sunday mornings when I
had a sore head and a fur on my tongue. You'd want to knock about a bit
in the world. Have you never been anywhere even for a trip?"
"I've been to the Isle of Man," said Little Chandler.
Ignatius Gallaher laughed.
"The Isle of Man!" he said. "Go to London or Paris: Paris, for choice.
That'd do you good."
"Have you seen Paris?"
"I should think I have! I've knocked about there a little."
"And is it really so beautiful as they say?" asked Little Chandler.
He sipped a little of his drink while Ignatius Gallaher finished his
boldly.
"Beautiful?" said Ignatius Gallaher, pausing on the word and on the
flavour of his drink. "It's not so beautiful, you know. Of course, it is
beautiful.... But it's the life of Paris; that's the thing. Ah, there's
no city like Paris for gaiety, movement, excitement...."
Little Chandler finished his whisky and, after some trouble, succeeded
in catching the barman's eye. He ordered the same again.
"I've been to the Moulin Rouge," Ignatius Gallaher continued when the
barman had removed their glasses, "and I've been to all the Bohemian
cafes. Hot stuff! Not for a pious chap like you, Tommy."
Little Chandler said nothing until the barman returned with two glasses:
then he touched his friend's glass lightly and reciprocated the former
toast. He was beginning to feel somewhat disillusioned. Gallaher's
accent and way of expressing himself did not please him. There was
something vulgar in his friend which he had not observed before. But
perhaps it was only the result of living in London amid the bustle and
competition of the Press. The old personal charm was still there under
this new gaudy manner. And, after all, Gallaher had lived, he had seen
the world. Little Chandler looked at his friend enviously.
"Everything in Paris is gay," said Ignatius Gallaher. "They believe in
enjoying life—and don't you think they're right? If you want to enjoy
yourself properly you must go to Paris. And, mind you, they've a great
feeling for the Irish there. When they heard I was from Ireland they
were ready to eat me, man."
Little Chandler took four or five sips from his glass.
"Tell me," he said, "is it true that Paris is so... immoral as they
say?"
Ignatius Gallaher made a catholic gesture with his right arm.
"Every place is immoral," he said. "Of course you do find spicy bits in
Paris. Go to one of the students' balls, for instance. That's lively, if
you like, when the cocottes begin to let themselves loose. You know what
they are, I suppose?"
"I've heard of them," said Little Chandler.
Ignatius Gallaher drank off his whisky and shook his head.
"Ah," he said, "you may say what you like. There's no woman like the
Parisienne—for style, for go."
"Then it is an immoral city," said Little Chandler, with timid
insistence—"I mean, compared with London or Dublin?"
"London!" said Ignatius Gallaher. "It's six of one and half-a-dozen of
the other. You ask Hogan, my boy. I showed him a bit about London when
he was over there. He'd open your eye.... I say, Tommy, don't make punch
of that whisky: liquor up."
"No, really...."
"O, come on, another one won't do you any harm. What is it? The same
again, I suppose?"
"Well... all right."
"Francois, the same again.... Will you smoke, Tommy?"
Ignatius Gallaher produced his cigar-case. The two friends lit their
cigars and puffed at them in silence until their drinks were served.
"I'll tell you my opinion," said Ignatius Gallaher, emerging after some
time from the clouds of smoke in which he had taken refuge, "it's a rum
world. Talk of immorality! I've heard of cases—what am I saying?—I've
known them: cases of... immorality...."
Ignatius Gallaher puffed thoughtfully at his cigar and then, in a calm
historian's tone, he proceeded to sketch for his friend some pictures
of the corruption which was rife abroad. He summarised the vices of many
capitals and seemed inclined to award the palm to Berlin. Some things he
could not vouch for (his friends had told him), but of others he had had
personal experience. He spared neither rank nor caste. He revealed many
of the secrets of religious houses on the Continent and described some
of the practices which were fashionable in high society and ended by
telling, with details, a story about an English duchess—a story which
he knew to be true. Little Chandler was astonished.
"Ah, well," said Ignatius Gallaher, "here we are in old jog-along Dublin
where nothing is known of such things."
"How dull you must find it," said Little Chandler, "after all the other
places you've seen!"
"Well," said Ignatius Gallaher, "it's a relaxation to come over here,
you know. And, after all, it's the old country, as they say, isn't it?
You can't help having a certain feeling for it. That's human nature....
But tell me something about yourself. Hogan told me you had... tasted
the joys of connubial bliss. Two years ago, wasn't it?"
Little Chandler blushed and smiled.
"Yes," he said. "I was married last May twelve months."
"I hope it's not too late in the day to offer my best wishes," said
Ignatius Gallaher. "I didn't know your address or I'd have done so at
the time."
He extended his hand, which Little Chandler took.
"Well, Tommy," he said, "I wish you and yours every joy in life, old
chap, and tons of money, and may you never die till I shoot you. And
that's the wish of a sincere friend, an old friend. You know that?"
"I know that," said Little Chandler.
"Any youngsters?" said Ignatius Gallaher.
Little Chandler blushed again.
"We have one child," he said.
"Son or daughter?"
"A little boy."
Ignatius Gallaher slapped his friend sonorously on the back.
"Bravo," he said, "I wouldn't doubt you, Tommy."
Little Chandler smiled, looked confusedly at his glass and bit his lower
lip with three childishly white front teeth.
"I hope you'll spend an evening with us," he said, "before you go
back. My wife will be delighted to meet you. We can have a little music
and——"
"Thanks awfully, old chap," said Ignatius Gallaher, "I'm sorry we didn't
meet earlier. But I must leave tomorrow night."
"Tonight, perhaps...?"
"I'm awfully sorry, old man. You see I'm over here with another
fellow, clever young chap he is too, and we arranged to go to a little
card-party. Only for that..."
"O, in that case..."
"But who knows?" said Ignatius Gallaher considerately. "Next year I may
take a little skip over here now that I've broken the ice. It's only a
pleasure deferred."
"Very well," said Little Chandler, "the next time you come we must have
an evening together. That's agreed now, isn't it?"
"Yes, that's agreed," said Ignatius Gallaher. "Next year if I come,
parole d'honneur."
"And to clinch the bargain," said Little Chandler, "we'll just have one
more now."
Ignatius Gallaher took out a large gold watch and looked at it.
"Is it to be the last?" he said. "Because you know, I have an a.p."
"O, yes, positively," said Little Chandler.
"Very well, then," said Ignatius Gallaher, "let us have another one as a
deoc an doruis—that's good vernacular for a small whisky, I believe."
Little Chandler ordered the drinks. The blush which had risen to his
face a few moments before was establishing itself. A trifle made
him blush at any time: and now he felt warm and excited. Three small
whiskies had gone to his head and Gallaher's strong cigar had confused
his mind, for he was a delicate and abstinent person. The adventure of
meeting Gallaher after eight years, of finding himself with Gallaher
in Corless's surrounded by lights and noise, of listening to Gallaher's
stories and of sharing for a brief space Gallaher's vagrant and
triumphant life, upset the equipoise of his sensitive nature. He felt
acutely the contrast between his own life and his friend's and it seemed
to him unjust. Gallaher was his inferior in birth and education. He was
sure that he could do something better than his friend had ever done, or
could ever do, something higher than mere *** journalism if he only
got the chance. What was it that stood in his way? His unfortunate
timidity! He wished to vindicate himself in some way, to assert his
manhood. He saw behind Gallaher's refusal of his invitation. Gallaher
was only patronising him by his friendliness just as he was patronising
Ireland by his visit.
The barman brought their drinks. Little Chandler pushed one glass
towards his friend and took up the other boldly.
"Who knows?" he said, as they lifted their glasses. "When you come next
year I may have the pleasure of wishing long life and happiness to Mr.
and Mrs. Ignatius Gallaher."
Ignatius Gallaher in the act of drinking closed one eye expressively
over the rim of his glass. When he had drunk he smacked his lips
decisively, set down his glass and said:
"No blooming fear of that, my boy. I'm going to have my fling first and
see a bit of life and the world before I put my head in the sack—if I
ever do."
"Some day you will," said Little Chandler calmly.
Ignatius Gallaher turned his orange tie and slate-blue eyes full upon
his friend.
"You think so?" he said.
"You'll put your head in the sack," repeated Little Chandler stoutly,
"like everyone else if you can find the girl."
He had slightly emphasised his tone and he was aware that he had
betrayed himself; but, though the colour had heightened in his cheek, he
did not flinch from his friend's gaze. Ignatius Gallaher watched him for
a few moments and then said:
"If ever it occurs, you may bet your bottom dollar there'll be no
mooning and spooning about it. I mean to marry money. She'll have a good
fat account at the bank or she won't do for me."
Little Chandler shook his head.
"Why, man alive," said Ignatius Gallaher, vehemently, "do you know what
it is? I've only to say the word and tomorrow I can have the woman
and the cash. You don't believe it? Well, I know it. There are
hundreds—what am I saying?—thousands of rich Germans and Jews, rotten
with money, that'd only be too glad.... You wait a while my boy. See if
I don't play my cards properly. When I go about a thing I mean business,
I tell you. You just wait."
He tossed his glass to his mouth, finished his drink and laughed loudly.
Then he looked thoughtfully before him and said in a calmer tone:
"But I'm in no hurry. They can wait. I don't fancy tying myself up to
one woman, you know."
He imitated with his mouth the act of tasting and made a wry face.
"Must get a bit stale, I should think," he said.
* * * * *
Little Chandler sat in the room off the hall, holding a child in his
arms. To save money they kept no servant but Annie's young sister Monica
came for an hour or so in the morning and an hour or so in the evening
to help. But Monica had gone home long ago. It was a quarter to nine.
Little Chandler had come home late for tea and, moreover, he had
forgotten to bring Annie home the parcel of coffee from Bewley's. Of
course she was in a bad humour and gave him short answers. She said she
would do without any tea but when it came near the time at which the
shop at the corner closed she decided to go out herself for a quarter
of a pound of tea and two pounds of sugar. She put the sleeping child
deftly in his arms and said:
"Here. Don't waken him."
A little lamp with a white china shade stood upon the table and its
light fell over a photograph which was enclosed in a frame of crumpled
horn. It was Annie's photograph. Little Chandler looked at it, pausing
at the thin tight lips. She wore the pale blue summer blouse which he
had brought her home as a present one Saturday. It had cost him ten and
elevenpence; but what an agony of nervousness it had cost him! How
he had suffered that day, waiting at the shop door until the shop was
empty, standing at the counter and trying to appear at his ease while
the girl piled ladies' blouses before him, paying at the desk and
forgetting to take up the odd penny of his change, being called back by
the cashier, and finally, striving to hide his blushes as he left the
shop by examining the parcel to see if it was securely tied. When he
brought the blouse home Annie kissed him and said it was very pretty and
stylish; but when she heard the price she threw the blouse on the table
and said it was a regular swindle to charge ten and elevenpence for it.
At first she wanted to take it back but when she tried it on she was
delighted with it, especially with the make of the sleeves, and kissed
him and said he was very good to think of her.
Hm!...
He looked coldly into the eyes of the photograph and they answered
coldly. Certainly they were pretty and the face itself was pretty. But
he found something mean in it. Why was it so unconscious and ladylike?
The composure of the eyes irritated him. They repelled him and defied
him: there was no passion in them, no rapture. He thought of what
Gallaher had said about rich Jewesses. Those dark Oriental eyes, he
thought, how full they are of passion, of voluptuous longing!... Why had
he married the eyes in the photograph?
He caught himself up at the question and glanced nervously round the
room. He found something mean in the pretty furniture which he had
bought for his house on the hire system. Annie had chosen it herself
and it reminded him of her. It too was prim and pretty. A dull resentment
against his life awoke within him. Could he not escape from his little
house? Was it too late for him to try to live bravely like Gallaher?
Could he go to London? There was the furniture still to be paid for. If
he could only write a book and get it published, that might open the way
for him.
A volume of Byron's poems lay before him on the table. He opened it
cautiously with his left hand lest he should waken the child and began
to read the first poem in the book:
Hushed are the winds and still the evening gloom,
Not e'en a Zephyr wanders through the grove, Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb
And scatter flowers on the dust I love.
He paused. He felt the rhythm of the verse about him in the room.
How melancholy it was! Could he, too, write like that, express the
melancholy of his soul in verse? There were so many things he wanted
to describe: his sensation of a few hours before on Grattan Bridge, for
example. If he could get back again into that mood....
The child awoke and began to cry. He turned from the page and tried to
hush it: but it would not be hushed. He began to rock it to and fro in
his arms but its wailing cry grew keener. He rocked it faster while his
eyes began to read the second stanza:
Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, That clay where once...
It was useless. He couldn't read. He couldn't do anything. The wailing
of the child pierced the drum of his ear. It was useless, useless!
He was a prisoner for life. His arms trembled with anger and suddenly
bending to the child's face he shouted:
"Stop!"
The child stopped for an instant, had a spasm of fright and began to
scream. He jumped up from his chair and walked hastily up and down the
room with the child in his arms. It began to sob piteously, losing its
breath for four or five seconds, and then bursting out anew. The thin
walls of the room echoed the sound. He tried to soothe it but it sobbed
more convulsively. He looked at the contracted and quivering face of
the child and began to be alarmed. He counted seven sobs without a
break between them and caught the child to his breast in fright. If it
died!...
The door was burst open and a young woman ran in, panting.
"What is it? What is it?" she cried.
The child, hearing its mother's voice, broke out into a paroxysm of
sobbing.
"It's nothing, Annie... it's nothing.... He began to cry..."
She flung her parcels on the floor and snatched the child from him.
"What have you done to him?" she cried, glaring into his face.
Little Chandler sustained for one moment the gaze of her eyes and his
heart closed together as he met the hatred in them. He began to stammer:
"It's nothing.... He... he began to cry.... I couldn't... I didn't do
anything.... What?"
Giving no heed to him she began to walk up and down the room, clasping
the child tightly in her arms and murmuring:
"My little man! My little mannie! Was 'ou frightened, love?... There
now, love! There now!... Lambabaun! Mamma's little lamb of the world!...
There now!"
Little Chandler felt his cheeks suffused with shame and he stood back
out of the lamplight. He listened while the paroxysm of the child's
sobbing grew less and less; and tears of remorse started to his eyes.
Story 9 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 *** of some electric machine:
"You impertinent ruffian! You impertinent ruffian! I'll make short work
of you! Wait till you see! You'll apologise to me for your impertinence
or you'll quit the office instanter! You'll quit this, I'm telling you,
or you'll apologise to me!"
* * * * *
He stood in a doorway opposite the office watching to see if the cashier
would come out alone. All the clerks passed out and finally the cashier
came out with the chief clerk. It was no use trying to say a word to him
when he was with the chief clerk. The man felt that his position was bad
enough. He had been obliged to offer an abject apology to Mr. Alleyne
for his impertinence but he knew what a hornet's nest the office would
be for him. He could remember the way in which Mr. Alleyne had hounded
little Peake out of the office in order to make room for his own nephew.
He felt savage and thirsty and revengeful, annoyed with himself and with
everyone else. Mr. Alleyne would never give him an hour's rest; his life
would be a hell to him. He had made a proper fool of himself this time.
Could he not keep his tongue in his cheek? But they had never pulled
together from the first, he and Mr. Alleyne, ever since the day Mr.
Alleyne had overheard him mimicking his North of Ireland accent to amuse
Higgins and Miss Parker: that had been the beginning of it. He might
have tried Higgins for the money, but sure Higgins never had anything
for himself. A man with two establishments to keep up, of course he
couldn't....
He felt his great body again aching for the comfort of the public-house.
The fog had begun to chill him and he wondered could he touch Pat in
O'Neill's. He could not touch him for more than a bob—and a bob was
no use. Yet he must get money somewhere or other: he had spent his
last penny for the g.p. and soon it would be too late for getting money
anywhere. Suddenly, as he was fingering his watch-chain, he thought of
Terry Kelly's pawn-office in Fleet Street. That was the dart! Why didn't
he think of it sooner?
He went through the narrow alley of Temple Bar quickly, muttering to
himself that they could all go to hell because he was going to have
a good night of it. The clerk in Terry Kelly's said A crown! but the
consignor held out for six shillings; and in the end the six shillings
was allowed him literally. He came out of the pawn-office joyfully,
making a little cylinder, of the coins between his thumb and fingers. In
Westmoreland Street the footpaths were crowded with young men and women
returning from business and ragged urchins ran here and there yelling
out the names of the evening editions. The man passed through the crowd,
looking on the spectacle generally with proud satisfaction and staring
masterfully at the office-girls. His head was full of the noises of
tram-gongs and swishing trolleys and his nose already sniffed the
curling fumes of punch. As he walked on he preconsidered the terms in which
he would narrate the incident to the boys:
"So, I just looked at him—coolly, you know, and looked at her. Then I
looked back at him again—taking my time, you know. 'I don't think that
that's a fair question to put to me,' says I."
Nosey Flynn was sitting up in his usual corner of Davy Byrne's and, when
he heard the story, he stood Farrington a half-one, saying it was as
smart a thing as ever he heard. Farrington stood a drink in his turn.
After a while O'Halloran and Paddy Leonard came in and the story was
repeated to them. O'Halloran stood tailors of malt, hot, all round and
told the story of the retort he had made to the chief clerk when he was
in Callan's of Fownes's Street; but, as the retort was after the manner
of the liberal shepherds in the eclogues, he had to admit that it was
not as clever as Farrington's retort. At this Farrington told the boys
to polish off that and have another.
Just as they were naming their poisons who should come in but Higgins!
Of course he had to join in with the others. The men asked him to give
his version of it, and he did so with great vivacity for the sight of
five small hot whiskies was very exhilarating. Everyone roared
laughing when he showed the way in which Mr. Alleyne shook his fist in
Farrington's face. Then he imitated Farrington, saying, "And here was my
nabs, as cool as you please," while Farrington looked at the company out
of his heavy dirty eyes, smiling and at times drawing forth stray drops
of liquor from his moustache with the aid of his lower lip.
When that round was over there was a pause. O'Halloran had money but
neither of the other two seemed to have any; so the whole party left
the shop somewhat regretfully. At the corner of Duke Street Higgins and
Nosey Flynn bevelled off to the left while the other three turned back
towards the city. Rain was drizzling down on the cold streets and, when
they reached the Ballast Office, Farrington suggested the Scotch House.
The bar was full of men and loud with the noise of tongues and glasses.
The three men pushed past the whining match-sellers at the door and
formed a little party at the corner of the counter. They began to
exchange stories. Leonard introduced them to a young fellow named
Weathers who was performing at the Tivoli as an acrobat and knockabout
artiste. Farrington stood a drink all round. Weathers said he would take
a small Irish and Apollinaris. Farrington, who had definite notions of
what was what, asked the boys would they have an Apollinaris too;
but the boys told Tim to make theirs hot. The talk became theatrical.
O'Halloran stood a round and then Farrington stood another round,
Weathers protesting that the hospitality was too Irish. He promised to
get them in behind the scenes and introduce them to some nice girls.
O'Halloran said that he and Leonard would go, but that Farrington
wouldn't go because he was a married man; and Farrington's heavy dirty
eyes leered at the company in token that he understood he was being
chaffed. Weathers made them all have just one little tincture at his
expense and promised to meet them later on at Mulligan's in Poolbeg
Street.
When the Scotch House closed they went round to Mulligan's. They went
into the parlour at the back and O'Halloran ordered small hot specials
all round. They were all beginning to feel mellow. Farrington was just
standing another round when Weathers came back. Much to Farrington's
relief he drank a glass of bitter this time. Funds were getting low but
they had enough to keep them going. Presently two young women with big
hats and a young man in a check suit came in and sat at a table close
by. Weathers saluted them and told the company that they were out of the
Tivoli. Farrington's eyes wandered at every moment in the direction of
one of the young women. There was something striking in her appearance.
An immense scarf of peacock-blue muslin was wound round her hat and
knotted in a great bow under her chin; and she wore bright yellow
gloves, reaching to the elbow. Farrington gazed admiringly at the plump
arm which she moved very often and with much grace; and when, after a
little time, she answered his gaze he admired still more her large dark
brown eyes. The oblique staring expression in them fascinated him. She
glanced at him once or twice and, when the party was leaving the room,
she brushed against his chair and said "O, pardon!" in a London accent.
He watched her leave the room in the hope that she would look back at
him, but he was disappointed. He cursed his want of money and cursed all
the rounds he had stood, particularly all the whiskies and Apolinaris
which he had stood to Weathers. If there was one thing that he hated it
was a sponge. He was so angry that he lost count of the conversation of
his friends.
When Paddy Leonard called him he found that they were talking about
feats of strength. Weathers was showing his biceps muscle to the company
and boasting so much that the other two had called on Farrington to
uphold the national honour. Farrington pulled up his sleeve accordingly
and showed his biceps muscle to the company. The two arms were examined
and compared and finally it was agreed to have a trial of strength. The
table was cleared and the two men rested their elbows on it, clasping
hands. When Paddy Leonard said "Go!" each was to try to bring down
the other's hand on to the table. Farrington looked very serious and
determined.
The trial began. After about thirty seconds Weathers brought his
opponent's hand slowly down on to the table. Farrington's dark
wine-coloured face flushed darker still with anger and humiliation at
having been defeated by such a stripling.
"You're not to put the weight of your body behind it. Play fair," he
said.
"Who's not playing fair?" said the other.
"Come on again. The two best out of three."
The trial began again. The veins stood out on Farrington's forehead,
and the pallor of Weathers' complexion changed to peony. Their hands
and arms trembled under the stress. After a long struggle Weathers again
brought his opponent's hand slowly on to the table. There was a murmur
of applause from the spectators. The curate, who was standing beside
the table, nodded his red head towards the victor and said with stupid
familiarity:
"Ah! that's the knack!"
"What the hell do you know about it?" said Farrington fiercely, turning
on the man. "What do you put in your gab for?"
"Sh, sh!" said O'Halloran, observing the violent expression of
Farrington's face. "Pony up, boys. We'll have just one little smahan
more and then we'll be off."
A very sullen-faced man stood at the corner of O'Connell Bridge
waiting for the little Sandymount tram to take him home. He was full
of smouldering anger and revengefulness. He felt humiliated and
discontented; he did not even feel drunk; and he had only twopence in
his pocket. He cursed everything. He had done for himself in the office,
pawned his watch, spent all his money; and he had not even got drunk.
He began to feel thirsty again and he longed to be back again in the hot
reeking public-house. He had lost his reputation as a strong man, having
been defeated twice by a mere boy. His heart swelled with fury and, when
he thought of the woman in the big hat who had brushed against him and
said Pardon! his fury nearly choked him.
His tram let him down at Shelbourne Road and he steered his great body
along in the shadow of the wall of the barracks. He loathed returning
to his home. When he went in by the side-door he found the kitchen empty
and the kitchen fire nearly out. He bawled upstairs:
"Ada! Ada!"
His wife was a little sharp-faced woman who bullied her husband when
he was sober and was bullied by him when he was drunk. They had five
children. A little boy came running down the stairs.
"Who is that?" said the man, peering through the darkness.
"Me, pa."
"Who are you? Charlie?"
"No, pa. Tom."
"Where's your mother?"
"She's out at the chapel."
"That's right.... Did she think of leaving any dinner for me?"
"Yes, pa. I—"
"Light the lamp. What do you mean by having the place in darkness? Are
the other children in bed?"
The man sat down heavily on one of the chairs while the little boy
lit the lamp. He began to mimic his son's flat accent, saying half to
himself: "At the chapel. At the chapel, if you please!" When the lamp
was lit he banged his fist on the table and shouted:
"What's for my dinner?"
"I'm going... to cook it, pa," said the little boy.
The man jumped up furiously and pointed to the fire.
"On that fire! You let the fire out! By God, I'll teach you to do that
again!"
He took a step to the door and seized the walking-stick which was
standing behind it.
"I'll teach you to let the fire out!" he said, rolling up his sleeve in
order to give his arm free play.
The little boy cried "O, pa!" and ran whimpering round the table, but
the man followed him and caught him by the coat. The little boy looked
about him wildly but, seeing no way of escape, fell upon his knees.
"Now, you'll let the fire out the next time!" said the man striking at
him vigorously with the stick. "Take that, you little whelp!"
The boy uttered a squeal of pain as the stick cut his thigh. He clasped
his hands together in the air and his voice shook with fright.
"O, pa!" he cried. "Don't beat me, pa! And I'll... I'll say a Hail Mary
for you.... I'll say a Hail Mary for you, pa, if you don't beat me....
I'll say a Hail Mary...."
Story 10
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
*** and span: the cook said you could see yourself in the big copper
boilers. The fire was nice and bright and on one of the side-tables were
four very big barmbracks. These barmbracks seemed uncut; but if you went
closer you would see that they had been cut into long thick even slices
and were ready to be handed round at tea. Maria had cut them herself.
Maria was a very, very small person indeed but she had a very long
nose and a very long chin. She talked a little through her nose, always
soothingly: "Yes, my dear," and "No, my dear." She was always sent for
when the women quarrelled over their tubs and always succeeded in making
peace. One day the matron had said to her:
"Maria, you are a veritable peace-maker!"
And the sub-matron and two of the Board ladies had heard the compliment.
And Ginger Mooney was always saying what she wouldn't do to the dummy
who had charge of the irons if it wasn't for Maria. Everyone was so fond
of Maria.
The women would have their tea at six o'clock and she would be able to
get away before seven. From Ballsbridge to the Pillar, twenty minutes;
from the Pillar to Drumcondra, twenty minutes; and twenty minutes to buy
the things. She would be there before eight. She took out her purse with
the silver clasps and read again the words A Present from Belfast. She
was very fond of that purse because Joe had brought it to her five years
before when he and Alphy had gone to Belfast on a Whit-Monday trip. In
the purse were two half-crowns and some coppers. She would have five
shillings clear after paying tram fare. What a nice evening they would
have, all the children singing! Only she hoped that Joe wouldn't come in
drunk. He was so different when he took any drink.
Often he had wanted her to go and live with them; but she would have
felt herself in the way (though Joe's wife was ever so nice with her)
and she had become accustomed to the life of the laundry. Joe was a good
fellow. She had nursed him and Alphy too; and Joe used often say:
"Mamma is mamma but Maria is my proper mother."
After the break-up at home the boys had got her that position in the
Dublin by Lamplight laundry, and she liked it. She used to have such
a bad opinion of Protestants but now she thought they were very nice
people, a little quiet and serious, but still very nice people to live
with. Then she had her plants in the conservatory and she liked looking
after them. She had lovely ferns and wax-plants and, whenever anyone
came to visit her, she always gave the visitor one or two slips from
her conservatory. There was one thing she didn't like and that was the
tracts on the walks; but the matron was such a nice person to deal with,
so genteel.
When the cook told her everything was ready she went into the women's
room and began to pull the big bell. In a few minutes the women began
to come in by twos and threes, wiping their steaming hands in their
petticoats and pulling down the sleeves of their blouses over their red
steaming arms. They settled down before their huge mugs which the cook
and the dummy filled up with hot tea, already mixed with milk and sugar
in huge tin cans. Maria superintended the distribution of the barmbrack
and saw that every woman got her four slices. There was a great deal of
laughing and joking during the meal. Lizzie Fleming said Maria was sure
to get the ring and, though Fleming had said that for so many Hallow
Eves, Maria had to laugh and say she didn't want any ring or man either;
and when she laughed her grey-green eyes sparkled with disappointed
shyness and the tip of her nose nearly met the tip of her chin. Then
Ginger Mooney lifted her mug of tea and proposed Maria's health while
all the other women clattered with their mugs on the table, and said she
was sorry she hadn't a sup of porter to drink it in. And Maria laughed
again till the tip of her nose nearly met the tip of her chin and till
her minute body nearly shook itself asunder because she knew that Mooney
meant well though, of course, she had the notions of a common woman.
But wasn't Maria glad when the women had finished their tea and the cook
and the dummy had begun to clear away the tea-things! She went into
her little bedroom and, remembering that the next morning was a mass
morning, changed the hand of the alarm from seven to six. Then she took
off her working skirt and her house-boots and laid her best skirt out on
the bed and her tiny dress-boots beside the foot of the bed. She changed
her blouse too and, as she stood before the mirror, she thought of how
she used to dress for mass on Sunday morning when she was a young girl;
and she looked with quaint affection at the diminutive body which she
had so often adorned. In spite of its years she found it a nice tidy
little body.
When she got outside the streets were shining with rain and she was glad
of her old brown waterproof. The tram was full and she had to sit on the
little stool at the end of the car, facing all the people, with her toes
barely touching the floor. She arranged in her mind all she was going to
do and thought how much better it was to be independent and to have your
own money in your pocket. She hoped they would have a nice evening. She
was sure they would but she could not help thinking what a pity it was
Alphy and Joe were not speaking. They were always falling out now but
when they were boys together they used to be the best of friends: but
such was life.
She got out of her tram at the Pillar and ferreted her way quickly among
the crowds. She went into Downes's cake-shop but the shop was so full of
people that it was a long time before she could get herself attended
to. She bought a dozen of mixed penny cakes, and at last came out of the
shop laden with a big bag. Then she thought what else would she buy: she
wanted to buy something really nice. They would be sure to have plenty
of apples and nuts. It was hard to know what to buy and all she could
think of was cake. She decided to buy some plumcake but Downes's
plumcake had not enough almond icing on top of it so she went over to
a shop in Henry Street. Here she was a long time in suiting herself and
the stylish young lady behind the counter, who was evidently a little
annoyed by her, asked her was it wedding-cake she wanted to buy. That
made Maria blush and smile at the young lady; but the young lady took it
all very seriously and finally cut a thick slice of plumcake, parcelled
it up and said:
"Two-and-four, please."
She thought she would have to stand in the Drumcondra tram because none
of the young men seemed to notice her but an elderly gentleman made room
for her. He was a stout gentleman and he wore a brown hard hat; he had
a square red face and a greyish moustache. Maria thought he was a
colonel-looking gentleman and she reflected how much more polite he was
than the young men who simply stared straight before them. The gentleman
began to chat with her about Hallow Eve and the rainy weather. He
supposed the bag was full of good things for the little ones and said
it was only right that the youngsters should enjoy themselves while they
were young. Maria agreed with him and favoured him with demure nods and
hems. He was very nice with her, and when she was getting out at the
Canal Bridge she thanked him and bowed, and he bowed to her and raised
his hat and smiled agreeably, and while she was going up along the
terrace, bending her tiny head under the rain, she thought how easy it
was to know a gentleman even when he has a drop taken.
Everybody said: "O, here's Maria!" when she came to Joe's house. Joe was
there, having come home from business, and all the children had their
Sunday dresses on. There were two big girls in from next door and games
were going on. Maria gave the bag of cakes to the eldest boy, Alphy, to
divide and Mrs. Donnelly said it was too good of her to bring such a big
bag of cakes and made all the children say:
"Thanks, Maria."
But Maria said she had brought something special for papa and mamma,
something they would be sure to like, and she began to look for her
plumcake. She tried in Downes's bag and then in the pockets of her
waterproof and then on the hallstand but nowhere could she find it.
Then she asked all the children had any of them eaten it—by mistake, of
course—but the children all said no and looked as if they did not like
to eat cakes if they were to be accused of stealing. Everybody had a
solution for the mystery and Mrs. Donnelly said it was plain that Maria
had left it behind her in the tram. Maria, remembering how confused the
gentleman with the greyish moustache had made her, coloured with shame
and vexation and disappointment. At the thought of the failure of her
little surprise and of the two and fourpence she had thrown away for
nothing she nearly cried outright.
But Joe said it didn't matter and made her sit down by the fire. He
was very nice with her. He told her all that went on in his office,
repeating for her a smart answer which he had made to the manager. Maria
did not understand why Joe laughed so much over the answer he had made
but she said that the manager must have been a very overbearing person
to deal with. Joe said he wasn't so bad when you knew how to take him,
that he was a decent sort so long as you didn't rub him the wrong way.
Mrs. Donnelly played the piano for the children and they danced and
sang. Then the two next-door girls handed round the nuts. Nobody could
find the nutcrackers and Joe was nearly getting cross over it and asked
how did they expect Maria to crack nuts without a nutcracker. But Maria
said she didn't like nuts and that they weren't to bother about her.
Then Joe asked would she take a bottle of stout and Mrs. Donnelly said
there was port wine too in the house if she would prefer that. Maria
said she would rather they didn't ask her to take anything: but Joe
insisted.
So Maria let him have his way and they sat by the fire talking over old
times and Maria thought she would put in a good word for Alphy. But Joe
cried that God might strike him stone dead if ever he spoke a word to
his brother again and Maria said she was sorry she had mentioned the
matter. Mrs. Donnelly told her husband it was a great shame for him to
speak that way of his own flesh and blood but Joe said that Alphy was no
brother of his and there was nearly being a row on the head of it. But
Joe said he would not lose his temper on account of the night it was
and asked his wife to open some more stout. The two next-door girls
had arranged some Hallow Eve games and soon everything was merry again.
Maria was delighted to see the children so merry and Joe and his wife in
such good spirits. The next-door girls put some saucers on the table
and then led the children up to the table, blindfold. One got the
prayer-book and the other three got the water; and when one of the
next-door girls got the ring Mrs. Donnelly shook her finger at the
blushing girl as much as to say: O, I know all about it! They insisted
then on blindfolding Maria and leading her up to the table to see
what she would get; and, while they were putting on the bandage, Maria
laughed and laughed again till the tip of her nose nearly met the tip of
her chin.
They led her up to the table amid laughing and joking and she put her
hand out in the air as she was told to do. She moved her hand about here
and there in the air and descended on one of the saucers. She felt a
soft wet substance with her fingers and was surprised that nobody spoke
or took off her bandage. There was a pause for a few seconds; and then
a great deal of scuffling and whispering. Somebody said something about
the garden, and at last Mrs. Donnelly said something very cross to one
of the next-door girls and told her to throw it out at once: that was no
play. Maria understood that it was wrong that time and so she had to do
it over again: and this time she got the prayer-book.
After that Mrs. Donnelly played Miss McCloud's Reel for the children
and Joe made Maria take a glass of wine. Soon they were all quite merry
again and Mrs. Donnelly said Maria would enter a convent before the year
was out because she had got the prayer-book. Maria had never seen Joe
so nice to her as he was that night, so full of pleasant talk and
reminiscences. She said they were all very good to her.
At last the children grew tired and sleepy and Joe asked Maria would she
not sing some little song before she went, one of the old songs. Mrs.
Donnelly said "Do, please, Maria!" and so Maria had to get up and stand
beside the piano. Mrs. Donnelly bade the children be quiet and listen
to Maria's song. Then she played the prelude and said "Now, Maria!" and
Maria, blushing very much began to sing in a tiny quavering voice. She
sang I Dreamt that I Dwelt, and when she came to the second verse she
sang again:
I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls With vassals and serfs at my side,
And of all who assembled within those walls That I was the hope and the pride.
I had riches too great to count; could boast Of a high ancestral name,
But I also dreamt, which pleased me most, That you loved me still the same.
But no one tried to show her her mistake; and when she had ended her
song Joe was very much moved. He said that there was no time like the
long ago and no music for him like poor old Balfe, whatever other people
might say; and his eyes filled up so much with tears that he could not
find what he was looking for and in the end he had to ask his wife to
tell him where the corkscrew was.
Story 11 A PAINFUL CASE
MR. JAMES DUFFY lived in Chapelizod because he wished to live as far as
possible from the city of which he was a citizen and because he found
all the other suburbs of Dublin mean, modern and pretentious. He lived
in an old sombre house and from his windows he could look into the
disused distillery or upwards along the shallow river on which Dublin is
built. The lofty walls of his uncarpeted room were free from pictures.
He had himself bought every article of furniture in the room: a black
iron bedstead, an iron washstand, four cane chairs, a clothes-rack,
a coal-scuttle, a fender and irons and a square table on which lay a
double desk. A bookcase had been made in an alcove by means of shelves
of white wood. The bed was clothed with white bedclothes and a black
and scarlet rug covered the foot. A little hand-mirror hung above the
washstand and during the day a white-shaded lamp stood as the sole
ornament of the mantelpiece. The books on the white wooden shelves were
arranged from below upwards according to bulk. A complete Wordsworth
stood at one end of the lowest shelf and a copy of the Maynooth
Catechism, sewn into the cloth cover of a notebook, stood at one end of
the top shelf. Writing materials were always on the desk. In the desk
lay a manuscript translation of Hauptmann's Michael Kramer, the stage
directions of which were written in purple ink, and a little sheaf of
papers held together by a brass pin. In these sheets a sentence was
inscribed from time to time and, in an ironical moment, the headline of
an advertisement for Bile Beans had been pasted on to the first sheet.
On lifting the lid of the desk a faint fragrance escaped—the fragrance
of new cedarwood pencils or of a bottle of gum or of an overripe apple
which might have been left there and forgotten.
Mr. Duffy abhorred anything which betokened physical or mental disorder.
A mediaeval doctor would have called him saturnine. His face, which
carried the entire tale of his years, was of the brown tint of Dublin
streets. On his long and rather large head grew dry black hair and a
tawny moustache did not quite cover an unamiable mouth. His cheekbones
also gave his face a harsh character; but there was no harshness in the
eyes which, looking at the world from under their tawny eyebrows, gave
the impression of a man ever alert to greet a redeeming instinct in
others but often disappointed. He lived at a little distance from his
body, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glances. He had an odd
autobiographical habit which led him to compose in his mind from time
to time a short sentence about himself containing a subject in the third
person and a predicate in the past tense. He never gave alms to beggars
and walked firmly, carrying a stout hazel.
He had been for many years cashier of a private bank in Baggot Street.
Every morning he came in from Chapelizod by tram. At midday he went
to Dan Burke's and took his lunch—a bottle of lager beer and a small
trayful of arrowroot biscuits. At four o'clock he was set free. He dined
in an eating-house in George's Street where he felt himself safe from
the society of Dublin's gilded youth and where there was a certain plain
honesty in the bill of fare. His evenings were spent either before his
landlady's piano or roaming about the outskirts of the city. His liking
for Mozart's music brought him sometimes to an opera or a concert: these
were the only dissipations of his life.
He had neither companions nor friends, church nor creed. He lived his
spiritual life without any communion with others, visiting his relatives
at Christmas and escorting them to the cemetery when they died. He
performed these two social duties for old dignity's sake but conceded
nothing further to the conventions which regulate the civic life. He
allowed himself to think that in certain circumstances he would rob
his hank but, as these circumstances never arose, his life rolled out
evenly—an adventureless tale.
One evening he found himself sitting beside two ladies in the Rotunda.
The house, thinly peopled and silent, gave distressing prophecy of
failure. The lady who sat next him looked round at the deserted house
once or twice and then said:
"What a pity there is such a poor house tonight! It's so *** 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 ***
of a certain fullness, struck the note of defiance more definitely.
He met her again a few weeks afterwards at a concert in Earlsfort
Terrace and seized the moments when her daughter's attention was
diverted to become intimate. She alluded once or twice to her husband
but her tone was not such as to make the allusion a warning. Her name
was Mrs. Sinico. Her husband's great-great-grandfather had come from
Leghorn. Her husband was captain of a mercantile boat plying between
Dublin and Holland; and they had one child.
Meeting her a third time by accident he found courage to make an
appointment. She came. This was the first of many meetings; they met
always in the evening and chose the most quiet quarters for their walks
together. Mr. Duffy, however, had a distaste for underhand ways and,
finding that they were compelled to meet stealthily, he forced her to
ask him to her house. Captain Sinico encouraged his visits, thinking
that his daughter's hand was in question. He had dismissed his wife so
sincerely from his gallery of pleasures that he did not suspect that
anyone else would take an interest in her. As the husband was often
away and the daughter out giving music lessons Mr. Duffy had many
opportunities of enjoying the lady's society. Neither he nor she had had
any such adventure before and neither was conscious of any incongruity.
Little by little he entangled his thoughts with hers. He lent her books,
provided her with ideas, shared his intellectual life with her. She
listened to all.
Sometimes in return for his theories she gave out some fact of her own
life. With almost maternal solicitude she urged him to let his nature
open to the full: she became his confessor. He told her that for some
time he had assisted at the meetings of an Irish Socialist Party where
he had felt himself a unique figure amidst a score of sober workmen in
a garret lit by an inefficient oil-lamp. When the party had divided into
three sections, each under its own leader and in its own garret, he had
discontinued his attendances. The workmen's discussions, he said,
were too timorous; the interest they took in the question of wages was
inordinate. He felt that they were hard-featured realists and that they
resented an exactitude which was the produce of a leisure not within
their reach. No social revolution, he told her, would be likely to
strike Dublin for some centuries.
She asked him why did he not write out his thoughts. For what, he asked
her, with careful scorn. To compete with phrasemongers, incapable of
thinking consecutively for sixty seconds? To submit himself to the
criticisms of an obtuse middle class which entrusted its morality to
policemen and its fine arts to impresarios?
He went often to her little cottage outside Dublin; often they spent
their evenings alone. Little by little, as their thoughts entangled,
they spoke of subjects less remote. Her companionship was like a warm
soil about an exotic. Many times she allowed the dark to fall upon
them, refraining from lighting the lamp. The dark discreet room, their
isolation, the music that still vibrated in their ears united them.
This union exalted him, wore away the rough edges of his character,
emotionalised his mental life. Sometimes he caught himself listening to
the sound of his own voice. He thought that in her eyes he would ascend
to an angelical stature; and, as he attached the fervent nature of his
companion more and more closely to him, he heard the strange impersonal
voice which he recognised as his own, insisting on the soul's incurable
loneliness. We cannot give ourselves, it said: we are our own. The end
of these discourses was that one night during which she had shown every
sign of unusual excitement, Mrs. Sinico caught up his hand passionately
and pressed it to her cheek.
Mr. Duffy was very much surprised. Her interpretation of his words
disillusioned him. He did not visit her for a week, then he wrote to her
asking her to meet him. As he did not wish their last interview to be
troubled by the influence of their ruined confessional they met in a
little cakeshop near the Parkgate. It was cold autumn weather but in
spite of the cold they wandered up and down the roads of the Park for
nearly three hours. They agreed to break off their intercourse: every
bond, he said, is a bond to sorrow. When they came out of the Park they
walked in silence towards the tram; but here she began to tremble
so violently that, fearing another collapse on her part, he bade her
good-bye quickly and left her. A few days later he received a parcel
containing his books and music.
Four years passed. Mr. Duffy returned to his even way of life. His room
still bore witness of the orderliness of his mind. Some new pieces of
music encumbered the music-stand in the lower room and on his shelves
stood two volumes by Nietzsche: Thus Spake Zarathustra and The Gay
Science. He wrote seldom in the sheaf of papers which lay in his desk.
One of his sentences, written two months after his last interview with
Mrs. Sinico, read: Love between man and man is impossible because there
must not be *** intercourse and friendship between man and woman is
impossible because there must be *** 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 *** overcoat. On the lonely road
which leads from the Parkgate to Chapelizod he slackened his pace.
His stick struck the ground less emphatically and his breath, issuing
irregularly, almost with a sighing sound, condensed in the wintry air.
When he reached his house he went up at once to his bedroom and, taking
the paper from his pocket, read the paragraph again by the failing light
of the window. He read it not aloud, but moving his lips as a priest
does when he reads the prayers Secreto. This was the paragraph:
DEATH OF A LADY AT SYDNEY PARADE A PAINFUL CASE
Today at the City of Dublin Hospital the Deputy Coroner (in the absence
of Mr. Leverett) held an inquest on the body of Mrs. Emily Sinico, aged
forty-three years, who was killed at Sydney Parade Station yesterday
evening. The evidence showed that the deceased lady, while attempting to
cross the line, was knocked down by the engine of the ten o'clock slow
train from Kingstown, thereby sustaining injuries of the head and right
side which led to her death.
James Lennon, driver of the engine, stated that he had been in the
employment of the railway company for fifteen years. On hearing
the guard's whistle he set the train in motion and a second or two
afterwards brought it to rest in response to loud cries. The train was
going slowly.
P. Dunne, railway porter, stated that as the train was about to start he
observed a woman attempting to cross the lines. He ran towards her and
shouted, but, before he could reach her, she was caught by the buffer of
the engine and fell to the ground.
A juror. "You saw the lady fall?"
Witness. "Yes."
Police Sergeant Croly deposed that when he arrived he found the deceased
lying on the platform apparently dead. He had the body taken to the
waiting-room pending the arrival of the ambulance.
Constable 57E corroborated.
Dr. Halpin, assistant house surgeon of the City of Dublin Hospital,
stated that the deceased had two lower ribs fractured and had sustained
severe contusions of the right shoulder. The right side of the head
had been injured in the fall. The injuries were not sufficient to
have caused death in a normal person. Death, in his opinion, had been
probably due to shock and sudden failure of the heart's action.
Mr. H. B. Patterson Finlay, on behalf of the railway company, expressed
his deep regret at the accident. The company had always taken every
precaution to prevent people crossing the lines except by the bridges,
both by placing notices in every station and by the use of patent spring
gates at level crossings. The deceased had been in the habit of crossing
the lines late at night from platform to platform and, in view of
certain other circumstances of the case, he did not think the railway
officials were to blame.
Captain Sinico, of Leoville, Sydney Parade, husband of the deceased,
also gave evidence. He stated that the deceased was his wife. He was
not in Dublin at the time of the accident as he had arrived only that
morning from Rotterdam. They had been married for twenty-two years and
had lived happily until about two years ago when his wife began to be
rather intemperate in her habits.
Miss Mary Sinico said that of late her mother had been in the habit
of going out at night to buy spirits. She, witness, had often tried to
reason with her mother and had induced her to join a league. She was not
at home until an hour after the accident. The jury returned a verdict
in accordance with the medical evidence and exonerated Lennon from all
blame.
The Deputy Coroner said it was a most painful case, and expressed great
sympathy with Captain Sinico and his daughter. He urged on the railway
company to take strong measures to prevent the possibility of similar
accidents in the future. No blame attached to anyone.
Mr. Duffy raised his eyes from the paper and gazed out of his window on
the cheerless evening landscape. The river lay quiet beside the empty
distillery and from time to time a light appeared in some house on the
Lucan road. What an end! The whole narrative of her death revolted him
and it revolted him to think that he had ever spoken to her of what he
held sacred. The threadbare phrases, the inane expressions of sympathy,
the cautious words of a reporter won over to conceal the details of
a commonplace vulgar death attacked his stomach. Not merely had she
degraded herself; she had degraded him. He saw the squalid tract of her
vice, miserable and malodorous. His soul's companion! He thought of
the hobbling wretches whom he had seen carrying cans and bottles to
be filled by the barman. Just God, what an end! Evidently she had been
unfit to live, without any strength of purpose, an easy prey to habits,
one of the wrecks on which civilisation has been reared. But that she
could have sunk so low! Was it possible he had deceived himself
so utterly about her? He remembered her outburst of that night and
interpreted it in a harsher sense than he had ever done. He had no
difficulty now in approving of the course he had taken.
As the light failed and his memory began to wander he thought her hand
touched his. The shock which had first attacked his stomach was now
attacking his nerves. He put on his overcoat and hat quickly and went
out. The cold air met him on the threshold; it crept into the sleeves of
his coat. When he came to the public-house at Chapelizod Bridge he went
in and ordered a hot punch.
The proprietor served him obsequiously but did not venture to talk.
There were five or six workingmen in the shop discussing the value of a
gentleman's estate in County Kildare They drank at intervals from their
huge pint tumblers and smoked, spitting often on the floor and sometimes
dragging the sawdust over their spits with their heavy boots. Mr. Duffy
sat on his stool and gazed at them, without seeing or hearing them.
After a while they went out and he called for another punch. He sat a
long time over it. The shop was very quiet. The proprietor sprawled on
the counter reading the Herald and yawning. Now and again a tram was
heard swishing along the lonely road outside.
As he sat there, living over his life with her and evoking alternately
the two images in which he now conceived her, he realised that she was
dead, that she had ceased to exist, that she had become a memory. He
began to feel ill at ease. He asked himself what else could he have
done. He could not have carried on a comedy of deception with her; he
could not have lived with her openly. He had done what seemed to him
best. How was he to blame? Now that she was gone he understood how
lonely her life must have been, sitting night after night alone in that
room. His life would be lonely too until he, too, died, ceased to exist,
became a memory—if anyone remembered him.
It was after nine o'clock when he left the shop. The night was cold and
gloomy. He entered the Park by the first gate and walked along under the
gaunt trees. He walked through the bleak alleys where they had walked
four years before. She seemed to be near him in the darkness. At moments
he seemed to feel her voice touch his ear, her hand touch his. He stood
still to listen. Why had he withheld life from her? Why had he sentenced
her to death? He felt his moral nature falling to pieces.
When he gained the crest of the Magazine Hill he halted and looked
along the river towards Dublin, the lights of which burned redly and
hospitably in the cold night. He looked down the slope and, at the base,
in the shadow of the wall of the Park, he saw some human figures lying.
Those venal and furtive loves filled him with despair. He gnawed the
rectitude of his life; he felt that he had been outcast from life's
feast. One human being had seemed to love him and he had denied her life
and happiness: he had sentenced her to ignominy, a death of shame. He
knew that the prostrate creatures down by the wall were watching him and
wished him gone. No one wanted him; he was outcast from life's feast.
He turned his eyes to the grey gleaming river, winding along towards
Dublin. Beyond the river he saw a goods train winding out of Kingsbridge
Station, like a worm with a fiery head winding through the darkness,
obstinately and laboriously. It passed slowly out of sight; but still
he heard in his ears the laborious drone of the engine reiterating the
syllables of her name.
He turned back the way he had come, the rhythm of the engine pounding
in his ears. He began to doubt the reality of what memory told him. He
halted under a tree and allowed the rhythm to die away. He could not
feel her near him in the darkness nor her voice touch his ear. He
waited for some minutes listening. He could hear nothing: the night was
perfectly silent. He listened again: perfectly silent. He felt that he
was alone.
End of A Painful Case
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